I'd done some pacing around a downtown record store while waiting for my buzz to wear off, and had then met Elizabeth and Jake on campus—after making a quick trip through the Burger King drive-thru for a Whopper. We arrived—me, with a conspicuous mustard stain on my shirt, and parked along the curb outside her quaint, one-story house.
I'd shared the details of my meeting with Corwin, which proved exciting to Elizabeth. For once, I shared her excitement; I felt we were on the verge of something big, something conspiratorial. Talk of unethical experiments, of vanished doctors, had me feeling sort of like a gumshoe. Perhaps it was just the beer and fast food making me feel good, but I was suddenly quite thrilled with the direction things were going and found myself hungry for more information.
That was where Jake's aunt had come in. A patient at Chaythe Asylum during the mid-80's, there was every chance that she'd gotten to know some of the patients and staff there. Had she ever met Enid Lancaster, the mysterious killer? Had she ever been treated by the elusive Dr. Corvine? I couldn't wait to find out.
Jake, though, was less than thrilled. Apparently his aunt was a big fan of him, and he didn't much like spending time with her. Her eccentricity made her something of a black sheep in his family, the kind that only really turned up around the holidays. He didn't want for things to get awkward, as they very well might when discussing her admission to a psychiatric hospital. I promised to keep things professional and on-level. Much as I disliked the kid, I didn't want to be rude to his aunt. The situation would require some tact.
It was nearing sundown when we pulled up. The day was shambling to its end and the golden retriever—whose name I later learned was “Rex”—ran out to the car as we pulled up. I stepped out first, kneeling to pet the lovable little guy, and then waited for Jake to approach.
He did so with great hesitance. “H-Hey, Aunt Josephine,” he said, stepping over the curb and pacing up the lawn.
Leaving the porch, Josephine, a woman of some fifty years, approached with her arms outstretched and wrapped Jake in an embrace that made him visibly uncomfortable. “Jacob! How're you, kiddo?”
Elizabeth and I hung back near the car, where she took a turn rubbing Rex's belly.
“Pretty good,” replied Jake, glancing over at me. “This is the, uh... professor I told you about.”
Josephine gave Elizabeth and I a wave and called the dog over. “Is that right?” She looked at me from behind a pair of bifocals with a smirk. “He's a little young to be a professor, isn't he?” After sizing me up, she reached out a hand to shake.
I wasn't sure why everyone felt the need to say that lately, but I smiled and shook her hand all the same. “Stephen Barlow. Thank you for having us.”
“No problem, no problem at all,” she said, returning to Jake's side. “When he called today, I was so happy to hear his voice. Don't think I've seen him since Christmas.” She smacked his arm playfully. “And then come to find out he's just here for a school project, asking questions about that miserable old asylum.” Nodding towards the door, she started up the lawn. “Come on in. I'll get some tea going.”
The three of us followed her into the house, where we found ourselves sitting on a dog-hair-covered sofa in a cramped living room. The TV was on a news program, the volume so low it seemed at times muted, and a large porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary stared back at us from beside the cable box. In way of decoration, the room was peppered with the odd crucifix and religious statuette. The bookshelf near my side of the sofa was stuffed with books—a pamphlet about Padre Pio, a biography of Mother Theresa, a leather-bound prayer book not unlike the one I'd gotten for my First Communion some twenty years ago.
Her husband, Josephine explained as she fixed us tea in the nearby kitchen, was out at the grocery store, where she felt sure he was bungling the list she'd given him. “Just wait, that man's going to come home with the low sodium beef stock and I'm going to throw him out.”
While we waited, I paid close attention to Jake's body language. He sat on the edge of the sofa, eyes darting about the room. He was fidgeting constantly. He clearly didn't want to be here for whatever reason. Perhaps he just didn't like his aunt, or else there was some beef between them that I hadn't yet picked up on. I made a mental note to thank him later for bringing us here despite his obvious reticence, and to thank Elizabeth, too, for pestering him into it.
