Asylum: The Afterlife investigations #1

by Ibsen, Ambrose

  From her backpack, Elizabeth drew out a folder. Inside, she kept numerous paper forms, all of them meticulously sorted. “I've been working on drafts for fliers,” she explained, handing me a black and white print-off. It listed the name of the club, The Moorlake Spiritual Society, and invited students to join a ghost hunt. The determined meeting place she'd chosen was the student union, and she intended for meetings to be held from 9 to 10PM. The bottom of the flier featured a piece of clip-art, a cartoonish-looking ghost, which I suggested she replace with something less silly.

  Next up, she presented me with a form printed off of the Moorlake Register's website that we'd have to turn in to post an ad. “I was hoping you might be wiling to handle this part,” she began. “We need to write a bit of ad copy, and upon approval we have to send them a check for twenty bucks. I called ahead, and if we submit everything by the end of business hours tomorrow, they'll run the ad in the Saturday edition!” She then added, “Moorlake University faculty have an edge; so long as the ad meets their criteria, they're willing to waive the fee for university staff members. How about that!”

  I set down the request form and arched a brow. “So, what exactly do you want in the ad? You want just anybody giving us a call to tip us off about the noises in their attics, or the things they saw under their beds?” I laughed, shaking my head, but likely showed my hand in doing so.

  At this, Jake took exception, folding his arms over his chest. “What's the problem?” he asked Elizabeth, “Doesn't this guy believe in ghosts?”

  Elizabeth looked to me, her gaze wounded. “Well? Do you?” she asked.

  I thought to deflect, but by the time I replied my hesitance had betrayed me. “Honestly? No, I don't.” It was the honest answer, the most generous version of the truth I could proffer. I might've told her what I really thought about the subject of ghosts, but I didn't want to break her spirit.

  For her part, Elizabeth recovered quickly. “That's all right,” she said. “It's OK to be skeptical. I want to make sure we welcome people with different viewpoints. Diversity of thought is important.”

  Rolling his eyes, the jealous boyfriend slumped in his chair.

  I plucked a pen from my pocket and rapped against the table with it, asking her something that'd been on my mind for a while now. “So, out of curiosity, why are you even starting this club? Why do you believe?”

  She smiled, averting her gaze. “I had an experience when I was young,” she admitted. That was as far as she was willing to take the conversation, though. “I'd tell you more, but you'd just laugh at me. Maybe I'll tell you the whole story someday.”

  Returning to the request form, I jotted down a brief call to action, requesting readers to call a number—my number—with any tips they had about haunted sites in or around Moorlake. Including my phone number in the ad had been an oversight. I should have insisted that Elizabeth, or better yet, her angsty boyfriend, field the calls of local whackos, but I'd written in my number without thinking about it. I handed the form over and she promised to deliver it to the staff at the newspaper herself.

  “So, who else is going to be in this club?” I asked. “You mentioned friends of yours were interested, right?”

  She nodded. “I have a few friends who might be interested in joining, yeah. We've talked about starting something like this for awhile now. They won't be able to participate till after the break; they're all going home to their families.”

  “And you?” I asked. “Don't you have any plans?”

  The question irked Jake, who looked poised to answer on her behalf.

  She replied. “No, I'll be staying here on campus. My parents are on vacation themselves, on a cruise, so even if I went home there'd be nothing for me to do there. I don't have a car, either. Or much money.” Her face reddened a touch. “All the more time for me to get this club going, though!” She nudged Jake's arm. “Jake here is going back to his dad's place for a week. The next time we meet up, he'll probably be back home.”

  “Oh,” I said, smirking. “You'll be sorely missed.”

  He wanted to punch me in the nose, I could tell.

  After a bit of chit-chat, Elizabeth promised to get in touch with me again soon, and asked that I contact her should anyone respond to the ad in the days to come. I agreed, reticently accepting her phone number on a scrap of paper, but secretly hoped the ad would go ignored. Jake sent me daggers as he watched me tuck Elizabeth's number into my breast pocket, and a small part of me delighted in stoking his jealousy. I made sure to give her my number as well.

