by R. A. Evans
The article was passed around the table, Frank barely glancing at it before handing it off to Reverend Collins. As usual, the retired Sheriff was a man of action, not words – especially the printed variety. Collins accepted the paper and excused himself from the table to give it a more thorough read through.
Jeff continued, shuffling through the papers. “Dr. Clovis is mentioned only one other time; courtesy of The Bedlam County Banner. It’s dated just a week after the asylum closed.”
Jeff cleared his throat before reading aloud, “The Lake View Asylum for the Insane unexpectedly closed its doors this week following rumors of a possible assault. The Bedlam County Sheriff’s Department has confirmed that it was called out to the hospital two days ago in response to a reported disturbance.
When pressed, Sheriff’s Rylan Walters would not elaborate on what prompted the call and did not provide details on what, if anything, investigators had discovered. Closure of the facility comes just eighteen months after Dr. Wesley Clovis assumed responsibilities as Hospital Superintendent. Clovis, from Indiana, replaced longtime Superintendent Clarence J. Withers, who had been the driving force behind construction of the lunatic asylum. Withers disappeared in 1956 under unusual circumstances.
The Lake View Asylum was the state’s second largest psychiatric hospital and has housed more than 4,100 patients and staff since opening in 1917.”
A collective hush fell over the table as each of the assembled guests digested the vague details. It was Frank who eventually spoke up.
“That’s it? That’s all you got? Hell, son, I thought this internet thing was supposed to change the world, give you everything you want right at ‘yer fingertips.” Frank stood, shaking his head, “Just another passing fad; kinda like those fuckin’ pet rocks.”
Jeff laughed. “Easy there, grandpa. I said that was all I could find on Dr. Wesley Clovis. I was able to find a few other interesting details that may help us connect a few dots.”
Jeff handed the remaining papers to Brady. The former reporter quickly scanned through the pages. If what he was reading had any connection with what he had found himself mixed up with, it made very little sense, yet opened up a whole new set of worries.
Jeff had used what few leads the article in The Banner had contained; a vague reference to Clovis being from Indiana and was able to uncover some interesting details.
Gray’s Crossing, Indiana was home to The Clovis Brother’s Mortuary – a family owned business which had opened its doors sometime in the late 1800’s. Wayne Clovis was listed as one of the proprietors on the deed.
“Let me see if I follow this,” Brady stated, talking himself through his jumbled thoughts. “Dr. Wesley Clovis wasn’t a real doctor at all? He was an undertaker?”
Jeff nodded, “That’s what I gathered, too.” He turned back to his computer and scrolled once again through the pages.
“I’m not sure how an undertaker gets a job running a nut house,” Frank interjected himself into the conversation, “But it sure explains all of those graves.”
Brady hadn’t considered that, but found an uncomfortable truth in Frank’s statement. He mentally reviewed the field full of white crosses against the supposed 4,100 residents of the asylum. As for how an undertaker was able to play himself off as a doctor, not only to the folks in Bedlam Falls but also to the hospital staff in Indiana where Lionel Collins was signed out into his care; Brady hadn’t a clue.
Jeff continued to scroll through the pages on the computer screen as Brady’s thoughts drifted from one possibility to the next. Frank waited patiently for direction, offering Manson the occasional scratch behind his clipped ears. None of them were prepared for Reverend Collins’s re-introduction back into the conversation.
The man’s shaking voice startled the assembled group. Even Manson let out a concerned whine. “If any of what this Dr. Clovis proposes is truly possible,” he stated, waving the unpublished report in front of him, “I fear that we may have bigger issues to deal with than simply a demented spirit.”
The padlock was rusted and snapped easily under the weight of the swinging hammer. Frank grinned as it fell to the rain soaked ground.
“My first breaking and entering,” he beamed, “Can’t wait to write about it in my diary.”
Brady groaned, shoving Frank aside and pushing the massive gate open, its iron hinges screaming beneath years of rust and weather. “You really do need to get a life, you know that, right?”
Frank laughed, his eyes moving from Brady to the Winnebago; the RV’s headlights slicing through the now pouring rain. “Yeah, not the first time I’ve heard that.” He paused, the seldom used wheels turning inside his worried head. “Quite a crew you’ve put together here, son. You sure any of us know what the hell we’re doing?”
Brady hesitated, raising his face to the clouds overhead and letting the rain wash over him. After a few moments, his gaze returned to Frank. “Not a clue,” he admitted, “but I know without a doubt that not doing anything isn’t the answer either.”
Frank nodded, “Yep, I concur with that sentiment.”
If even half of what Collins had shared about Clovis’s wild theories concerning the afterlife were possible, the self-described undertaker turned doctor had already spent years practicing his dark arts, with countless victims at his disposal. The mess with Ellis Arkema and the bracelet, although connected in some way to Clovis, was merely the tip of a much bigger iceberg; an iceberg that chilled Brady to his core.
Motioning the Winnebago through the now open gate, Brady wondered what laid in waiting for them in the darkness beyond. Following Frank up the stairs into the RV, he paused once; directing his eyes to the building perched on the horizon.
