by Jeff Strand
Yeah, rigorously catalogued inventories of shit all thrown into one ratty Everlast duffle.
While she’s doing that, Bobby slings a small camera bag from his shoulder. The bag is something I didn’t see in the gloom because it’s black on black against his shirt.
I feel a mosquito bite me on the neck and I wish I’d remembered to apply bug spray. Who knew how long we were going to be out here.
“And you’ve got your camera?” Bobby asks, taking a small camcorder with a flip-screen out of his bag and holding a button on the side until it chirps to life. The camera has an extended lens almost as long as the body and there’s a mechanical whir as it starts itself.
“Full spectrum,” Bobby says, sensing my interest, “not just night vision but everything,” That’s the first thing he’s said that sounds like complete gibberish to me, but he’s clearly proud of the attachment. “Fuckin’ thing costs more than the camera itself. I’m still running MiniDV, it’ll be great to have some HD footage from tonight’s experiments.”
I get what he’s implying. I open the rear driver’s side door and scoop my small camera up from under the seat. The GoPro came packaged in a polyester drawstring bag and I’ve seen no reason to upgrade to anything fancier.
It’s not like I use the thing. I received it a couple years ago as a gift after making the mistake of telling my sister that I’d taken up mountain biking.
“Now you can record your bike rides!” she told me then.
I should have just returned it. I meant to, but time got away from me. Hey, if it gets me lucky, then thanks, sis.
“Do you need to do anything to get it ready?” I ask Bobby, holding my own camera out in front of me. “Like in the settings?”
“We can up the contrast and mess with stuff like that in post.” Bobby says. “All our lights are external. Nothing has to get done now except you pointing and shooting. White balance and all that crap doesn’t really matter for our purposes.”
My camera came equipped with ghost finding capabilities right out of the box, who knew?
“Ready?” Trish asks, coming up behind me and snaking her fingers around my free hand. Cool and tacky in the autumn chill, her touch still reassures me. Her holding hands gets me thinking that this may even be fun, bug bites and all.
Bobby lifts up a break in the chain-link fence surrounding Kings Park and the material lifts neatly, like a curtain.
He knows exactly where to pull to let us in, which makes me wonder how many nights he spends slinking around abandoned psychiatric hospitals.
It’s a little bit of a hike to the site and we pass a row of partially demolished buildings on the way there. There must be workmen here during the day because there’s still heavy machinery around. Driving up, I could tell that the campus isn’t as impressive as it once was, a few more years and the demolition will be complete and there will be no Kings Park.
“What happens if the cops come?” I ask, less afraid then I am interested in how many times Bobby and Trish have been escorted off the premises.
“They post all those No Trespassing signs so they don’t have to patrol. You’ll see, once we get into Building Three, you’ve never seen more graffiti in your life. Don’t have to worry about cops.”
That was true, Suffolk County police were among the highest paid in the country, I doubt they were going to venture very far into Kings Park to shoo away drunk teenagers or delusional guys with “full spectrum” camcorders.
“So, best-case scenario, what are we looking to find tonight?” I ask to cover the soundtrack of our footfalls on over-grown lawn. Where I assume we’re going, Building Three, looms on the horizon.
Bobby makes a noise like he’s going to continue his verbal diarrhea, but instead Trish speaks up.
“You would think that we’d be looking for the spirits of inmates, but these buildings that are still standing weren’t residences, they were administrative buildings and infirmaries. As cool as the old gurneys and operating light fixtures seem, there weren’t many documented deaths here. Not many people die of root canals,” she says.
“True, I would imagine any critical care would be outsourced to a hospital.”
“Indeed. But these buildings have been standing empty for twenty years now. You know how many junkies have kicked it in there?” She points to Building Three, we’re much closer now, like I’ve been walking on autopilot. There are no doors on the doorway, it’s a rectangle of black shadow. There had been a piece of plywood nailed over the opening, but that’s been pried off and set to the side of the threshold, it’s covered in police tape.