  The three of us walked outside, and when we'd built some distance from the entrance of the student union, I lit up a Viceroy.

  “You smoke?” asked Elizabeth, crinkling her nose. “That's kinda gross.”

  I nodded, taking a long, slow drag. “I blame it on the advertising culture of the 1990's. Those Joe Camel ads, I tell you, they were too damn persuasive.”

  Sticking close to his girlfriend, Jake eyed the pack in my pocket from the corner of his eye. “Those are Viceroys, right? Like, the same brand that Mac Demarco smokes?”

  “Who?” I asked.

  He snickered. “You don't know who Mac Demarco is? I guess you're older than I thought.” He paused. “Does the university approve of an old guy like you hanging out with your students outside of class?”

  I took another drag, knocking a cone of ash from the tip of the cigarette, and nodded. “As long as I keep things PG-13.” I broke from the group, waving lazily, and after several promises to contact Elizabeth with any new information gained from respondents to the ad, I set off for downtown. The bottom of a shot glass was calling my name.

  4

  Forced to choose between food and booze, I'd have gladly chosen the latter, under the circumstances. Thankfully, the drinks at Reverend's bar were pretty cheap, and I had enough left in my budget for a bite at the greasy Corner Grill afterward.

  It was Saturday evening. The place wasn't full of students—yet—but within a few hours it would be packed from corner to corner. As things stood, it was just me, the bartender and a bit of grainy Led Zeppelin coming from a boombox in the back room.

  The barkeep, a middle-aged guy with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and a sweater vest on set me up with a glass of Maker's Mark and I nursed it while tapping my foot to “The Immigrant Song”. He was busy drying glasses, rearranging bottles and preparing for the nightly rush of drunks. Now and then, he'd pause at the counter, read a few paragraphs out of an open copy of the day's newspaper, and then return to his work. Flagging him over, I nodded to the paper. “Do you mind?”

  He handed me the day's edition of the Moorlake Register and disappeared into the back room while I dug in. I hadn't heard from Elizabeth in more than a day—not since we'd parted ways at the student union. I recalled that she'd planned to submit the ad to the paper, and that the staff had promised to run it in the Saturday edition.

  Sure enough, sandwiched between an ad for a sporting goods store and a supermarket, there it was.

  Proof of the supernatural wanted! The Moorlake Spiritual Society is seeking information regarding haunted locations in and around Moorlake. If you or anyone you know has experienced anything paranormal, please contact us at 419-555-9877. Serious respondents only!

  It was likely no one would see the ad; twenty years ago, maybe, print ads would have been an effective advertising medium. Now? Even if someone did bother to read the local newspaper at all—which was filled with stories about the monotonous goings-on in Moorlake—I doubted they'd take their time in checking out the ads. Thank goodness it hadn't cost me anything.

  I finished my drink and handed the paper back to the bartender, tapping the lip of my glass. He topped me off and asked, “You see that story in there, about the kid who got hit just down the road? Happened not too far from here,” he said, pointing at the door. “Couldn't believe it. Real tragic.”

  I nodded, but didn't say anything. No, I hadn't read the write-up in the paper—didn't need to.
I'd been right there, damn it. I'd watched him take his last breath, for Christ's sake. The very mention of the accident turned my stomach, and suddenly the whiskey wasn't sitting too well. I had a feeling I wasn't going to be asking for a third. Taking a small sip, I changed the subject. “Things will probably be slow for you the next two weeks, on account of the break, am I right?”

  He nodded, running a wet towel over the bar. “A little, though I could use a break, between you and me. It'll be crowded tonight; students will be coming in in droves for a last drunken night before crawling home to mom and dad. The next two weeks, the locals and the few who stay behind will be the only ones showing up. Don't have to turn the music up so loud when it's not a full house. I like it better.”

  I half-listened to him, my mind unwilling to let go of the previous topic.

  You watched that kid die.

  I slammed the rest of the whiskey, felt it scald my throat. I wished I could forget the entire experience. No, more than that, I wished that I'd waited a few more minutes before leaving my apartment that morning—that someone else had taken my place on that sidewalk and been the one to rush into the street after that battered kid.

