A Night at the Asylum

by Jade McCahon

  A Night at the Asylum

  Jade McCahon

  Copyright 2013 Jade McCahon

  Smashwords Edition

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  “I wish that death would bring one long and dreamless sleep. But alas, my experiences have proved conclusively to me that – ‘dust thou art and to dust thou returneth’ – was not written of the Soul.”

  -From The Projection of the Astral Body, by Sylvan Muldoon and Hereward Carrington

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  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to my husband, John, my babies, Emily, Madelyn, and Aiden, and to my family and friends who have waited patiently for me to get my act together with this book. Thanks especially to my mother, for her lifelong encouragement of my writing. Also grateful for the feedback/advice/support from my writer/reader friends and family, to Georgeane for her kind words, and most of all my sister, Lacey, for reading and rereading and rereading…

  …and to Caitlin, who breathed new life into a corpse.

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  This book is dedicated to

  Russell, Julie, Daulton, Jamie, Eric, Sam & Faye, Harvey, Tamara, Lela, Spencer, Shawn, Audie, Patrick, Ralph, Lori, the beautiful and eternal River, and of course, Jane. See you on the other side.

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  For his amazing, inspiring photographs of urban decay, special thanks go to Tom Kirsch at http://www.opacity.us.

  Much gratitude to Ian Andrews for the beautiful cover art for this book. Find more of his artwork at http://poisoner.deviantart.com

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  A Night at the Asylum

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  One O’Clock

  I dreamed of my dead brother, Tommy.

  In the dream he sat beside me on the porch swing, holding a fan of red-backed Bicycle cards in his hand. It was a beautiful day, the kind that only exists in early spring, with a warm breeze that carried the scent of lilacs and rustled the maple branches that hung over our house. This vision was so awash in detail that I consciously decided it had to be real. I could see the blue and gold flecks in Tommy’s eyes as he looked at me from behind his cards, watched the wind twist the light brown hair that fell across his forehead, concealing the scar he’d gotten in a freak Little League accident when he was twelve. I felt the warmth, the life, radiating from his body. The swing squeaked as he shifted his weight against the wood. I wasn’t sure what we were playing, but suddenly I was holding cards too, and Tommy was laying the ace of hearts across the ripped knee of his jeans.

  “Rummy,” he said.

  “What?” I appraised my hand, scrambling to make sense of my place in the game. “What do you mean? I haven’t put any cards down yet.”

  “You have three aces,” he answered. Saliva sparkled on his bottom lip as he chewed it impatiently.

  “How do you know that?” I stared at him.

  “I can see them,” he answered.

  I pulled the cards toward my chest possessively, reflexively, and noticed my clothes for the first time – the same white T-shirt and jeans I had just fallen asleep in. My understanding of this was, in itself, revealing. The disorienting, quixotic features of a typical dream were not apparent now.

  “Not with my eyes,” he insisted with a little smile. “Sometimes one just knows.” He tapped his temple with his finger. “Especially now…I don’t even have to try.”

  I scoffed. This was Tommy’s routine: subterfuge, maniacally triumphant laughter, his bedroom door slamming in my face. I was gullible. I looked at him with shiny naïve eyes and a yearning for acceptance from a sibling five years older and infinitely more interesting. My big brother…what a kidder he was.

  “You don’t believe me,” he stated.

  “No, not at all.”

  This made him laugh, his head tilted back, white teeth catching the sunlight with a bright flash. It was a laugh I decidedly loved and realized how badly I missed. Where had he been that it seemed forever since I’d experienced it? It was impossible to recall. There was an invisible boundary pushing against me in my head, cordoning off my memories.

  Conscious though I was, I did not think to ask why we were playing the obligatory card game, that time-waster reserved for mornings our father drove us to school on his way to the restaurant. Questions loomed just out of my mental reach. There was a foreboding feeling about our conversation, and I could not risk losing Tommy’s attention. I needed him here in the game, needed to see his sun-browned face and hear the lull, the ebb of his voice.

  His expression turned serious. “I wish we didn’t have to play games. If you’d just listen to what I’ve been trying to say…but you’re so difficult.” He frowned. “Just like the rest of ‘em.”

  “I’m difficult?” I shook my head. “Whatever.”

  “Whatever,” he repeated, nodding. He smacked his cards down loudly across the slats of the swing. There was a disturbing finality to the sound. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “You’re forfeiting?” I squealed in delight, but my stomach protested, knotting itself in an attempt to get my attention. The breeze that had pleasantly circled about us now turned cold. A cloud had moved overhead and temporarily blotted out the sun.

  “No,” Tommy answered, his mouth twisting. “I’m just tired of playing with you. I’ve tried everything.”

  He sighed, looking truly frustrated. “There’s still the board, but you refuse to pick it up.”

  “The board?” The memory of another game – wooden surface, painted letters, glass pointers – flashed in my mind for an instant, then dissolved. “No…doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Never mind.” He stood and the swing squeaked loudly in protest. The knot in my stomach curled, and I began to sweat…real, cold, un-dreamlike sweat. Nervous sweat.