The tea, a standard black with lemon added, was served in mugs emblazoned with the logo of a local church. “St. Patrick's 60th Anniversary 1956-2016”, they read. I was beginning to sense a theme here. Before anyone else could get a word in edgewise, Josephine sat in a plaid recliner, stirring some honey into her tea, and looked to Jake expectantly. “So, did you and Elizabeth here go to Mass last weekend?”
Jake's face reddened a little as he no doubt searched for an excuse. “W-Well, we were, uh...”
“Jake was really busy preparing for the mid-term in my class,” I lied, taking the focus off of him. “I wouldn't be surprised if he skipped out because I gave him too much coursework. Now that he's on break, I reckon he'll have a lot more time on his hands.”
He looked at me like I'd just pulled him out of a lion's den.
Josephine chuckled, taking a sip of her tea. “Right, so, what subject do you teach, professor?”
“Literature,” I replied, “though my current interest is in local history, if you will. I'm researching the old Chaythe Asylum and actually writing a book about it. Jake here was a good sport and offered to put me in contact with you so that I could speak to someone who was actually there when it was still open.”
Elizabeth and Jake both looked at me just then, a bit stunned at how the lies just rolled off my tongue, but our hostess didn't seem to notice and set her mug down, crossing her legs. “Oh, I see. Well, yes, I was a patient there as a young woman. It was in the 80's—1983 and 1984, as a matter of fact. It was a hard time in my life—a time before I discovered God.” She made a small motion to the necklace she wore—a necklace, I only then noticed, which bore a small, silver crucifix.
I took a sip of tea, thanking her for her hospitality and willingness to speak, and then got right into it. “Do you mind if I take notes?” I pulled out my Moleskine.
“Not at all.”
“So,” I began, “I suppose I should start at the beginning. Why were you first admitted to Chaythe Asylum?”
She took on a thoughtful expression, removing her glasses and polishing them with her blouse. “As I said, it was a difficult patch in my life. In one's youth, these problems sometimes occur—we fall in with the wrong crowd and struggle to understand our place in the world. I was a very depressed young woman, and my parents didn't know what else to do for me. I was pulled out of university and admitted for a period of about eighteen months.”
Truthfully, I didn't really care much about her personal history. What I really wanted to know was whether she'd ever mingled with the asylum's most infamous occupants—Dr. Corvine and Enid Lancaster. Nonetheless, I had to take things slow, and I made a few token notes about her stay. “And, while you were there, what would you say the conditions were like? Do you recall which ward you were in?”
“I was a patient in the first ward—housed amongst the patients of least concern, you might say. The conditions? It was an asylum, not a five-star hotel. Things were spartan, dull, but no worse than what you might expect of such a place. I was allowed to wander the grounds more or less freely owing to my status as a patient of the first ward, and I befriended many of the staff during my stay.”
I tried not to get my hopes up. “I see. Who was your doctor?”
She narrowed her gaze, as though she wasn't sure why that mattered. “Erm... his name was Dr. Wilson. Peter Wilson. He passed on a few years ago. A good man, very patient. He actually went to my same church and was the one responsible for leading me to Christ.”
I hid my disappointment with a studious look. “And did you know any of the other doctors working there? A Dr. Corvine, perhaps?�
�� I waited with bated breath for her reply.
Josephine thought long and hard about this. “The name rings a bell,” she admitted, “though I can't say I ever knew him. I want to say that he was one of the more popular doctors in the place—one of the more experienced, perhaps. Some of my acquaintances there were patients of his, but it's been so many years now I can't be certain.”
Damn. This conversation was proving less fruitful than I'd hoped. While I tried to settle upon my next question, Elizabeth spoke up. “Is it true that the staff there were abusive to the patients?”
While sipping loudly from her mug, Josephine's brows became arched. “Abusive? How?”
Elizabeth shook her head, blushing. “It was just something I read. There was an article that talked about certain of the staff being abusive to the patients.”
“I can't speak for everyone in the place. It was very large, but during my time I only had good experiences with the folks working there.” Josephine looked back to me, waiting for the interview to continue.