  The barkeep started talking about sports and I stood up to leave, tucking a few singles under my empty glass. My legs felt restless. The drinks hadn't cleared my head, so I hoped that a walk might. I stepped out of the bar, the sun surviving only as a band of gold across an otherwise dark blue sky, and looked up and down the street.

  Things were busier now; bar-goers were accumulating along the streets in small groups. The storefronts were all closed, asleep, and in their place a number of clubs woke up, their neon signage winking in the dusk. And then a little further down the road, to my left...

  That was where it happened.

  For an instant, the middle of the road seemed to brighten in my mind's eye, and I could picture myself kneeling in the street, staring down in disbelief at a dead pedestrian. I could still smell the rain from that day, could nearly make out the pulsing electronica that'd come from the kid's headphones as I'd approached his body. From somewhere nearby came the sudden roar of an engine, calling to mind the pick-up truck that'd killed him...

  I snapped to awareness as a hot red sports car purred down the road and sped into a nearby lot.

  Turning my back on the spot, I bolted in the opposite direction. Across the street was the Corner Grill, a quaint little eatery that served up greasy diner food and which dealt only in cash. I rushed through the door, finding the place empty, and took a seat among the red stools at the front counter.

  I must have looked upset because the griller, a blonde guy in a denim kilt and a Pantera T-shirt, gave me a narrow look and asked, “You all right?”

  I bobbed my head as he drew near. “Fine, yeah.” Pawing at my jaw, my dry fingertips rasped against what felt like dense, bristly stubble. I couldn't remember the last time I'd shaved.

  The griller asked me something else. I think it was, “What'll you have?”

  I rattled off my usual order—Cherry Coke and a breakfast platter, with white toast—and peered over my shoulder. It was a very small place, could feel claustrophobic late at night when all of the drunks wandered in and caused a ruckus. The windows were thick glass bricks, which allowed only a dim, blurred view of the outside. I could see the reflection of a stoplight through the glass, and watched as the light turned from red to green.

  The man at the grill whistled to himself as he dropped a few sausage patties and oily potatoes onto the griddle. From a rickety soda fountain whose components loosed the nastiest, most plasticky creaks imaginable at the slightest pressure, he poured me a Cherry Coke that was mostly ice. I buried a straw in it and sucked down half in a single go, the cold giving me a spot of brain freeze.

  I found myself wanting to get the hell out of Moorlake.

  It was spring break now, technically.

  I was caught up on my work and didn't have any responsibilities. Any unforeseen assignment could probably be handled remotely.

  I started considering how much I had left in my back account, what it might cost me to get out of town for just a couple of days. I could rough it in a budget motel in another city, see some new sights and get the taste of this quiet little college town out of my mouth.

  Earlier, when I'd looked out across the stretch of downtown, I'd realized something. Moorlake was never going to be the same to me. I was never going to be able to divorce the idea of the town from the tragic death of that kid, no matter how hard I tried.

  I'd never experienced anything like this before in my life; thankfully, the bulk of my years had been lacking in tragic spectacles. Maybe I needed to talk to someone. I despised the idea of going to a shrink, but maybe there was a counselor on campus I could speak to. Keeping this whole ordeal to myself wasn't working out. It was impacting my sleep, my mood... I felt like I was slipping. Was it depression?

  No, I fancied it was something else.

  Aside from it being a traumatizing emotional experience, watching that kid die had inspired in me some sort of existential fear.

  Death felt closer to me than ever before. I didn't believe in ghosts, in the concept of an afterlife, and yet the way the victim's face continued turning up in my thoughts and dreams felt nothing short of haunting. I wondered how long it would last, if I'd ever be able to scrub his face from my memory.

  The air was filled with the smell of browning sausage. My phone started to buzz in my pocket, shaking me from my thoughts. I dug it out and peered at the caller ID. It was a call coming from an unfamiliar number.

  That meant one of two things.

  Either it was a robocall, or else someone was reaching out because of our ad in the paper.

  I'd never wanted to hear a pre-recorded sales-pitch regarding bathroom renovations more than when I picked up the phone just then. I slumped over the counter, staring at the grill, and answered sans enthusiasm. “Hello?”

