by Thomas Cater
It was not an exalting feeling. I pulled the file and headed anxiously for the nearest table. The hard maple table and chair were thick with a blanket of dust. I gave them a brisk rub down and cleared a working arena.
Unfortunately, the compulsion for bureaucratic accuracy was no longer viable and much had been lost. I opened her file for what may have been the hundredth time in as many years, and felt cursed.
Dr. Ezekiel Grier, the notorious lobotomist, made the very last entry. Soon I would know his hand, and then his thoughts, and then the measure of his soul. He had accounted the operation(s) a success. The patient is no longer lachrymose or depressed and her screams silenced. She is showing an improved disposition and on several occasions seen to smile in the presence of attendants. That was a welcomed relief.
I turned to the next page. It was indecipherable, a language or script I was unable to fathom and signed by Grier. Incomplete notes on clinical observations were perhaps in another language. The word “Klikouchy” was also underlined and there were several other confusing notations. In the corner of the page, inscribed in tiny letters was the comment, “a race of men who knew all things and whose sight was unlimited by boundaries of time and space.”
I suddenly gained a spectators respect for Ezekiel Grier’s insight. I don’t know how he dealt with Elinore’s problems; he did however take time and care to record her weight and body temperature, but very little of what she said or did.
I turned another page. It was an admittance form and not the first. There were notes and references to previous admissions. The admitting physician recommended shock and hydrotherapy treatments. Instead, Elinore may have had the nerve conduits in her brain severed. The right side of her mind would never know what the left was thinking.
I kept shuffling through pages, looking for something that might make me feel as if I were making progress. For several admissions, spanning a period of years, the file was remarkably thin. It was as if records were lost, misplaced, or borrowed. It seemed improbable that someone could spend that much time in a hospital and accumulate a file less than a dozen pages. I started poking into a few other files for comparison. They were all much thicker.
There were intakes by physicians and psychologists, social workers, families and friends, each describing in their own words the problems and obsessions that seemed to haunt the troubled patients. The cure was always the same: Leucotomy, hydrotherapy, shock. Words that were meant to be interchangeable with damaged brains.
Grier was a tireless lobotomist. He sometimes performed 30 operations in a week. I read a description of an attendant, who witnessed the operation on a disturbed patient.
“After the hammer shaft snapped, Grier threw the instrument away, removed his shoe and proceeded to pound the pick through the orbital plate with the heel of his shoe.”
I was reading a personal history that seemed as old as the Dead Sea scrolls. I returned the files to the cabinet and thought about quitting, going back to the sanctity of my RV, to the present and perceived sanity. I had spent a few hours in the room and uncovered relatively little hard information on Elinore or the house, only vague and irreconcilable dates that pointed to shadows of the past.
I had forgotten my original intention, which was to inquire about the contractor commissioned to build the wall. I began the perusal for administrative contracts. I found several old files containing nearly every contract the institution had entered into its 175-year history. There were thousands of invoices with wholesale suppliers, linen services, furniture, maintenance and other companies; but the dust was getting corrosive. It took up residence in my throat and nostrils. I was inhaling history and eating time and all the detritus that it had accumulated.
The man who constructed the wall did not leave a marker advertising his name and date. After ten minutes, I learned to recognize a service contract from a supplier’s bill. I flew though most of the files when I recognized terms and written agreements that called for individual services. The name of Samuel Ryder was on many of those sweetheart deals. I could not help wonder why so many public figures conceived their fortunes in beds of corruption. What was it about doing business that men loved more than life itself? Ah, yes, profits.
*
I could see late shadows gliding down the basement windows. I knew my chance of finding more documents regarding the wall were slim. I was ready to withdraw. I was not planning on burning the midnight oil in a lunatic asylum.
I had entered the Ryder mansion and made two successful forays into labyrinthine halls. I survived where several of my predecessors had met with untimely accidents. I knew I was destined to learn more before anything critical befell me. It was not because I was such an inveterate seeker, but because I, like Samuel, was not likely to walk away from an investment.
I returned the records to the files. I left them in better shape then I found them and retraced my steps to the corridor. Emerging from a relatively well-lighted room, I received a sudden shock.
I did not realize how dark and empty those long basement corridors were. I could not see an end; it looked as if it went on forever. I could see darkened little doorways recessed into walls, but not a glimpse of light. The only light in sight was a dim yellow bulb shining beside a distant alarm and extinguisher. If I could get that far without a panic attack, the worse, I suspected, would be over.
I started slowly, one foot in front of the other; the way wisdom books say. The longest journey, I recall, begins with the first step. The ancient wisdom, however, wasn’t working. I wasn’t getting anywhere, or going very fast. I could have just as easily believed the light at the end of the hall was receding.
