“The 'Third Ward Incident'?” I echoed. “Eh... something about a murder, right?”
Dave chuckled darkly. “A whole lotta murders, teach. A whole lotta them. Some patient went psycho, killed a handful of staff and patients before someone took her down. There were rumors going around that she'd been one of the abused ones—subjected to some kinda experiments. Anyhow, it hit the news back in the 80's. I was a high schooler then. Big, big news, that. Shortly thereafter the government moved in and shut it down, saying it was unsuitable for patients.”
I worked over a wedge of toast as I listened. “OK, so you're suggesting we go and check out Chaythe Asylum, then?” I supposed that a condemned insane asylum was as good a place as any for an enterprising group of collegiate ghost hunters to search for proof of the supernatural. Not that I expected we'd find any. “That place isn't too far from the university, so it would make a good site. I appreciate the tip, Dave. Thanks for calling.”
I was going to hang up, but he made it known he wasn't through with me yet. “Whoa, now. That's not all, professor. There's more.”
I centered myself on my stool, piercing a sausage patty with my fork and taking a small bite. “How much more?”
Dave continued. “Lately—I don't remember the first time, but I'd say it must've been around a week ago—I've started getting these calls, right? I work nights here at the station, host the nightly program from 12 to 5, and I average about thirty calls a night. People calling me up at 3 AM, asking me to play that one tune by the Everly Brothers, or Del Shannon's 'Runaway', ain't nothing out of the ordinary, right? Get a fair few wrong numbers, too. I'm no stranger to the rare prank call, either. But these calls I've been getting...” He licked his lips. “They come at the same time—about 2:15 in the morning, and always sound the same. Naturally, I wrote it off at first. Figured it was some bored kid, or else a bad connection. But when you keep getting calls—the same kinda calls—every night, then you start to wonder who they might be coming from, and why.”
The scrambled eggs were good, nice and fluffy. I ushered a bite into my mouth. “Go on.”
“It's always the same. Come 2:15, the phone rings—keeps going until I pick it up. Same number as the last night, of course. And when I answer, I hear the same thing, night after night. It's a man's voice, kinda echoey, right? He says, in a real deep, kind of official voice, like he's lecturing, all this stuff about 'pulling back the veil' and 'the other side'. And all the while, there's another noise—also kinda muffled—which I think is the sound of a woman sobbing.” He sighed. “I really don't know what to make of it.”
I fought back a yawn. “Neither do I. That's weird, that someone would keep calling you like that, but it's obvious they're just trying to spook you. What does this have to do with the asylum, Dave?”
“I'm getting to that, professor.” Dave was heard to shuffle a number of papers. “I took down the phone number, right? Tried calling it back. Well, when you call it, nothing happens. It's a dead line, disconnected. After a week or so of these calls, I decided it was someone harassing me—a bored kid, like you said. Forwarded my complaint to a friend of mine who's a cop. He tells me they see things like this all the time—asks me for the number and promises to get back to me. Well, a few nights ago—and mind you, the calls are still coming in all this time—he rings me to say that they hit a dead end. They don't know where the calls could be coming from, since the number I gave him has been disconnected for years and years. Turns out that number corresponds to one of the old lines at Chaythe Asylum. They sent a patrol out there but couldn't find any proof of recent intruders. What do you make of that?”
It was a definite oddity. I shoveled in a few more bites of food before answering him. “That's weird,” I said. “I'm sure there's a simple explanation; some wire getting crossed somewhere.”
Dave snorted. “My buddy, the cop, said the same thing. 'Must be some wire getting crossed, just ignore the calls'. I ain't so sure, though. I took a peek at the news—some old articles online, about that Third Ward Incident, right? The murders? Well, come to find out we're coming up on the anniversary of those. Been 28 or 29 years, I think. Don't you think that's pretty strange, professor? That the calls have started coming just in time for the anniversary of the killings?”
