Rookwood Asylum

by David Longhorn

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “Palmer found that she had no psychic ability?”

  Rodria looked even more self-satisfied as he nodded at the flickering screen.

  “Keep watching.”

  Another jump-cut and the Zener cards were gone. Instead, Palmer placed a small toy on the table, a little race car about two inches long. Then he put a glass dome over it. The doctor sat back and said something to his human guinea pig, evidently a command. At first, the girl demurred, but then a burly attendant appeared in the shot and stationed himself behind Liz’s chair. It seemed this implicit threat was enough.

  The girl leaned forward, frowned in concentration. The car jerked forward once, twice, then began to circle around under the dome. The toy moved for several seconds before Liz fell back in her seat. The car stopped. Palmer seemed to demand more from the girl, but she slumped inertly. The doctor got up and again produced the hypodermic. Another struggle ensued, but this time only one male nurse was needed to keep the girl still while she was injected.

  “Is there much more of this?” Paul asked, sickened.

  “Quite a bit, I’m afraid,” Rodria drawled. “Doctor Rugeley Palmer was clearly obsessed with this particular subject. He didn’t just use drugs, but also some form of electroconvulsive therapy.”

  “I don’t want to see that,” Paul said instantly.

  “It’s not on film.”

  Rodria stood up, waved a hand that cast a vast shadow across the screen. The projectionist stopped the film.

  “I managed to ferret out some records that were salvaged from the fire,” Rodria went on, as he led Paul and Mike toward the cinema exit. “Just a few boxes of files. There’s a lot of water and smoke damage. And they’re in no particular order. If you’d care to examine them, you might find out something useful.”

  It was clear from the man’s tone that Paul and Mike could ‘ferret’ through old files. The great Max Rodria had better uses for his time.

  ***

  They took three boxes of files back to Mike’s apartment that evening. As Rodria had said, the documents were a mess. When they spread the material out on the living room floor, Paul was dismayed to see how many sheets of paper were unreadable, or largely so. But struggling to get what remained in some sort of order appealed to Paul more than going back to Rookwood alone. In fact, he found himself making excuses to keep working when Mike started dropping hints about calling it a night.

  “Just another half hour, please? I get the feeling she’s in here, somewhere.”

  “Tell Annie’s story,” Mike quoted wearily. “You really think that’s the key to it?”

  Paul stopped shuffling brown, wrinkled sheets of paper, sat back on his haunches.

  “I guess so,” he said. “I keep coming back to the idea that the truth can set you free. In Liz’s case, it might mean simply getting the facts out there, about what a monster Palmer was.”

  Mike looked doubtful, looked at the mess of medical records arrayed around him.

  “Maybe, but I get the feeling it’s a bit more complicated than that. If Palmer tried to possess Imelda Troubridge as a way of escaping, but failed –”

  The Englishman made a helpless gesture.

  “I don’t see how that fits in with Annie’s story, really.”

  Paul had to agree. He likened what they were doing to assembling pieces of a jigsaw, while hunting for missing pieces at the same time.

  “And what we have here seems to be mostly sky,” Mike observed sourly.

  However, it was Mike who finally found the right file. Together they read what they could, struggling to piece together some kind of account of a life that ended before either of them were born.

  “Anne Elizabeth Semple,” Mike read. “She’d just turned sixteen when she was admitted to Rookwood. But I can’t read what this says, about the reason for admission. Something about neurosis?”

  Paul examined the document. There was no photograph associated with the file. But the background details seemed to fit the Liz he knew. And they had not found any other female patients of the same age.

  “Handwritten notes are a pain,” he conceded. “Why do doctors always seem to have such godawful handwriting? This word, here, does it say ‘ignorant?’”

  Mike peered at the page for a few seconds, then looked up at Paul.

  “No,” he said quietly. “I think it says ‘pregnant.’ That would explain a lot. I think I know why Annie Semple ended up at Rookwood. It was a national scandal.”