Eventually I reached the fire alarm and breathed a sigh of relief, but that was before I saw the hall opening off to the right and descending down into an even darker labyrinth. I began to wonder if it was possible to get lost in the basement of a hospital and wander around for years living off rodents and other creepy-crawlies that inhabited the darkness. I made the turn automatically, like a psychotic bent on self-destruction, and marched straight into that dark, dank, cavern, where they carted what was left of those cadavers and the remains of their dissected and lobotomized brains.
Waves of heat were increasing on my body like a sickening tide. I was either en route to the furnace room or taking a detour to hell. I could not understand the bureaucratic necessity of keeping such a monolithic structure in total darkness, just to save electricity. I could not believe taxpayers or elected officials could be so parsimonious. I had gone deep enough into the bowels of that hospital to start feeling worried about my own mental health. I am not the kind of guy to remain under perfect control when I am accosted on all sides by profound darkness.
As a child, I would lie awake in the middle of the night watching the stars and the bright shiny moon, but when the sky darkened and the moon and stars disappeared, and I could not see my hand before my face, I panicked. The suffocating darkness knew my fear. My only option was to scream, until some torchbearer came to set the night sky ablaze.
I know well and appreciate man’s glorification and worship of fire, not as the source of heat, but of light. It is not in its warmth that men rejoice, that came much later, but in its ability to purify the darkness, to drive out the dark matter and shadows and destroy the hiding places of terrifying creatures that threaten to devour all in the all-devouring darkness. What a blessing it must have been to see the sunrise. I have always believed it is unfortunate that men, as are other creatures, not gifted with eyesight that illuminates the darkness.
I moved uneasily closer to the wall, but it felt even more dangerous. I was knocking against great bolls of dust and cankered paint, spider webs and things I couldn’t see, but only imagine. At one point, I felt something cold and firm. My fingers drew images in my mind of a desiccated corpse.
I tried to speak, to make familiar and friendly sounds. Directly in front of me, I began to hear a deep and steady roar. The heat was intense, crawling over my face like
a troop of army ants. I knew the last place anyone would look for my remains would be the basement of a mental hospital, but something continued to draw me toward the heat.
I began to walk blindly, with my arms outstretched, imagining how this situation might affect a child such as Elinore. Filled with an even greater fear, I kept my face turned toward my shoulder in anticipation of running into an open door or some random barrier.
My hands suddenly hit a door. It burst open, struck the wall, and flew back into my shoulder, but I was through the doorway and standing 30 feet from a roaring inferno.
Chapter Eighteen
Their eyes were yellow, limpid slow-moving orbs in a sea of shadows that seemed to take forever to focus. Prognathous jaws carved from the same recessive genes attested to the singularity of their pitiful heritage. For a moment, I thought I was in trouble. I thought I had penetrated into some inner sanctum guarded by three were-bears. I could see those little dwarves or gnomes, or whatever they were, had never ventured beyond their furnace room and were as equally disturbed by my intrusion into their domain.
They were veteran inmates who had succeeded in climbing out of their walled rooms and acquired some useful purpose to the hospital. In fact, they had made themselves so useful the institution could not function without them, without going to a great deal of expense.
A cart near the door was loaded with trays full of dirty dishes. In the light provided by the furnace, I could see an entry that led into another dark hall, but with no light whatsoever emanating. Hanging upon the wall near the doorway were hard hats topped with battery-operated lanterns and an assortment of picks and shovels.
As my eyes became more accustomed to the limited darkness, I saw that the entry was not a doorway at all but a huge hole carved in the basement wall and leading into the earth! A narrow set of rails reached from the shaft’s darkness and passed by bins loaded with lumps of pulverized coal.
It was a mine. The little gnomes, darkened by coal-dust and sweat, had been working a mine in the institution’s basement! They stared at me without moving. I detected a smile on their dull and inept faces and tried to communicate.
“Forgive my intrusion, but I’m lost. Is this the way to the administration office?”
They did not appear to comprehend or even hear my question. Their witless expressions shifted slowly to fatuous smiles. Their arms and hands moved in a strange pantomime, which led me to believe they were not anti-social. I approached, exercising caution.
“Can you tell me how to get out of here?”
The one standing closest to the furnace pointed toward the mine entrance.
“No, how can I get upstairs, back to the big chief’s office?”
Big chief? Good grief! I was talking like a den mother to a pack of cub scouts. They grinned like possums and scratched themselves. I responded in kind, grinning and nodding, and started walking backward toward the long dark corridor.
They proceeded to feed the furnace. With each lump of burning coal, the furnace belched and roared. Flames leaped threatening to cremate the gnomes’ gnarled little bodies. I pushed through the door and lengthened my stride intent upon getting out as fast as I could.
My eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and the light from the open furnace door illuminated the hall. I was not at all comfortable with what I saw. There were dozens of old mattresses lined up and stacked against the wall, including worn out hospital equipment, and cases of old unused supplies gathering dust. There were leather restraining straps, harnesses and jackets, items that looked as if they might have been used to train circus animals, all molding in the gloom.
