by R. A. Evans
“Gallagher says it’s a graveyard down there.”
“A what?”
“A graveyard, sir. We’ve got at least twenty-five yards of scattered bones.”
Birdsong stared silently from behind his mirrored sunglasses into the lake’s glittering surface. After an eternity of silence, he again pushed the button on the walkie-talkie. “Affirmative.” he responded, staring suspiciously down at Frank’s grinning face, “Let’s get another diver down there. I’ll radio Lansing and get another boat.”
Brady retreated from the dock, holding April close as they made their way back to the strip of sand where Abby played. Gruff sat beside her, his paw encased in plaster. The dog’s limb would heal, although a limp was almost guaranteed.
“Who’s up for ice cream?” Brady asked through a partially forced smile. Abby rose to her feet, brushing the sand from her shorts as she helped Gruff navigate the terrain.
“Me,” she called, sliding her small hand into Brady’s. She silently noted the plastic bracelet that still clung to Brady’s bruised wrist.
Gruff, too, noted the bracelet, the intermingled scent of his longtime companion and young new friend sharp on the breeze. Warily, he glanced from their hands to the activity at the center of the lake. The voices of the slowly surfacing dead whispered softly through the air. Ever vigilant, Gruff guarded their steps.
Together they walked from the beach, past the dormant fire-pit along the worn path leading to the front of the Up North House. Jeff’s RV was parked in the grass, providing the log home with a certain sense of hillbilly class it had been lacking. Brady smiled as they walked by the rusted Winnebago, wondering what internet conspiracies his friend was currently hatching. His smile, once forced, spread genuine across his tired face. Pearl Jam’s Alive erupted from Jeff’s sonically-charged speakers.
I'm still alive
Hey I, but, I'm still alive
Hey I, boy, I'm still alive
Hey I, I, I'm still alive, yeah
Ooh yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, ooh
As the unremembered are raised from the murky depths of Asylum Lake, the search for answers intensifies. Who were these unfortunate souls and how did they come to rest beneath the dark waves. One man holds the answers and Brady Tanner, the former newspaper reporter, and his ragtag group of comrades set out to unearth the secrets of Dr. Wesley Clovis and his
Grave Undertakings…
December 23, 1972
Eerie, Indiana
The methodical footsteps echoing down the tiled hallway of the Pleasant Grove Psychiatric Hospital were as precise as a metronome. Their thunder ended at the registration desk.
“May I help you,” the middle aged overweight receptionist asked without looking up from her nails.
The man’s baritone voice was formal beyond reproach and the woman flinched beneath its weight. “Indeed. I am here to finalize the transfer of care for one,” pausing as he produced a thin file from an oversized black case, “Collins, Lionel J.”
The receptionist looked up from her polished nails into the ageless face of Dr. Wesley Clovis. Silver hair flowed from beneath his puritan hat, while a starched white collar concealed his throat under a cloak the color of midnight. His hungry smile widened below cold blue eyes.
She accepted the file, paging nervously through the paperwork, before reaching for the phone.
“If you can wait one moment,” she replied, gesturing toward a small cluster of uncomfortable plastic chairs. The man nodded, his smile unflinching, and remained rooted to the floor.
A short while later a boy was led from behind the locked doors at the end of the hall by two white-clad orderlies. He was small and frail with a mess of auburn curls falling over his brow. He struggled beneath the weight of an oversized suitcase.
Clovis turned from the nervous receptionist with a nod and turned his stern gaze upon the boy. He waved the orderlies away with indifference, his eager eyes drinking in the Lionel’s fragile form.
“Son,” his cold greeting was accompanied by a calloused hand falling across the boy’s delicate shoulder, “are you prepared to shed the shackles of this prison?”
Lionel looked up into the man’s cold blue eyes and smiled warily. “Yes, sir,” he replied, his coppery eyes holding the man’s stare.
Dr. Wesley Clovis smiled down at the boy. He glanced briefly at the staring receptionist, slowly tipping his black hat, and escorted his new patient down the hallway and out the doors of the institution.
One week later, Karen Quinn’s name would be listed among the deceased, just one of dozens of victims claimed by a devastating fire of unknown origin. Her identification was only made possible by the distinct red polish of her charred nails.
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