  For a minute, the only thing I could hear was the sizzling of my eggs as they hit the grill. Then, from the other end, came the sound of someone clearing their throat. A man. The voice that came afterward proved strangely familiar to me. It was a voice I felt confident I'd heard before, perhaps several times, and yet I couldn't place it right away. “Hey,” said the caller, “You the one who put the ad in the Register? The, uh... the one looking for info about spooks?” There was just the slightest hint of an accent to his husky voice. Boston or New Jersey.

  It was my turn to clear my throat. Sitting upright, I replied, “Yeah. That's me.”

  The caller grunted, and I thought I heard him sigh; whether in relief or annoyance, I couldn't say. “Look, uh... mister...” He paused. “My name's Dave Thackeray. I work up here at WDPK 83.7 FM, the radio station? I do the evening show—maybe you've heard it?”

  That was where I'd known his voice from. I wasn't much of a radio listener, but my office-mate Phil was. Sometimes, when the two of us had been stuck working late on campus, he'd tune into the radio show—his favorite—and hum along to the songs. It annoyed the shit out of me, but then I guess that wasn't the DJ's fault. “Dave Thackeray, yes, I'm familiar,” I replied. “You... you're calling in answer to my ad?” I held back a chuckle. “You're not playing this on the radio right now, are you? Is this some kind of prank?”

  Dave chuckled too, though it was a meager noise, nothing of amusement in it. “No, it's not a prank. I'm not even on the air yet. I'm calling because I think I might have something for you.” He smacked his lips. “You got a minute to talk?”

  The griller brought over my breakfast platter and refreshed my Cherry Coke. I picked up my fork and shouldered the phone, bringing a bite of the burning potatoes to my lips. “Sure, I'm all ears.”

  5

  Dave Thackeray cleared his throat again. I wasn't sure if he was just nervous or if he was getting over a cold. “Now, what I'm about to tell you is going to sound pretty out there, I know. But, before you write me off as a loony, I want you to know that I
can back it up. I've got the phone logs to prove it. Anyhow... who is it I'm speaking to?”

  I licked my lips, taking a pull from my soda. “My name is Stephen Barlow,” I replied with some hesitance. “I'm an adjunct professor of English at Moorlake University. Some students asked me to put that ad in the paper; we're starting a ghost-hunting club, The Moorlake Spiritual Society, and needed some locations to scout for meetings.”

  The fact that I was affiliated with the university and not some crank seemed to put Dave at ease, because he grunted again—this time in a higher, more agreeable register. “OK,” he said, “that'll do, that'll do. I'm thinking I've got something right up your alley, then. If you wouldn't mind coming to the station to discuss it in person, that would be great. Anytime is fine. Though, I'll give you the broad strokes so you can see if you're interested or not.” He laughed. “I was on the crapper earlier today. My phone was dead and it was takin' awhile, so I leafed through the paper someone had left in the studio bathroom. That's how I came upon your ad. It was pretty serendipitous.”

  I paused in my chewing, donning a frown.

  “Anyway, I've got this thing. Are you familiar, by chance, with Chaythe Asylum?”

  The name rang a bell, but I wasn't exactly familiar with the place. I knew it was a shuttered psychiatric facility some thirty minutes from Moorlake, and that it'd been closed for some time. I knew, also, that there'd been some incident there. A murder or something of the kind. Having been closed for many years, it wasn't something that came up too often in the local news, and so I decided to play dumb. “Not really, no. What can you tell me about it?”

  “It's a local haunt,” replied Dave. “I'm no historian, mind you, but I remember back when the place was still open. You from around here, prof?” My silence was proof enough that I wasn't, and he went on. “Opened sometime in the 1800's, closed in the 1980's. Almost a hundred years in operation, if I'm remembering correctly. It was mired in controversy for a lot of that time, the asylum. I mean, most of 'em were. The things they used to do to patients back then to make them behave—it was damn barbaric. You heard all sorts of tales coming out of places like that. Inhumane acts, illegal experiments, you name it. Well, just before it got shut down by state authorities, there was an incident. You ever hear of the 'Third Ward Incident'?” he asked.