“So... you were admitted in '83,” I began. “During your time there, did you ever meet a patient by the name of Enid Lancaster?”
The question resulted in a curious response from the woman, who at first smiled broadly, as if in happy reverie, only to suddenly become withdrawn. Josephine crossed herself and then stared down into her mug before responding. “Is that what this is about?”
I'd hit pay-dirt, but realized I'd have to tread carefully if I actually wanted her to spill the beans. Smiling warmly, I nodded. “Well, the actions of this Enid Lancaster character seem to have added to the infamy of the institution. I apologize if it was inappropriate of me to ask.”
Jake was staring at the floor, looked like he wanted to run from the room, and during this lull he excused himself to the bathroom.
After a time, Josephine seemed to get over her discomfort and became more forthright. “As a matter of fact, professor, I did know Enid Lancaster. She was a friend of mine; my roommate, for a time.”
I perked up. “Enid was your roommate? In the first ward?”
Josephine nodded. “For a while, anyway. She was moved to the second ward shortly before I was discharged.”
This confirmed Corwin's story. Enid's condition had worsened while admitted at the asylum, necessitating a switch to the third ward where she would eventually go on a killing spree. But why? I hoped that Josephine would have some insight into the matter and asked, “Why was she moved?”
She took a deep breath, her eyes growing distant as she fought to remember. “Your guess is as good as mine on that one, professor. I was just another patient, in no position to judge the wellness of the others. Though, I will say, that in those final days before I was finally allowed to discharge, things had changed with Enid.” She sat brooding for an uncomfortable moment as she searched for the right words. “Enid and I had been close; friends. Until the end, that is. She had been a devout girl, a model Christian as far as I was concerned. And always friendly, warm. I don't know if it was her mental illness, or if she'd encountered negative influences elsewhere, but shortly before I left, she became somewhat withdrawn. And she even gave up her faith.”
That hadn't been the bombshell I'd hoped for. A young girl shut up in an insane asylum had lost her religion? That didn't impress me a whole lot.
“She confided to me that she no longer believed in God, but gave no reason. This coincided with what I took to be a new treatment she was under. She'd caught the eye of one of the doctors—that Dr. Corvine you mentioned, I think—and during the evenings she'd get wheeled off by the orderlies to receive this treatment. She never talked about it, but once or twice, before she was moved, I saw what it did to her. She was left morose, fatigued. And then, shortly before I left, I was informed that she required a room in the third ward. No reason was given to me, of course, but I suspected that the treatment she'd been prescribed had changed her, somehow.” Josephine chewed on her thumbnail, sporting an uneasy smile. “I don't pretend to know what led her away from God. She was clearly very ill... I still look back on our times together fondly, though. That is, until I remember what came of all that. I left the asylum, got married and lived a more or less normal life. But Enid, well... I'm sure you know what she went on to do.”
“The Third Ward Incident,” I replied.
She gave a wave of her hand. “It was a terrible tragedy, no doubt, but the press sensationalized it so much. None of them knew Enid. Not like I did. And yet they talked about her as though they themselves had roomed with her, as if they knew what she'd gone through. Enid had been alone from day one—an orphan. She never knew her birth parents and had only done brief stints in foster homes before being placed in institutional care for her 'troubling' behaviors. What that girl needed was love, a family. Had she only gotten a fair shake at life, she never would have ended up in that place.”
“Do you think,” I asked, “that her treatment with this Dr. Corvine was directly responsible for her... transformation?” The word was rather suggestive, but it was the best I could come up with.
“Possibly. Like I said, I know very little of that. But yes, the change in her did coincide with the nightly treatments. When those began, I lost my friend and roommate.” Her eyes threatened tears, and I watched her wipe at them with feigned nonchalance. “We'd always talked about possibly renting a place together when we got out, of remaining friends. That never happened, of course. I suppose it wasn't meant to be.”