“Ellis waits you must find her.” Recalling his Grandfather’s cryptic message on the Scrabble Board, Brady entered the Winnebago the beginnings of an outrageous plan taking shape.
The somber drive through the winding road leading to the massive stone structure was uneventful. The sight of the small wooden crosses brought an odd sense of reality and responsibility to the undertaking. “So, many holes,” Henry Mayer had said.
Frank parked the Winnebago near the crumbling front steps of the asylum. Fortunately, Jeff has an assortment of flashlights; for what purpose Frank didn’t bother to ask, afraid that their planned use would be to MacGyver together something illicit…and illegal.
“Okay, Jeff, I need you to stay here,” Brady had assumed control of the small group and was eager to dole out assignments. “Depending on what we find inside, I may need your assistance,” pointing in the general direction of the computers, “Or, as a last resort, it’s your job to call 911 in case something goes to hell.”
Jeff nodded, relieved that he and Manson would remain inside the RV. He had already started Googling exorcisms and the supernatural, unaware that Frank already had that ground covered with his extensive horror movie knowledge.
“Frank, I need you and the Reverend to come with me,” Brady continued, handing out the flashlights. “We’re looking for anything we can find on Ellis Arkema and Clovis, too; files, photos, and social security numbers. Hell, at this point I’d be happy with just about anything that pointed us in the right direction.”
Brady dug his phone out from the pocket of his shorts; half-charged, he noted. “Jeff, you have my number and I have yours. Stay in touch.”
Brady scanned the faces before him. A preacher, a sheriff, and a reporter all walk into an asylum. He laughed, thinking it all sounded much more like a joke than a plan.
They stepped from the Winnebago, armed with flashlights, a .38, and an oversized Bible; not exactly ready to kick ass, but definitely prepared to take some names.
They mounted the steps together, careful to avoid the areas of loose mortar. The place was eerily quiet – even with the wind and rain. The sound of the front door exploding beneath Frank’s booted foot boomed through the stillness.
“Subtle, Frank; real subtle,” Brady chastised the retired lawm
an. “Next time why not just send them flowers to announce our arrival.”
Frank laughed, “Announce our arrival to who, son? Place is empty, right?” He paused, removing his pistol from the waistband of his jeans. “Besides, I think the very talented Ray Parker Junior said it best, and I quote, ‘I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.”
Brady cringed, dropping his head to his chest as he smiled. “Fine, Frank, fine. If playing this like Ghostbusters is what it takes to get you through then go ahead and run with that.”
Brady turned his attention to the somber Reverend. “How about you?” he asked, acknowledging his quiet companion. “You ready for this?”
Collins nodded. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”
“Amen,” Brady responded, laying a comforting hand on the Reverend’s frail shoulder. Their eyes met briefly through the darkness, “Forgiveness, not blood, is the answer, right?”
Collins smiled.
Brady turned, leading them through the shattered doorway and into the darkened hospital. Once safely inside, he raised the phone to his face. “Alright Jeff, we’re in. You got the blueprints pulled up?”
Brady could hear the familiar rattle of his friend’s fingers dancing across the keyboard. “Sure do. The place is a rat’s nest, Brady, not just the hospital. It’s all connected with tunnels. Looks like some crazy shit.”
“Thanks for the commentary, pal, but what I really need right now are some general directions. Anything on those maps that look like a central office or records room?”
More rattling before Jeff responded. “Yeah, to the left and down the hall is the registration area; looks like office space behind that. It’s really hard to tell from these renderings; they’re ancient.”
“Just do the best you can,” Brady responded with disappointment. He turned to his companions, “Let’s start this way,” sweeping his flashlight to the left, “Jeff says there’s some kind of office down the hall.”
They stepped carefully across the exposed flooring. Plaster from the walls and ceilings littered the hallway. Their progress was met by the sounds of tiny scurrying feet and high-pitched squeals.
“Fucking rats!” Frank stated the obvious. “I didn’t sign on for rats, Brady.”
“Suck it up, old man,” Brady teased. “You’ve hunted and killed far more dangerous beasts than rats.” He paused, shining his flashlight across Frank’s pale face, “Wanna bag one and take it back to The Hayloft for another trophy?”
Frank raised his middle finger in front of his squinted eyes in response.
“Gentleman,” Collins called from down the hallway. “I think you need to see this?” The Reverend stood in an open doorway, the beam from his flashlight filling the room beyond.
Brady led Frank down the hall to the doorway, carefully stepping over debris. Collins stepped aside to allow for an unobstructed view. The Reverend had definitely found the main office. A dust covered brass plaque hung on the wall near the door:
So far, so good, Brady thought, relieved that Jeff’s directions were for the time being reliable. The subtle relaxation of his nerves didn’t last long, however. Rounding the corner and peering into the office he was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him.
The office was a ramshackle reminder of what it had once been. Wooden desks and chairs lay scattered on the floor among other rubble. It looked as if a tornado had whipped through the space, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. The blood-spattered walls were what drew Brady’s attention, however.
Discolored from age and dried nearly to dust, the bloody show indicated signs of an immense struggle. Looking closer at the floor, Brady could see the stained floorboards marking where the crimson liquid had once pooled.