  Another hour’s work, including careful internet searches, put meat on the bones of Mike’s hypothesis. An unmarried woman who became pregnant in the Britain of 1955 would be expected to give up her baby for adoption. If family members would stand by a woman, she might keep her shameful secret. If not, a pregnant woman would always be sent to a special hostel for unmarried mothers. There, women ‘of loose morals or low intelligence’ gave birth, and their babies were immediately sent to foster families to await adoption.

  “How does that apply to Annie Semple, though?” asked Paul.

  “If a mother didn’t want to give up her baby,” Mike explained, scrolling through an online article, “she would be deemed mentally ill. After all, what sane woman would want to bring up an illegitimate child? Psychiatrists at the time said this indicated a neurotic character. So, not only was Annie’s baby taken from her, she was committed to the tender mercies of Miles Rugeley Palmer. Imagine how she must have felt, after going through so much trauma, then being used as a lab rat.”

  Paul put down the brittle sheets of the stained, incomplete file. He did not need to imagine how she had felt. He had shared her despair, however briefly, in a few minutes of tormented sleep.

  “This is the story we should tell,” he concluded. “We could start with that reporter from the Gazette. I don’t suppose you got her card while you were taking the mickey yesterday?”

  Mike stared across at his friend, guffawed loudly.

  “My God, you’re serious,” he said wonderingly. “It’s career suicide, mate. Tell her what you’ve told me, and it will be something like ‘Tynecastle Professor in Crusade for Sexy Spook.’ And that kind of headline is the best you can hope for.”

  Paul laid his head onto his folded arms.

  “Oh God, you’re right. I’m too close to this. How can I put any of this information out there without looking like a – like a loon?”

  Mike stood, gathered up their coffee mugs, paused for a few seconds.

  “You’re forgetting our fat friend in the science department,” he said finally. “Rodria will happily cite all this as further proof of his ‘place memory’ theory. Or ‘the stone tape,’ as he sometimes calls it. He has a blog with a predictably pretentious title – The Skeptical Paranormalist, something like that.”

  Paul pondered the idea while Mike made more coffee. If the facts were online, Annie’s story would be told, in a sense. But would it be enough? Especially if Rodria insisted, in the same item, that Annie was merely a kind of echo, the lingering aftermath of a dead girl’s suffering.

  But what else have we got? Paul asked himself. I suppose we could contact the Gazette anonymously, but there’s no guarantee they would print it. And newspapers aren’t renowned for getting the facts straight, either.

  ***

  “No,” said Father O’Malley. “No, I will not be performing an exorcism. Let me set your mind at rest on that one.”

  Kate heaved a sigh of relief. She had been feeling nervous and awkward since Neve Cotter had arrived with the priest. She could hardly forbid a tenant from bringing a visitor into her own home. But she wished Neve had consulted her before making the arrangements.

  “Exorcism is seldom an option these days,” the priest went on. “As I explained to Neve, it can only be performed after a rather complicated process of assessment, and by a diocesan exorcist, which I am not. No, Kate, what I have in mind – with your permission – is simply to bless the building. Scatter a bit of holy water, say a few pray
ers, that kind of thing.”

  Kate had to smile. The priest was a white-haired, cherubic figure who had been delighted by her offer of tea and scones. Far from a formidable figure, he seemed like a benevolent uncle. However, she still anticipated media interest, and mentioned that she could bar outsiders if that would be ‘more comfortable.’

  “That would be very helpful, Kate,” said O’Malley, brightly. “My bishop would not want me getting my name in the papers, that sort of thing. He doesn’t like grandstanding. So no reporters, please.”

  The priest put down his teacup, stood up, and brushed some cake crumbs off his cassock. He was nearly a head shorter than Kate, and she suddenly felt a sense of protectiveness toward the old man. She wondered if she could persuade him to confine his activities to the foyer, steer clear of the East Wing. However, when she tentatively suggested this, the old man politely demurred.

