They crowded around me. The kids of 5B, in all of their horrifying glory. I never got accustomed to it. Josephine from floor five, her words a sad story of how she died here. A black-haired being holding scissors, rage her signature emotion. The elegant figure who took Yellow’s hand, murmuring about being careful and penance. Figures old and new, familiar and unfamiliar. They dance in and out of my life like a demented carousel of hauntings. But at the front of them, just like always, Yellow stood, her red pigtails splotched with blood.
I shrieked and grabbed my head. I knew what they would say. I knew the ghoulish monologue by heart. She graced me with it every night, every week, every waking minute. Who would hear my pleas? Who would help me find her body? I tried to help 5B. Who would help me?
The spirits of 5B’s kids still showed up from time to time. Even with his death, they did not find peace. I wished I could have helped them find a sense of rest after death. Could things be different for me if I had?
The voices of the spirits in my room spoke to me as they often did.
We warned you to be careful. There are many of us here, living and dead, who don’t belong. We don’t belong Jessica. I can help you. We all can.
But I didn’t want help. I just wanted peace. That’s all I ever wanted, even before the entire Redwood saga. I flailed on the cot, burying my head in the pillow and wishing I could smother myself once and for all.
I heard the voices beyond the spiritual ones, Anna and the new nurse standing at the door observing.
“You weren’t kidding, she is a nutjob,” the new girl announced.
And even though it hurt my heart and my head, I removed my face from the pillow. I looked past the grabbing hands and the melted faces and the tortured souls who plagued my room. I raised my voice above their ghostly whispers. And I told the new nurse what I should have told myself all those years ago.
“Run.”
Nevertheless, there is no one to listen to the words of a girl who has gone mad.
The Ghosts of Redwood
Mad is a relative word. I hope our tale has helped you see that. For over the centuries I have walked these ancestral halls, I have come to appreciate this fact more than anything. It is more prominent than the need for revenge, the thirst for justice, or the hunger for blood. I suppose all any of us left here at Redwood want is for society to understand that no single person can be a true judge of the extent of madness.
How many of us locked up in the horrifying walls of Redwood over the years could be deemed mad, even if we are from the sanest stock and family of highest regard?
On a winding road, concealed in a dark forest of overpowering trees and forgotten memories, sits a seemingly ancient building. It began with good intentions in 1834, if misguided by the cruel realities of medicine at the time. We cannot always fault people for being who they are in the time they are born into.
Still, we can fault the people who choose to seize power over others, who choose to torment and torture and abuse. Such has been the history of Redwood. Such is the modern tale of the place that has turned from an insane asylum to a psychiatric hospital to an entrepreneurial scheme for the black market of human beings. No wonder the place is so haunted—what other place like it exists or ever has existed? I shudder to think of it. The world is an evil place filled with those who are not to be trusted. The naïve, gentle souls are the ones, I have found, that get chewed up and spit out by Lucifer himself.
Such was my own story. I am no stranger to the perils of Redwood. I was there in the early days, and I have been lurking in the hallways ever since my unfortunate death within the stone-cold walls. My tale, though, is one for another time. It is an intriguing tale, of course, for it involves a lost love, the Weathergates, and insanity. Certainly, though, we all feel our own tales are intriguing, I suppose.
For now, I see it as my truest, most dedicated occupation to keep an eye on the hallowed, haunted ground. To share the stories of those misfortunate enough to call the asylum home. And more than that, to guide the wayward souls who have not yet found peace, especially those of the children. I have always had a soft spot for them, as they often have so few happy memories before their time at Redwood. At least I have some peaceful moments to reflect on. At least I had moments of joy before it all went horribly wrong.
I am the mother of the souls who came after me, the others who were killed in these chilled walls. I am the head guide of the spirits who cannot pass on. We wander the halls together. I was not the first death at Redwood, but I certainly was not the last, either. I take my role with a pride and a sense of duty. There are many of us, in truth. And we all have different aims. Some of us play with the visitors, with the staff. Some of us are as harmless in this life as we were in the one prior. We simply are not ready to part or cannot part or will not part from the place we last breathed in.
For some of us, we have found purpose in this afterlife in trying to warn others. I have spent many futile hours in the laundry, in the basement, outside the walls trying to warn those in danger of being swallowed by Redwood of the troubles here. Few listen. Many end up victims themselves, just like Jessica.