“It is.” I didn't know what else to say. It was a weird occurrence, and the timing was equally curious, but I wasn't about to kick in the front door of the asylum to investigate. “Well, thanks again for calling. I appreciate it, Dave. I'll talk this over with my students and see if we can't arrange for a trip out to the asylum after spring break ends. Should make for a good setting.”
“Say, teach,” replied Dave, once again dodging my effort to cut the call short, “you don't sound convinced. You seem like you don't believe me. Am I wrong?”
“N-No,” I replied. “I believe you, it's just... I don't think it's necessarily a supernatural phenomenon.” A smirk found its way onto my lips, tainting my tone with what Dave would surely think smugness. “I don't really believe in any of that stuff, but... if ghosts really do exist, I doubt they use telephones.”
Dave considered this for a moment, falling into thoughtful silence. “You haven't heard it, and that's why you don't believe. I've listened to that voice on the phone several times now, and I tell you, there's just something about it. Something eerie. Makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. What are you up to tonight, professor?”
I looked down at my plate, half-empty now, and shrugged. “Uh... as it happens, not a whole lot,” I admitted. After this meal, I would probably leave the restaurant and head back to my apartment. It was likely I'd spend some time reading in bed until I finally fell asleep.
That is, if I could get any reading done without being distracted by thoughts of the accident.
My dreams, too, would probably be filled with images from the scene. The kid's face... the grey sky... the first responders swarming the body...
“Why don't you stop by?” asked Dave. “Come by tonight, a little before 2 in the morning. I'm sure I'll be receiving one of those calls tonight—I always do. If you stop in, I'll let you answer the phone. I can even give you a quick tour of the studio between segments. How does that sound?” He took a slurp of something, smacking his lips. “It's up to you, of course.”
On the one hand, meeting Dave in person and wasting time on what was almost certainly a dumb prank call seemed pointless.
On the other, I'd never seen the inside of a radio studio before and would otherwise spend my night trying to beat back memories of the accident. Under the circumstances, a distraction like this one was more than welcome.
I accepted his invitation. “I'm not much of a night owl, but I'll grab a coffee and see you then,” I replied. “Seems like an interesting way to pass the night.”
Pleased, Dave passed on directions to the studio and asked me to call him at this same number when I arrived. He was the only one in the building at that point, and would come downstairs to let me in between blocks of songs.
When the call ended, I hesitated to put my phone away, wondering if I shouldn't let Elizabeth know. She'll want to be kept in the loop, I thought. After a few moments, I decided against calling her. There was no telling whether this lead would prove to be worthwhile or not, and besides, palling around with a female student so late at night would probably look bad. I'd head to the studio alone and let her know about the whole thing in the morning.
I looked down at my Moleskine notebook, at the notes I'd taken on the call, and circled the words “Chaythe Asylum” again and again. Then, snapping it shut, I hurriedly finished my food. The griller wandered by and asked me if he could get me anything else. “Can you do a coffee to go?” I asked.
6
I take my coffee black. If I'm in the mood for something richer, I'll add a bit of heavy cream to it—just a splash, to change the color. I never sweeten it, though. There's nothing more unforgivable than ruining the natural flavor of coffee with sugar, if you as
k me.
Polishing off the black brew from the diner on the way back to my apartment, I stopped at home to shower and change my clothes. The walk back through downtown didn't bother me so much, as I had other things on my mind now.
I should reiterate: I'd never believed in ghosts, and the thought of throwing in my lot with Elizabeth and her boyfriend, of serving as advisor to a ghost-hunting outfit, made me cringe a little—even though I could expect a nice bonus for my trouble. But taking part in something like this was far preferable to sitting at home, alone. At least, I wagered, I was getting out.
Out of my head, that is.
Changing into a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, I brought a jacket along and climbed into my car, an '05 Chevy Cavalier. Though an oldie, it only had 100,000 miles on it and was still running with routine maintenance. I'd have preferred a Mercedes, but the Cavalier had served me well since my undergraduate years.