  “Ah, well, I would like to bless the actual areas where problems arose,” he explained, picking up his battered old carpetbag. “I think that might help dispel any – anything troublesome. And Neve and Ella are waiting for me, you know. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

  As they crossed from Kate’s office to the stairs, Paul Mahan walked in, and did a double-take on catching sight of the priest. Kate introduced the two.

  “Ah, yes,” said O’Malley, as he shook Paul’s hand. “You’re the American chap in the other haunted flat. I’d be happy to pop in and bless yours if you like? No charge, but a donation to the church roof fund would be most welcome.”

  Paul looked nonplussed by the suggestion.

  “I’m – not really a believer, Father,” he explained.

  At that, for the first time, O’Malley’s expression hardened.

  “After all you have seen, young man? You still doubt the existence of spiritual evil?”

  “I don’t doubt that what happened here was evil,” Paul retorted. “But I sincerely doubt your ability to do anything about it.”

  Sensing a potential argument, Kate suggested that they all go up to the Cotter’s apartment, where Neve and Ella were waiting. Paul looked startled at this, and Kate explained that those living in a home must be present for the blessing.

  “It might not be safe,” Paul pointed out, as he followed them up to the first floor. “Consider what happened to that Bowman guy.”

  “An evil man,” Father O’Malley declared. “A man under the influence of the Devil, I would say. Feel free to scoff at the notion, Mister Mahan, but some of us still believe in the old adversary and his minions.”

  “What’s been happening here has very human origins, I’m almost certain of that,” Paul insisted. “I’ve found evidence that Doctor Palmer conducted unethical experiments that were intended –”

  “A scientist trying to play God,” interrupted O’Malley. “Not at all surprising. You intellectuals have smeared the church and her servants, denied divine truth, and look at the result. A world of sordid depravity.”

  “Sweeping generalizations,” retorted Paul. “And if the world is full of depravity I’ve obviously been going to the wrong parties for a while now.”

  “Very amusing,” said O’Malley, pausing on the stairs to peer coldly at Paul. “If you are going to join us, I would ask you simply to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

  Kate began to feel her nervousness reassert itself. The priest was not the cuddly old gentleman she had thought. Beneath his jolly exterior was not merely a believer, but a hardline traditionalist. Perhaps even a full-on religious fanatic.

  On the other hand, she thought, as they reached the Cotter’s landing, after Imelda’s cozy spiritualism failed, perhaps that’s what we need.

  ***

  Paul tagged along after Kate and the priest. He had spent much of his working day trying to focus on his students, on the teaching he was paid to do. He had also had to sweet-talk Rodria into publishing something about Annie Semple on his blog. He had returned to Rookwood to find another supposed expert about to tackle the haunting, one who inspired no confidence in Paul whatsoever. After considering shutting himself in his room and ignoring them, he thought of Liz.

  She seems protective of little Ella, he thought. Maybe she’ll appear to them all, including the holy man. That will help get her story out there. And if I’m there, that might make her manifestation more likely.

  Neve and Ella Cotter were dressed in their Sunday clothes, waiting inside their apartment with the front door open. The smashed window had been covered with hardboard, presumably by Declan, so the living room light was switched on. While Ella seemed pleased to see Paul, Neve looked less happy. Paul braced himself, but she did not question his presence. Instead, Neve fussed over Ella’s hair and dress, though the child could not have been neater so far as Paul could see.

  “Very well,” said O’Malley, putting his carpetbag on the sofa. “As I’ve already explained to Neve, I will simply be saying standard prayers of blessing for a new home. Ideally, this should have been done when the building was opened. But the days when such things were considered normal are far behind us, I’m afraid.”

  O’Malley glanced at Kate before removing a pair of spectacles from his pocket and settling them on his nose. Paul noticed, with dismay, that the glasses were old-fashioned in design, with small round lenses.

  “Well, better late than never. So, if you will simply respond with ‘Amen’ while I read the relevant prayers, I will be most obliged.”

  Paul wished he could sit down as the priest launched into the first prayer. He had expected the ritual to last a few minutes, but it soon became clear that O’Malley was going to be speaking for quite a while. Looking across at Ella, Paul was pleased to see the girl looked as bored as he did.