“We’re junkie ghost hunting?” I ask and Bobby scoffs.
“A lot of, we’ll call it the paranormal tourist industry,” even she can’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice and she owns all this equipment, “that focuses on stories of Civil War sprit sightings and ancient Indian hauntings, but there’s a theory in more serious circles that, well, fresher is better.”
“Sounds legit.” I say.
“Think about an echo,” Bobby says, igniting a small LED flashlight that he’s taken out of one of his many cargo short pockets. He points the flashlight inside the doorway, I catch a glimpse of molding drywall, vinyl tiling, peeling paint, and a giant full-color cartoon cock. The dick graffiti ruins the ambiance.
“Anyone in there? Time to clear out, this is the police!” he yells into the entryway. His voice echoes, he looks back at me and he smiles, his ear cocked to listen.
I don’t hear any movement inside, if there are junkies they’re either lying low or conked out for the night.
“Ghosts are just energy. Energy like that echo,” Trish says. “They’re louder and then they dissipate. And if the apparition was filled with a large amount of negative energy at their time of death, say a relatively younger person, dying before their time because they’re an addict …”
“I getcha,” I say, taking out my own flashlight before we go inside. Trish does the same.
I don’t want to admit it, but this tag team of investigators has succeeded in creeping me out. Combine the long walk from the car with the fact that there very well could be live, violent junkies living in Building Three and I feel less sure that this will be a fun night.
We enter Building Three, the three of our flashlight beams giving me some kind of idea about the large foyer we’re standing in, but leaving dark shadows in the room’s corners.
There is a built-in desk against the far wall and above that outcropping is a Plexiglas enclosure. The glass is no longer translucent but instead opaque with spray-paint.
On the Plexiglas is layers and layers of graffiti, and if there was ever anything as elaborate as the Technicolor cock on the east wall, it’s been buried under a wash of unimaginative tags. Words like “Blaze” and “STiNKBOI” were probably put there by burnout kids traveling into Building Three on a dare.
“Cool, huh?” Trish asks.
“Very,” I say, passing my light behind us, checking my corners. I was expecting more debris, shopping carts, maybe? A trashcan fireplace? But the room is spare except for two swing doors to the east and west. “What now?”
“We find a room to set up in, lay the equipment out, and wait,” she says, shifting her duffle bag between hands.
I notice and feel like a real doofus.
“I can carry that if you need,” I say, aware that the only thing I’m holding is a polyester bag filled with a camera that’s the dimensions and weight of a deck of playing cards.
“I’ve got it.”
A girl wants to carry something, you don’t press it. Chivalry edges over into chauvinism so easily these days, for some girls.
“Hope you’re okay with climbing stairs,” Bobby says to me, smiling. There’s a joke there, about one of the two of us being in shape, but it’s not the time or the place. And Bobby shouldn’t be the target.
We go through the east door, past a few rooms. One in particular was either meant to be a bathroom or is just doubling as one, m
y eyes tear up from the stink. I don’t poke my flashlight inside, but instead quicken my tread to the stairwell at the end of the hallway.
Bobby goes first and I’m thankful for that. If the steps are sturdy enough to hold him, Trish and I will be a breeze. I’m a little underwhelmed by the second floor. I figured that would be where all the good stuff was kept, the creaking antique wheelchairs and hydrotherapy equipment à la One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, but there’s nothing in these rooms save for the occasional beer can and discarded sleeping bag.
We step into one of the few rooms in the hallway that still has a door, no glass in the window, but at least a door. It also has a row of file cabinets pushed against one wall, the drawers are dented but intact.
“I’ll do lights?” Bobby asks Trish, but there’s no conversation that ensues, they simply move to separate corners of the room and get to work.