  “Well…how about I make some lemonade?” I stammered, grasping at the first idea that popped into my head.

  “Really?” Tommy eyed me skeptically, amused at my lame attempt at deflection.

  “Okay then, how about a different game?” My voice was pleading. “Just one more. Come on. I can do it this time.”

  He considered it for a moment. “There’s only one left,” he warned, but he nodded. “Alright. One more game.”

  I looked down at my hands, which were now clutching a batch of black and white domino tiles. I didn’t question it. Tommy kneeled down on the floor of the porch, setting his own tiles upright in a careful line. As usual, he had his own set of rules. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “As soon as I push them over, they won’t be able to stop,” he murmured cryptically. “It’s called a chain reaction. Ever heard of it?” He was patronizing me now. “If that’s the way it has to be…”

  I heaved a sigh. What was he trying to prove? He could never come out and say something; he always had to be overdramatic. He always had to paint a picture.

  He should have been a lawyer, my brother.

  “That’s not how you play,” I said. “You’re doing it wrong again.”

  “I am not, Sara.” He looked up at me, his light brown hair in his eyes. “You just don’t understand the rules.”

  “I don’t understand the rules?” The knot that was twisting in my stomach pulled tighter. “Who calls rummy when the other person hasn’t even played their cards yet? At the very least it’s…rude. Have some common cou
rtesy.”

  What the hell was I blabbering about? Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut? When had everything that was once so clear become so convoluted? The boundary in my mind pushed harder. I was slipping into acceptance of the encroaching esoteric.

  Dark clouds broiled in the sky now, choking out the sun completely and sucking out what warmth was left in the wind. A crack of lightning overhead catapulted me to my feet. The chains holding the swing rattled with the sudden absence of my weight. The knot in my gut buzzed with a corrosive sense of urgency.

  My brother was scowling. “You don’t get it, Sara,” he explained. His voice rose, whether to be heard over the sounds of the now howling weather or out of pure anger, I couldn’t be sure. “There’s nothing else to do. It’s like you can’t get it through your thick skull. I’ve tried getting your attention in every way I know how. This is how it has to be.”

  “I just don’t want you to go. Please.” My voice hysterically high, I reached out and clutched his arm, not caring how desperate it seemed. I would do anything…cry or scream, dig my nails into his skin, which felt warm and real. And why was that so strange? The boundaries shoved at me. “I’ll play any way you want,” I promised again. He couldn’t leave this porch. I had the unquestionable feeling that if he did, I’d never see him again.

  He lowered his head, and the wind was suddenly still. The storm swirling around us went on without sound, lightning flashing in his eyes – fierce, furious. “How can I make you understand?” he muttered, definitely angry now. His words echoed off the vinyl siding, rumbled over the gravel in the driveway. “Sara,” he shouted. “This isn’t a game.”

  The tone of his voice, the stupidity of his cliché, was oddly sobering. For a moment it seemed as if the storm had vanished, but it was only on mute. “We could stand here trading shitty horror movie lines, or we could go make some lemonade,” I suggested. Again with the beverage preparation! Again with the blathering! It was true I’d say anything, do anything. I forced a bright smile onto my face, if for no other reason than to make him laugh.

  He didn’t. He was quiet, shoulders hunched with the weight of his sigh. The building storm overhead remained volatile but silent. “You go ahead,” he answered finally. “I’ll stay right here.”

  Pure lies and I knew it. “I don’t trust you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know you. Promise me. Promise me you won’t go anywhere.”

  His smile seemed infallible, utterly genuine. “See?” he held up his hands. “My fingers aren’t even crossed.”

  I watched him for a full minute. His face didn’t change.

  Finally I backed toward the screen door. With the slightest, most effortless movement, Tommy bent down and tapped the first domino in his line. It crashed into the second, the second into the third, on to the others in slow motion. He seemed pleased with himself. I turned and went inside, knowing his concession was a trick and still powerless to stop my inexplicable scurrying. There was not an ounce of lucidity left in this dream, and oddly, I knew that too. I pulled the flowered glass pitcher off the top shelf of the cabinet, gathering ice from the freezer and water from the sink…blinked my eyes as the powder from the cheap, unnatural lemonade mix burned and tingled maliciously in my throat…listened to the click-clack of the ice cubes as I stirred the powder and turned to carry the pitcher toward the door. I was dogmatic in my denial.

  Then my ears caught another sound. The instant I heard it, I recognized it.

  It was Tommy’s motorcycle, that giant black beast that was the bane of my parents’ existence, the mother of all teenage rebellion. He had bought it for almost nothing and fixed it up himself. He never wore his helmet, threatened with having the bike taken away by our mom and dad until he was too old for threats anymore. Its engine roared, whined, like a monster that would devour anything in its path and whatever was foolish enough to be on its back as well. Even through the screen door I could see the gravel spewing from beneath the tires, smoke belching from its pipes, a smell that was furious and lethal. With the background rumble of thunder so close, a hurricane blew through my heart, leaving the foreboding I felt far behind and only horror in its wake. I dropped the pitcher and it shattered against the floor, tiny slivers of glass bursting like shrapnel into my skin. I ran out on the porch. There was my brother, peeling out onto the street in a trail of putrid smoke, not even once looking back. I watched him disappear around the corner and the strangling knot in my stomach was suddenly unbearable, weakening my legs until they sank out from under me. The thunder clamored, the wind howled. Lightning cut my head in half and I was falling, into a vast dark hole that would never end.