There wasn't much more to say. I thanked Josephine for her time, for her willingness to speak, and assured her that I'd send her a copy of my bogus book if it ever went to print. I then sat quietly as she fussed over Jake and Elizabeth for some time, making sure that the two of them weren't living together in sin and urging them to join her for the next Sunday service.
When we finally returned to the car, it was dark out. We pulled out of the driveway just as Jake's uncle got back from the grocery store, pulling in beside us.
I wheeled onto the main stretch and glanced over at Jake, who seemed much relieved at being out of there. “So, your aunt is the real religious type. That's why you don't like going over there, huh?”
He nodded. “My aunt Josephine should have become a nun. She's sweet, but when it's just us, one-on-one, she really gets up in my face about going to church. She's given me a Bible for Christmas every year since I was a kid, and she used to hound my parents about getting me Confirmed.”
“She reminds me of my parents,” I said, a short-lived chuckle escaping my lips. “Anyhow, she was a nice woman. It's her way of showing that she cares.”
Elizabeth broke into the conversation from the back seat. “So, it looks like this Enid woman... she was subjected to secret experiments, wasn't she? They turned her into a monster!”
That's what it sounded like, but I warned her against jumping to conclusions. “Yeah, she was one of Dr. Corvine's patients. That guy, I needn't remind you, slipped off the face of the Earth after the murders went down. Someone doesn't do that—and get rid of all their notes and charting—unless they've got something big to hide. But still, let's not get carried away.”
“What do you think he did to her?” asked Jake. “This doctor... what kind of treatment could he have prescribed to make her go postal?”
I was surprised he was talking to me at all, showing any interest in the investigation whatsoever. “I couldn't tell you. No one can, in fact. Maybe if we could find a nurse who'd worked there they could shed some light on things, but... Corvine's notes and everything went missing right along with him. There's no way to know. Reminds me of some MK-Ultra level shit, though. Probably messed with her head, tested her mind's limits. Might've given her a bunch of LSD or something like that.”
“Do you think that Enid is reaching out to us because she wants us to know what happened to her? Perhaps she's trying to tell us how she was mistreated. Imagine, being subjected to ruthless therapies in a place like that... I'd haunt it and want my story told, too,” sa
id Elizabeth.
“Don't jump to conclusions,” I replied. “Though, if I were a ghost, yeah, I'd be pretty pissed about all of that.” I thought about it long and hard on the drive back to campus. I remembered the phone call to Dave Thackeray, too, and the two voices I'd heard.
One, the booming voice of a male. The other, a sobbing female.
Try as I might, I couldn't bat away the suspicion that I'd heard some exchange between Enid Lancaster and Dr. Corvine.
That didn't make any sense; Enid was dead, and the doctor almost certainly was, too.
But suppose that the exchange was some kind of memory, a kind of echo transmitted about the place that was struggling to be heard as the anniversary of her death approached. Were such things possible? My reason told me in no uncertain terms that they were not, and yet I was not operating solely on reason just then. I was open to other interpretations and found myself willing to entertain the possibility that this was, in fact, a psychical remnant of some kind issuing from the asylum.
Until we went inside, there would be no way to know for sure, of course. And for that matter, even exploring the asylum did not ensure us ever unraveling the various mysteries we were currently faced with. So many aspects of this case had been lost to time. Still, if there was any chance of us unearthing clues, I thought it important that we try. I'd grown far too invested in this to simply turn my back.
Jake laughed, looking out the window as we approached campus. “You really thinking about writing a book about all of this asylum stuff?” he asked me.
“No,” I replied. “That was a straight-up lie. But... if we find something in there that's worth writing about, I may very well change my tune. Writing has got to be more lucrative than being an adjunct.”
Elizabeth leaned forward, her head poking between the front seats. “Oh, what would you call it?”
I would have answered if not for the ringing of my phone. Clawing it out of a cup holder, I paused at a stop sign and glanced at the display. It was Hugh Blake calling. I answered at once. “Hello, Mr. Blake?”
Asylum: The Afterlife investigations #1 Page 10