The flashlight he was using before wasn’t alone. Like the world’s most nu-metal clown, Bobby unpacks an unending supply of small LED lights from his many pockets and spreads them around the room. The lights all have different hues, some are blue and red, some are pure white crystals, but if there’s a reason to why he puts which ones where, it’s lost on me. The best I can tell is that he’s trying to eliminate as many shadows as possible.
While he does this, Trish unpacks her duffle. I ask if she needs help, she says no and leans over the opening to the bag. Like I’m going to steal her trade secrets.
She lays out and switches on different meters, most of them are silent but one shouts back shrill feedback and she switches it back off.
“I forgot. You’ve got to turn your cell phone off. It would have been better if we left it in the car, but …” She trails off.
I take my phone out and look at the time. It’s nearly ten. I wonder how long we’re going to be here.
“All the way off,” she says, smiling but her tone not a joke. “Not airplane mode. It fucks with the readings.”
When she’s done with whatever she’s doing to calibrate the equipment, she passes the bag to Bobby who stows it atop the file cabinets.
Bobby’s already set up his camera on the ground using a small tripod he took from his, you guessed it, shorts pocket. It’s a low angle and the camera’s pointed up, I imagine to reduce the glare from the LEDs.
He looks at me expectantly and I realize that my GoPro is the only piece of equipment not accounted for. He helps me turn an old nail on the wall opposite the file cabinets into a hanger and we affix my camera about four feet off the ground. There must have been a picture or diploma hanging here at some point. Maybe this was someone important’s office.
“Do we know what this room used to be?” I ask, looking to get some flavor for the ghost story now running in my own imagination. Was this the office of a depraved administrator or doctor who took advantage of patients, maybe did a few illegal experiments?
“It doesn’t matter, only the present matters, remember?” Trish says.
“Well, the near past, right?”
“Are we good to go?” she ignores my question and asks Bobby. Behind me I can hear the familiar chirp of my own camera as he sets it to record.
“All good,” he says.
“Good, the levels are neutral,” she says, looking down at the small device she’s holding and moving back to the file cabinet and her duffle bag.
“So now we just wait?” I ask.
That’s when Bobby hits me.
On the follow-through I feel my entire scalp shift atop my skull but I don’t lose consciousness.
I spin with the blow and can see that he’s got a small hammer. The tool’s got a broad flat head and the metal has no sheen to it, it’s a well-used carpenter’s hammer.
Inexplicably, my first thought is: he had that in his shorts, too? Or did he take it out of the duffle when I wasn’t looking.
I can see from his eyes that he’s surprised I’m still standing.
“Goddamn it,” Trish’s voice comes from behind me, floaty. “You have to do it in one. Make sure you’re not blocking it.”
The starfield of LEDs seems to dim and her words seem like they’re coming from far off. And they echo.
I feel one of her small, clammy hands press against the skin of my neck, and a second one push my left ear flat against my head.
It feels good to be held.
Bobby winds up for a second blow and hits me on the left side of my head.
The crack over my temple is the last thing I hear and make sense of.
•
There. Play it again. The glint isn’t from the hammer, see?
And look! It’s in the exact same position on the second camera.
Now go back. Frame by frame. Do you see the blink on my EMF?
It coincides with the exact moment of the flare.
This is it, babe.
It’s the exact moment of conception.
I can’t believe it worked.
I can’t believe after all this time we have proof.
REBORN
BY THE BEHRG
_____
“I used to believe in God,
then I believed in the Devil.
Now I laugh at both and only believe in Evil.”
—Diary of Darius Maggiolini, Archbishop, spoken on his deathbed
_____
In 1974, the Catholic Church sent out a declaration to every bishop, presbyter, and deacon who resided within a sanctioned diocese. This formal document, which you will find (though partially torn) at the end of my tale, has since been repudiated, as have all official communications regarding the Sancto Saepes Motu Proprio. Ask any secretariat of the Church about the rumored incursion and you will receive only shaking heads or drudged denials. You will however find that the mandates held within this clandestine document are stringently, if quietly, upheld to this day.