For other spirits in the halls, things are more sinister. I can understand their hatred. I do not fault them for it. After all, I have experienced the thirst for revenge, too. Revenge on those who abandoned us, revenge for the system that failed us, and revenge on the staff who sat by and watched us suffer at their hands.
I should perhaps explain that not all of the spirits are tied to the building, of course. Some come with the residents, with the workers, with the living souls at play here. The kids of 5B still stalk the halls from time to time. He is gone, but they have not received their rest. Sometimes, they taunt Jessica, but I tell them to play fair. She tried, at least. She tried to help them. And besides, she has her own haunting spirit to plague her. Poor girl. She did not deserve to die, either. Such a tragedy when fate brings upon such sadness. I should know.
But until their bodies are found and their souls laid to rest, they choose to walk the halls instead of haunting their burial site. I do not blame them. The lake, the dirt grave at Redwood, the tree that is shaped like a crooked nose, the gravesite of the darling girl’s mother. Their final resting spots are desolate and, more importantly, reminders of how they were ripped from the world. They do not deserve that.
Alas, they do not deserve Redwood, either. This is not a place for rest, after all. It is a place for revenge. And even 5B, as sick and twisted as he was, appreciated that. He tried to get them the peace they deserved. There must be some sort of redemption for a blackened soul that at least tries to right its wrongs before death.
Our numbers grow. But our strength does not, although we do try. Someday, someday perhaps we shall uncover a path to freedom from the curse that is Redwood.
Until then, all we do is sit and wait. We tell our stories. Our lurid, horrifying tales of the forgotten madness lurking at Redwood—and the sinister terrors from the living.
Not all madness gets locked up, after all. Sometimes the maddest are left free, stalking about the world sucking up life.
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for picking up my horror novel The Redwood Asylum. If you have the chance, would you please consider leaving reviews for my book? It really helps me finetune my craft, and I love to hear from readers like you!
If you’re intrigued by the final chapter, stay tuned. I’m working on a prequel for 2021. It is a tale set in the early days of Redwood and follows the narrator’s story.
I’d also love to hear from you at [email protected] or on my social media pages:
http://www.facebook.com/ladetwiler
http://www.instagram.com/ladetwiler
http://www.ladetwiler.com
Stay Safe and Be True,
L.A. Detwiler
About the Author
L.A. Detwiler is a USA Today Bestselling author. Her debut novel with HarperCollins UK/Avon Books, The Widow Next Door, is a U
SA Today and International Bestselling novel. Since then, she has penned several more novels in the thriller/horror genre, including: The One Who Got Away, The Diary of a Serial Killer’s Daughter (Winner of the Readers’ Favorite Bronze Medal), A Tortured Soul, and The Christmas Bell.
L.A. is a high school English teacher in her hometown in Pennsylvania. She lives with her husband, Chad; their mastiff, Henry; and their many rescued cats.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I want to thank my husband for always believing in me and in my stories. You are my best friend, my rock, my everything. I love you more and more each day we are together.
Thanks to my parents for teaching me to love literature, writing, and to believe in my dreams. I love you. To my teachers who influenced me and shaped me into the writer that I am, especially Sue Gunsallus, Tom Kunkle, Diane Vella, and all of the amazing professors at Mount Aloysius College. You all taught me the value of learning, of words, and of having confidence in myself.
Thanks to all of my amazing readers who have followed me on this journey. A special thanks goes out to Alicia Schmouder, Kay Shuma, Jenny Heinlein, Christie James, and all of my other amazing co-workers, friends, and family. Thank you, Grandma Bonnie for always supporting my writing. Thanks to my lovely in-laws for always being so supportive as well.
Thank you to all of the amazing writers and bloggers in the industry who have been so kind as I’ve travelled this journey. A special thank you to Stuart James for being a true friend in the horror writing industry as well as all of the amazing readers on Instagram who have shared my works. I am so blessed to have all of your support.
Finally, thank you to my true pal, Henry, who is always there with loving eyes to help me see my work through. I love you always.
Did you love Redwood Asylum?
Check out The Christmas Bell, a holiday horror that features Redwood Asylum.
Prologue
The tree glowed with the traditional lights, a symbolic beacon of brightness amidst the horror that had become her life. She stared at them, wishing she could disappear into the vast number of bulbs on the strand. Wishing she could feel them burn her from the inside out. She wondered if her guilt would crumble with the ashes of her flesh, or if it would, in fact, remain long after the semblance of who she was incinerated.