  My eyes were open. My bedroom was unusually bright, and I realized I had fallen asleep with the light on. A few seconds passed before I remembered what I was doing here, who I was. The past five years came back to me with a burdening clarity, and tears stung the corners of my eyes.

  My brother was still dead.

  I was still alive to know it.

  Damn.

  I rolled over with a groan. My stomach screamed and my legs were shaky and threatened to give way as I stood. Never had I had a dream where I felt so awake. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, it was difficult to not see a specter of my brother. We had the same greenish wide eyes and high cheekbones, the same light mocha complexion, but my hair was darker and now hung defeated from the throes of sleep. I fingered the long strands and sighed. The flushed, harried look on my face caused me to turn from the glass.

  As my eyes adjusted to the light, they swept the room in disgust. Piles of clothes gathered dust on my desk, my computer monitor sitting silent as a boulder as it had for months. On the walls were the same drawings, the same posters that had been there since I was a little girl, curled up at the corners and yellowed with age. I was in a time capsule; outside the world had changed and in here I was still hanging on to the past. I was almost twenty years old but time had stopped for me five years ago with a kid running his motorcycle into a tree, and the life I had been living had never restarted.

  Rarely was I so melodramatic. Throwing myself on the bed again, I decided it must be the stress of still living with my parents, working like a dog at the restaurant, my break-up with Raymond. It has to be my total lack of ambition, I thought. The walls seemed to be closing in on me. I tore the blankets off and tossed them on the floor, pulled on my jacket. It has to be that I am going nowhere. I’d suffocate if I didn’t get out of this house. Clicking off the light and stumbling out of the room, I closed Tommy’s door, which seemed adept at mysteriously opening itself. It has to be that I have nothing…and no one.

  Downstairs on the kitchen counter, my cell phone was mocking me. There was a blinking green light that meant I had voicemail. I knew who it was from before even pressing the button to listen. Raymond. My recently extricated ex-boyfriend, who removed himself from my life after four years with only an “I can’t tell you why”. I’d called him endlessly; he hadn’t returned my messages. Until now. My heart cracked hearing his warm, familiar voice. “I’m really sorry. I just needed some time. But let’s please talk…soon.” Blah-de fucking blah.

  Yeah, well, you have a tiny penis, was the last thing I’d said to him. Totally uncalled for. Totally not insulting enough to make me feel better. I closed the cell phone with a clap, resolving to never call him again.

  My desperation to leave the house wouldn’t let up. I picked up my mother’s keys (not having a car of my own, of course) but put them back down, deciding to walk. I needed fresh, cold night air; I needed to clear my muddled brain.

  I closed and locked the front door as silently as possible. Though they’d never given me an official curfew, it was strongly frowned upon for me to leave the house while my parents were asleep. I could hardly blame them. One call in the middle of the night telling them their child was dead was probably enough to last them the rest of their lives.

  My sneakers squelched on the slushy pavement as I made
my way down the gravel driveway. This town was quiet, tiny, a suburb of Kansas City with less than 10,000 people. It was generally safe to walk this time of night. You were more likely to be harassed by the overzealous police force than to fall victim to a violent crime. Still, it did happen. I gripped the house keys tightly in my hands, staving off a fit of cold chills.

  The street was cold and dark, just as I hoped it would be. I fished around in my pocket and found a five dollar bill. Beautiful. Nothing would clear my head faster than caffeine and sugar, and if I was too wired to go back to sleep, there could be no more dreams in HD.

  One of our town’s four gas stations was only a couple of blocks away. As I walked, each house automatically checked itself off in my mind: The crazy bible-thumper lady lived over there with her nutty granddaughter, Jamie…these people have the fiber-optic scarecrow on Halloween, those had a dog that chased my brother during his paper route. The woman on the corner gave me a dollar for helping her pick up a broken coffeepot on her sidewalk; Tommy swindled me out of it later. These people have a pool that’s always full of algae, those have wild parties on the weekends…every house I saw was a separate memory. I’d lived here my whole life and was never going to go anywhere else. That wasn’t because I didn’t want to. It was just because I’d never get off my ass to do it.

  The light from the Gas N’ Go beckoned me and my walk sped into a run. The place looked deserted. This station, with the exception of its twin on the west side of town, was the only convenience store open at this hour. The automatic doors slid aside for me and I hurried inside, averting my eyes from the torn, weathered MISSING poster of Jenny Marie Allison plastered to the glass. Like I said, it doesn’t happen very often here. Just like anywhere, however, it does happen.