“Frank, you care to shed any light on what the hell happened here?”
Frank paused, shining his light around the room, revealing even more stains and gore.
“Wish I could, son,” he added dryly. “Wish I could.”
Brady turned his gaze from the room to Frank, “Well, let’s start with what you know and go from there.”
Nodding, Frank entered the room, kicking at the rubble. “Way before my time, son, why I was just getting the first batch of short and curlies down below when this all went down.”
Brady waited patiently, knowing the retired lawman was building up courage with each word.
“Yer grandpa was still green behind the ears, I believe.” Frank’s flashlight continued to probe the darkness. Collins waited in the hallway, unwilling to enter the office.
“My daddy told me there was some kind of riot, patients killing one another, even some staff. Maybe it was the storm, the big one they had back in fifty-eight…maybe not. Something definitely went haywire up here.”
Brady pressed for more details, searching for connections to pull his frayed thoughts together. “Right, people say a lot of things…daddy’s included,” Brady stated, thinking of his father’s own wild stories about the scars that had marked his chest and face, “But what did the law say happened here?”
Frank laughed softly, shaking his head. “The law? The law said nuthin,” he admitted weakly. “Different times, Brady. Sheriff Walters wasn’t like your grandpa.”
Frank paused again, stealing a nervous glance into the hallway at the Reverend. When he spoke his voice was barely a whisper. “Hell, son, when Lionel butchered that family I had binders full of reports, boxes of files, and every asshole with a camera or microphone stickin’ their fingers in the cookie jar. People cared. They were angry.”
Frank turned and considered the wreckage of the room again. “But here, these people, what happened, nobody cared. Seventeen dead, mostly patients, some staff, and the town didn’t bat an eye. Maybe the storm had grabbed their attention…maybe not. Either way, they boarded this place up, shipped the rest of ‘em off, and washed their hands of the place.”
Brady was furious. This couldn’t be true. “There was no investigation? No arrests?”
Frank shook his head. “Not a one. Walters did his dog and pony show, had 'yer grandpa snap a few photos but no real investigation.”
Brady looked from Frank to Collins, hoping the Reverend would have something to add. The man’s silence spoke volumes.
Brady’s thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of his phone. Jeff’s nervous voice filled the empty office.
“You guys may want to hurry things up in there. We got weather out here…bad weather. As of two hours ago they were reporting twisters across Wisconsin and it’s all heading across Lake Michigan.”
“Yeah, we’re hurrying,” Brady responded, before a spark of a smile lit his tired face. “Jeff, you know those boxes of files Frank and I brought along?”
The sound of Jeff moving through the cluttered trailer greeted Brady’s question. “Yeah, yeah, they’re right here.” More papers shuffling on the line, “Damn some of this shit is ancient.”
“We’re looking for anything on the asylum. It would be dated back in the fifties. I know I saw something when I was rifling through that stuff.” Brady looked to Frank as he continued. “It’s a file…a thin one. Can you find it?”
Jeff searched through the box, humming a tune that Brady quickly recognized. “Yellow Ledbetter?” Brady noted, laughing.
“What? Oh, yeah, damned if I know the words, though.”
“Yeah,” Brady replied to no one in particular, trying to think of the Pearl Jam lyrics, “Leave it to Eddie Vedder to make mumbling sound so righteous.”
It took a few moments, but Jeff finally found what he had been searching for. “Got it,” he said, “not sure what good it’s gonna do you. I got ten maybe twelve photos here and some scribbled notes.”
Brady recalled the file and its contents. “Forget the photos, Jeff, I’m looking for names. I seem to remember a couple different lists.” Brady gaze shifted briefly to the two men before him. “The first is labeled
victims, the other, I believe, unaccounted for.”
Jeff scanned the handwritten notes. “Yeah, two columns, the first has,” Jeff counted them aloud, “seventeen names, the other column only three.”
“We just need the three,” Brady instructed.
“Sure, we got Douglas Wyatt, noted as staff, Dr. Wesley Clovis, also noted as staff, and Ellis Arkema; no staff note on him.”
Brady’s thin smile widened. “Good work, Jeff. Now I just need two more things. First, I’m looking for the private offices that the doctors would have worked from or whoever would have been in charge.” He looked to Frank for help.
“Superintendent’s office,” Frank offered. “That’s what the boss man would have been called.”
“Okay,” Jeff replied, “and the second thing?”
“Time,” Brady laughed. “Keep us up to date on the storms.”
“Will do,” Jeff agreed. “Umm…by the way, not that I want to be like his best friend and start texting him all the time or anything, but does Frank have a phone, too, maybe one of those cute little Jitterbug things with the really big numbers?”
Frank’s face reddened at the comment.
“I just think it makes sense in case something happens for me to have his number.”
Brady smiled as he provided Frank’s cell number and ended the call with Jeff.
“Real smartass of a friend you got there, son,” Frank complained, “Real smartass.”
Brady nodded, sliding the phone into the pocket of his cargo shorts, and patting Frank gently on the back, “I tend to attract those, Frank.”