  The light flickered. O’Malley hesitated for a moment, then continued to pray. The door behind him swung shut, the slam making Ella jump. At the same time, Paul felt the temperature begin to drop. Within moments he could see the priest’s breath as the old man continued to read from his prayer book.

  “I think we should get out of here,” Paul said. “This is just stirring up trouble. Father? You might be in real danger.”

  The priest ignored him, continuing the prayer and making the sign of the cross in the direction of the door. Kate looked from the old man to Neve, clearly unsure about whether to intervene. Neve looked nervous, but her mouth was set in a firm line. She clutched her daughter’s hand more tightly.

  Paul started to sidle towards the door, afraid to move too quickly, some primitive instinct telling him not to draw attention to himself in any way.

  Then the priest trailed off, the fine phrases dying on his lips. The old man’s glasses glinted in the light. Paul felt his mouth grow dry. Neve looked puzzled as O’Malley lowered his prayer book and looked around the room with a disquieting expression. There was something smug and arrogant in the old man’s face.

  Then the priest’s gaze settled on Ella. The old man’s tongue flicked around his lips like the head of a pink snake. O’Malley’s mouth opened, and he spoke. Paul could barely make out what had been a marked Irish accent. Instead, there was a distinct trace of upper-class British in the voice that emerged.

  “What a shabby farce religion is – a tawdry sideshow to distract the plebs from life’s misfortunes.”

  “Father?” asked Kate, frowning.

  “Not part of the official blessing, I think,” said Paul. He raised his voice, tried to sound resolute. “Is that you, Palmer?”

  The priest’s head turned, again the spectacles gleamed. Were there two pairs of glittering discs? Paul thought there were, but the impression only lasted for a split second. O’Malley, or whatever now possessed him, snorted derisively.

  “Ah, the brave American, seeking the truth, trying to do the right thing. What a pity you’re going to die insane and alone, like your crazy mother.”

  Paul felt a surge of anger at the taunt and started forward. He had the vague notion that slapping the old man’s face might somehow bring him
round, as if he were a sleepwalker. Then he hesitated, and again the voice of Palmer mocked him.

  “A coward, of course. Afraid to tackle a weak old man.”

  Paul gestured at Neve to get out, but she was staring at O’Malley, mouth open, clearly unable to believe what was happening. The priest’s leering face turned to look at Neve, then tilted, bloodshot eyes peering at Ella. A low growling, startlingly animalistic, came from O’Malley’s throat.

  “Oh, what this filthy priest would love to do to you, little girl!”

  O’Malley, crouching grotesquely like an ape, lunged towards Ella. The child screamed, flung herself behind her mother. But Neve seemed paralyzed with horror, and O’Malley shoved the woman aside. Neve fell sprawling across the sofa while Ella cowered in the corner of the room.

  “So much lust in such an old carcass!” bellowed the voice that was not quite O’Malley’s.

  Paul moved without thinking, diving at the priest’s legs and bringing him down in a clumsy tackle. He heard the old man hit the floor, accompanied by a sickening snapping noise. Kate, who had been frozen in shock, helped Neve get up. Ella ran to her mother, who scooped up the child. But the priest was between them and the apartment’s only exit.

  “Bastard!”

  O’Malley’s body struggled to rise, flailing at Paul with his left hand. The priest’s right arm flopped loosely. The old man’s face was now a mask of fury, eyes bulging, spectacles askew. Worse still, blood was spilling from the slack mouth. Ella screamed, and Paul felt anger overcome his fear. He lunged once more at the possessed man, hoping to restrain him rather than risk knocking O’Malley down again, which might cause even more harm.

  “Run!” he shouted at Ella as he tried to wrestle the priest onto the sofa.

  As the two women got Ella out of the room, O’Malley suddenly collapsed, startling Paul. The two fell onto the sofa, and O’Malley started yelling in pain and fear.

  “What are you doing?” cried the priest. “Why am I bleeding? Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”