Dropping into the driver's seat, I let the car idle a bit in the lot and then pulled out, plugging the address Dave had given me into a GPS app. It would take me about forty minutes to get out to the WDPK building. It was situated out on the highway, appeared to be the only thing for miles around, save for barns and fields of corn.
I ran through a Starbuck's drive-thru a few minutes before they closed and scored a half-priced coffee that would keep me going through the night. Then, coasting onto the highway, I drifted south, taking cautious pulls from my boiling brew. It was a straight shot, the studio situated between Moorlake and Dayton.
Traffic was light. On the way there, I happened upon a couple of highway patrolmen waiting in speed traps, but thankfully they stayed put. My bald tires thrummed against the dark streets, resulting in a hum that was more pleasant than any music. With the venti cup balanced between my legs, I looked out ahead, and spotted the silhouette of the studio just as my GPS dinged. The huge antenna at the rear of the building caught my eye first, cutting into the night sky and reflecting a dull shimmer of moonlight.
I slowed, pulling into a winding gravel drive, and came to park behind a Land Rover. The sign out front told me I was at the right place, and I stepped out, coffee half-empty, to have a stretch. Behind the building, on a swath of grassland that must have amounted to at least an acre, were three large satellite dishes, as well as the radio tower I'd seen from the highway. This latter fixture was surrounded by a sturdy-looking wood fence, and numerous “DANGER” and “CAUTION” signs had been affixed to the planks. The air had a bite to it, and the gusts were long and fierce. Tugging on my jacket, I placed a call to Dave and waited on the hood of my car for him to pick up.
The building was small. Had it not been flanked by the tower and satellite dishes, it might've looked like an isolated one-story house. The front doors, three in total, were done up in thick glass, and to the right and left of them were small, dense windows. The outside of the place looked shabby; the siding was peeling a bit and likely needed replaced. The area out front, near the end of the drive, featured a half-hearted attempt at gardening. Limp flowers—marigolds—sat in a row against the house, planted behind a wall of decorative bricks.
“Hey, professor?” answered Dave after a few rings. “You here already? Earlier than I expected. You excited, or what?” He guffawed. “You came at a good time. Wait out front and I'll be down in a second.”
I pocketed my phone, approached the front doors, and sipped at my coffee while peering into the depths of the shadowed building. I could see several feet inside; there was a large, open area—something like a lobby—with an empty desk. During the day, I figured a receptionist might sit there. Past that desk were a pair of metal double doors, which a moment after my spotting them suddenly flew open to reveal a hunched, paunchy fellow with a greasy black ponytail and a handlebar mustache.
This I took to be Dave Thackeray, the radioman.
Unlatching the door from the other side, Dave pushed it open with a grunt and stepped aside, allowing me passage. “Welcome, welcome!” he said, patting me on the arm as the door slammed shut. He was taller than me by a few inches, but would have been bigger if not for his awful posture. Shoulders rounded, he walked with evident discomfort through the lobby after re-locking the door. “So, you're the professor, eh? Professor Barlow?”
“You can call me Stephen,” I replied.
“You're younger than I expected,” said Dave, leading me back through the double doors from which he'd only moments ago emerged.
As a rather stubbled 30-year-old, I wasn't sure how to take that, but I decided to consider it a compliment.
“Listen, we've got a few minutes here. I've got a block of songs playing as we speak, and then some commercials and pre-taped break-ins going.” Dave held one of the metal doors open for me. They seemed to open up into a long, carpeted hall lined in doors. As I took a few steps into the darkened hall, I discovered two rooms near the end of the stretch that were fronted by large panes of thick, soundproof glass. These, I figured, were the studios. “We're here in studio B tonight,” he explained, hobbling ahead of me. “Studio A's had some problems. Luckily, we're the only station working out of this building, so we don't have to worry about sharing with anyone else.”