There were also rows of worn out and obsolete gurneys. Many of them looked as if they still held the final remains of their last patients. I did not have the courage to remove the dust-laden sheets and expose whatever lay concealed beneath them. There was little doubt in my mind that the impressions beneath the sheets were none other than people, motionless, lifeless people.
I retraced my steps out of the hall and back to the administration office. It was a spiritually uplifting relief to feel the light of 60-watt bulb illuminating my face.
I found Constance covering her typewriter and securing her desk.
“Are you still here?” she asked. “I thought you might have had your fill by now.”
I said it would have been hard to leave without thanking her. She smiled and moved quickly from behind the desk to the aluminum hall tree for her gray leather jacket and hat.
“Can I give you a lift?” she asked.
I shook my head and pointed out the window toward my van in the parking lot.
“I have my own transportation; the RV. Ever see the inside of one?”
“You drive around in that thing?”
I nodded with subdued pride. “It sleeps six, though I’ve never had the opportunity to entertain that many guests. The bar is stocked; can I interest you in a cocktail?”
She wanted to accept, but something stood in the way of simple acquiescence.
“I’d like to, but…”
There seemed to be no shortage of buts in the argot of young women.
“But me no buts,” I pleaded. “I’ve got a six-pack of cola out there if you think alcohol is not the proper way to launch a new and meaningful relationship.”
She smiled conceding some merit to my suggestion.
“I have time for a coke; I’m bowling this evening. The hospital has a team league and I am a member. We’re not doing very well, but a commitment is a commitment.”
She locked the office door and walked silently by my side. We had less in common than I thought, only a few whimpering hormones, and mine were probably whimpering a lot louder than hers. We barely spoke on the way to the parking lot and unless I said something quickly, I suspected she would find some excuse to reject my advances when we got to the van.
“Did you know there are little people living in the basement of your hospital?”
“What?” She replied, anxious to follow up.
“You have little mini-people living in the basement.”
“You must mean the Alberichs. They have been maintaining the furnace and boilers in the hospital for more years than I can remember. Are they really midgets? I had no idea. I have never seen them. They seldom leave the basement. The hospital takes care of all their needs. If they want or need something, they just ring up and I send it down.”
“No, I don’t think they are gnomes, dwarves, or midgets,” I said. “Hobbits maybe, I could see no signs of achondroplasia -- shortened arms or legs, or prominent foreheads. Maybe they’re pygmies or elves; they look more macro than micro-cephalic.”
“You know about those things?” She said.
“I read a lot,” I said. “I also think they may be working a gold or silver mine down there; or maybe they’re alchemists trying to turn lead in to gold, but all they’re getting is coal. They were filthy.”
She took a deep breath and smiled with relief, or so I thought.
“So in three years you’ve never seen them, not even once?”
She awkwardly shook the confusion from her head. “No, as I said, they seldom come out or up. I suppose they’re a little embarrassed by their appearance.”
“That’s not hard to believe, but three years…”
We were at the door of the van. She suddenly dug her heels into concrete.
“Do you think I’d lie to you about something like that?” she said in a display of temper. “Never. Why should I? What difference does it make to me whether they come up or spend their entire life in the basement?”
“It’s not the basement,” I replied, trying to salvage a little credibility. “It’s lower than a basement; it’s halfway to the center of the earth. Why did the hospital have to bury the furnace room?”
She was smiling again. My comments were giddy. I fidgeted with the van keys.
“Because that’s where the coal is,” she said.
“Ah, yes, I’ve heard this before.
The furnace and boiler are actually sitting in a coal seam, correct? And they are burning the coal they mine from the seam.”
“That’s right,” she said. “The comptroller estimates the hospital saves many thousands of dollars a year in fuel costs. In fact, if you consider all the money they’ve saved in the last 175 years …”
“They’ve been mining their own fuel for 175 years?”
She nodded proudly, as if it were a reflection on her own industry. “Longer than that, but that’s as far as our records go. If you take those figures into consideration, we’ve saved millions on fuel bills alone.”
I became deeply aware of the fact that far-reaching powers were at work here and in the bowels of the institution creating the capacity to sustain itself indefinitely.
“If that’s the case, those mine shafts must run all over the county.”
Her eyes clouded over briefly as if to concede that that some areas of her expertise were unclear and additional information was not available.
“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” she concluded.
I asked how extensive she thought the tunnels might be, as I opened the van door. She shook her head nervously.
“I have no idea, but as you say, more than 100 years; they must run all over the county, probably everywhere.”
I asked if she thought they might reach all the way to Elanville.
“It’s possible. Elanville isn’t really that far away, it’s just two or three miles, and one mountain beyond those hills behind the hospital.”
“Then why did I have to drive so many more miles to get here?”
She shrugged her shoulders and pursed her lips, which made me think she was uneasy about entering the van. I began to feel guilty for imposing on her.
“Just part of West Virginia’s unique system of roads and highways,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m just curious,” I replied. “I don’t want to wake up some morning and find that my house has fallen into an abandoned mine shaft.”