In the distance, she could hear the Christmas carolers belting out the words to “Silent Night,” but they grated on her nerves. This was not a holy night—it never would be again. This was a night tinged by sorrow, regret, and guilt.
Sorrow for the death of her twin that she painted on her face.
Regret for the part she played.
And guilt—not for the thing she had done, but for the fact that within her core, buried underneath the superficial sorrow and grief and sadness, something else remained.
Joy. Season’s joy, yearlong joy at the fact that she was finally gone. Her greatest tormentor, her greatest fear was gone from this world. She was finally dead.
“Dear, they found this in her things. I didn’t want to give it you, but Father said we should. It was her final wish, after all.”
She turned to look at her mother, or the being who somewhat resembled her mother. After the past few day’s events, she knew that her mother would never exist the same way again either. Sure, she would paint on that faux smile outlined with red lips as she baked pies and went to the women’s choir practice and talked at the supermarket to her friends about upcoming charities. But behind every story, every lie, there would always be the ugly truth that everyone recognized but couldn’t admit. They had failed as a family. They had failed as parents. And Anne had failed as a sister.
Her eyes fell now from the gray, pallid skin of her mother’s tear-stained face to her trembling hands. They looked so wrinkled, so unappealing, as they stretched toward her with the item. It was wrapped in a crumpled piece of notebook paper, the kind that is too thin to be of any substance or natural looking. It was crudely taped around a spherical object, pieces of the translucent tape sporadically placed, as if the wrapper had been in a hurry. The gift lacked finesse and certainly wasn’t one Mother would ever put under the perfectly decorated tree on a normal year. But this was no normal year.
Anne stared at her name hurriedly written in a frenetic scrawl on the front of the tiny package. Sobs threatened to rack her body. She was glad Rachel was gone in so many ways—but there was still something haunting about touching an item that belonged to a girl who didn’t know what fate awaited her.
Or did she? That was something she would push aside for now. She took the package from her mother, choosing to wander to her room to open the final gift. She was surprised her mother granted her this courtesy. Perhaps her mother had already decided, however, to wash her hands of this delicate, vile matter. Her mother in her stark white apron and adeptly curled hair—it wouldn’t do to dirty her face with tinges of the truth. It wouldn’t do at all. She would leave that to Anne, just as she had done back in July.
In her room, perched on her bed, Anne tediously peeled back the layers. Had Rachel really thought this far ahead? She had never been close to her, especially after what happened in July. Why would she decide to leave her a gift now? Was it a final parting, a final remedy for a life that was lived in the recesses of wickedness?
As her fingers pulled back the paper, she knew there was no gift that could assuage her cruelty, could save her soul from the torments she must be facing. Lives are filled with mistakes—but Rachel’s had been filled with fiendish feats performed with remarkable malevolence too filthy to be wiped clean.
When the paper was removed, she studied the metal object in her hands. A bell sat in her hands, a rusty red color. She placed a hand over her mouth, shaking. The bell was familiar. She’d seen it once before but had thought nothing of it. She’d thought it nothing more than her overactive imagination mixing trauma and Christmas together.
But here it was, real in all ways. It was covered in scratches as if someone’s fingernails had dug away until the rusty metal underneath peeked through. She looked closer, leaning in to see a hooded girl carved on the front of the bell, remarkable detail embossed in the surface. She looped a finger through the twine, flipping the ornament between her fingers to examine it closer. As the bell twirled between her fingers, rotating, she noticed that the back didn’t match the front. On the back side of the ornament, a message was carved.
And when she read the words carved in the festive adornment, a foreboding gloom drowned her until she was gasping for air. A dread like she’d never felt swept through her veins, clawing at her skin until she could scarcely remember who she was. She choked on sobs, crumpling to the ground. A ringing in her brain drowned out all her awareness.
As she looked once more at the words, she knew she wasn’t imagining it. For where words such as Noel or Happy Holidays or Good Tidings should have been, a dire warning of the most menacing kind was clawed into the surface of the metal. She knew who it was from. She knew what it meant. She just didn’t know what the consequences would be.
But when her eyes finally unlocked from the carved words, she saw it. Across the bedroom, near the corner. And as her heart beat wildly, words frozen in her throat, she knew that she wasn’t actually safe at all . . . and that the sinister occurrences were probably only beginning.
The Redwood Asylum: A Paranormal Horror Page 16