Shuffling down the hall, Dave pushed open a hefty, sound-proofed door and led me inside. Never having seen the studio at a radio station before, I hadn't been sure what to expect. It was very small, and looked too cluttered with junk to be a professional operation. A Macintosh computer with two large, glowing screens sat upon a triangular desk. Aside from the keyboard, there was a large, rectangular board full of dials and switches situated in front of the monitors. A thick microphone seemingly grew out of the desk by way of a black metal arm, and was fronted by a circular pop filter. Behind the desk, to the right of a worn-out task chair, was a bookshelf that teetered with boxy apparatuses that spit out paper and emitted green, glowing light.
The broadcast played faintly in the background through a pair of dusty Bose speakers on either side of the computer. “I love this tune,” said Dave, snapping his fingers with the music. “An old Orion favorite. You heard it? 'Look Me Up And Lay It On Me'. Phenomenal.” Rounding the edge of the desk, he broke out a folding chair and offered it to me, plopping down behind his computer. From there, he took hold of a can of Mountain Dew and pointed out the various things in the room whose functions I wasn't sure of. “This big ol' tower on the shelf behind me,” he said, hiking a thumb towards the boxy, printing machines with the green lights, “is what we call 'the rack'. It's linked to the satellite dishes you surely saw out back, and it brings us news—weather, sports, breaking stuff—from all over the world. This here,” he said, motioning to the board of switches and dials before him, “is the broadcast board. I've got all kinds of pre-sets in here.”
“I see.” I sat back in the folding chair. It creaked loudly as I did so, earning me a sidelong glance.
“When I go live, I'm gonna need you to keep perfectly still in that noisy thing,” warned Dave. With that, he went back to pointing things out, over-explaining the fixtures as though I were a visiting first-grader. “That there,” he said, pointing upward to a digital clock on the wall, “is our clock.”
I wanted to roll my eyes. A clock? How neat. I don't think I've ever seen one of those before...
Dave blathered on. “Most of the music is digital these days. Things were different when I first started. Used to load things off of cassettes and CDs then. We can still do a bit of that, but anymore we just use digital. MP3 files and whatnot. It's much simpler. I can do pretty much everything with this computer right here.”
I looked back up at the clock. The big, red characters read 12:51 AM. I sighed inwardly, wished I'd come a little later. As things stood, I was going to be waiting here with Dave for a long while. “So, this call we're expecting. You say it comes every night at about 2:15?”
He nodded. “Sure does. Like clockwork.” He grinned. “We've got a bit of waiting to do, but sit tight. When that phone rings, I'll let you pick it u
p.” There was a large, beige phone on his desk. It was an old-fashioned thing, corded. There were several red buttons on its face, each corresponding to a different line. This allowed him to switch between numerous callers. Currently, they were all unlit, but at 2:15, he insisted that a mysterious call would come through from a number that had once been tied to the old Chaythe Asylum.
Slurping down some coffee, I looked about the dim studio and crossed my legs. “Any chance of them calling earlier tonight?” I chanced.
* * *
Dave leaned in toward the microphone and spoke in a slightly steadier, more refined voice, reminding listeners that they were tuning in to WDPK 83.7 FM, and that more of their favorite hits were on the way. Reminding them also of the station's request line, he read off the phone number and then segued into an old Motown track. Swiveling to me and catching his ponytail in one hand, he threaded his fingers through it and grinned. “So, teach, you don't believe in ghosts, huh?”
I shook my head. My cup of Starbucks was running low and I wondered if I'd be awake enough to make the drive home once this visit was through. “Frankly, no.”
He squinted at me, cocking his head to the side. “I don't get it. Why are you putting together this club, then? Why put an ad in the paper?”
I could have told him the truth—that I was just doing it for the money—but I decided to bullshit him instead. “Well, some students approached me. See, they needed a faculty member to serve as advisor in order to get the club off the ground. It sounded interesting, and even though I'm a skeptic, I've decided to keep an open mind.”
Asylum: The Afterlife investigations #1 Page 4