The following is taken directly from the declaration:
From this day … forward … no infant child abandoned on or before [a Church-affiliated domicile] shall be admitted within said domicile by a member of the clergy. This sanctioned decree is to be upheld without exception.
My tale, and those unfortunate souls who experienced similar trespasses, will provide more than enough evidence as to why.
It was an April evening in 1971, a day that had been muddled with a constant downpour. It is important to note that this was a time when I still believed in a Higher Power. At twenty-three I was young to have been chosen as chaplain of the Sacred Heart Basilica of the Immaculate Conception. So young, in fact, that I still believed I was doing God’s work.
Evenings in Bridgeport, Connecticut were quite dull, and with the hellacious storm our evening services amounted to a dress rehearsal, only vacant pews and the occasional scurrying mouse in attendance—the rain always drove them inside. Sister Bedford, a motherly nun in every sense of the word, had taken to mopping the nave, humming an amalgamation of hymns that no choir would recognize. She was deaf in one ear and tone deaf in the other, but her jovial cheeks and maternal charm warmed the soul (not to mention her chocolate chip cookies which were absolutely divine!). I hurriedly gathered the hymnals pew by pew, ready to call it an early night.
There was a chill in the high-ceilinged halls and Father Maggiolini, an old-world coot and the attending Bishop, had gone off to check the pilot of the furnace which was always blowing out. If I recall correctly I believe that rainy season we had a leak in the basement. The water pooling against the outer walls of the church seeped through the porous stones rotted with age. It made for an eerie walk through those long corridors below ground, as if the very walls were weeping.
As we mindlessly went about our evening duties thinking only of the warm wool comforters awaiting our shivering bodies—or at least such were my thoughts—a shocking boom resounded from the outer cloister doors. Sister Bedford dropped her mop, her hands going to her ample, yet covered, bosom. The teetering, towering pile of hymnals which I had collected were sent scattered acros
s the hard marbled floor, pages bristling and book bindings breaking. Who would be out at this hour in such conditions? And why a single knock and nothing more?
My heart seemed to answer the resounding thud with a steady knocking of its own. Please remember, I was but twenty-three, at an age where imagination could still conjure demons from shadows and redemption from a statue of a man on a cross.
Footsteps echoed from the west wing, Sister Nettle appearing, a small candle cradled in her hands. “You’re not going to open it?”
Her British accent tugged at the strings of my heart which was no good, considering she had already tied them into a jumbled knot. She was adorable, Sister Nettles—a tiny thing at only five foot two. A small crook for a nose, long neck and bony chin and eyes which were much too large for her face, but the disjointedness came together like a tightly woven collage creating something far more magnificent than the sum of the individual parts on their own. While I would not have admitted so back then, I see no harm in doing so now; I was taken by her, and despite my vows there were many nights when she visited me in the lucid realms of sleep.
Before I had a chance to gather my thoughts, Nettles swept past both Sister Bedford and me, cupping her hand around the flame so as not to let it die.
“Allow me!” I shouted, hurrying after her.
She, of course, did.
The ornate iron doors, crested with scenes from the bible so analogous each square could represent your pick of stories, were set in the floor with heavy pins that dropped down latching them closed. The pins, each a good eighteen inches in length, required an inordinate amount of effort to free from their catch not only due to their weight but the levers within the flooring that had to be turned just so. Once I wriggled the damnable pin free, I pulled the door open, sliding the pin beneath as a doorstop, as we commonly did at the time.
Heavy rivulets poured down just beyond the alcove of the porch, the night black beyond the stoop. I swallowed hard, noting that no one was there—no gust of wind could have come at the doors with that much alarm, and then Sister Nettles was crouching down, her little bottom pursed out towards me. With reddened cheeks almost as rosy as Nettles’, I quickly glanced away. The sound of that sweet Sister cooing brought my attention back, her soft voice answered by a piercing wail.
