by Mandi Martin
The older attendant looked over expectantly as James re-entered, a small smile appearing as he saw the flushed cheeks and flustered appearance.
“He’s alive if that is what you want to hear,” James muttered tersely, his uncovered eye sparkling in annoyance, “and thank you kindly for not warning me.”
“No, I would have preferred to hear the opposite,” the man answered, wrinkling his nose “and I said not to go easy on him. Best thing is to ignore the disgusting thing. He makes guesses and hones in if he feels he’s cottoned on to something, that’s all.”
James scowled and sat back down, ignoring the chuckles that emanated from the others direction.
“He’s as brainless as the rest of them idiots.”
Feeling his heart tighten in annoyance James gripped the handle of the mug more firmly, so much so that the handle made as if to snap.
The comment had been for him that he was certain, but it wasn’t worth the energy of retorting.
Instead he swallowed the now cold tea and pushed away from the table, giving a scathing look to those behind him.
“I’m going to do my checks.”
If anyone replied he did not hear it, striding away purposefully and back into the corridors.
Chapter Four
So many tales had passed from the lips of those within, flowing as freely as the tears from eyes that would seldom see the mainland again.
Stories of ghosts and dreadful deeds that would make the strongest stomach turn; from mournful spectres to vengeful spirits whose wrath raged like the storms in the heavens.
James had never seen such a visage but as he wandered in the murk and gloom he could see how they came about, almost believe that there was more than what they saw.
And of course, the way the dead were treated would not help. The unclaimed bodies were not committed to the earth with the proper rites and instead were burnt in the flames of a bonfire beyond the walls.
Their ashes left to be taken by the four winds, far and away.
The very building seeped with malice and suffering and even a disbeliever would feel as if unseen eyes were watching as they walked.
Even James was not immune to that sensation, one he would feel constantly unless he distanced himself and became engrossed in focusing his thoughts of other things.
It was a soft weeping that broke his train of thought, quieter than the mice that tiptoed about the floors. It would have been easy to miss but in the silence it was obvious to a sharp ear.
Frowning, the young attendant looked about him, at a loss as to where the sound was coming from; it seemed to have no obvious direction as if it bounced from wall to wall like the haphazard flight of a moth.
He continued on his round with some apprehension as the crying seemed to follow every step he took.
The sound was suddenly overtaken by the sound of approaching footsteps from behind him, James turned to see the unmistakable figure of Dr Morbridge striding without a care down the corridor, flicking violently through his papers as he drew nearer.
“Good evening, Sir,” James greeted as the man started to pass him by without any sign of acknowledgment.
“I don’t see what is so good about it,” the man ejected viciously, his eyes sharply moving to him. “I’ve had two wretches die today, even in death they make life miserable to all those around them.”
“We cannot avoid the reaper,” James said casually, “but I suppose the deaths would explain the weeping I heard.”
“Weeping?” Morbridge arched an eyebrow “I heard no sorrow for these. Nor should there be any.”
“Oh,” the other paused, looking awkward as the heavy gaze impaled him, radiating energy, living heat, “perhaps it was a patient then, or a mere mistake of my ears.”
The doctor eyed him fixedly for some time before nodding slowly and deliberately.
“I see. Well, do inform me if such things continue, I am I always fascinated with how the mind works and of course finding new specimens.”
“I, Sir, am not a specimen,” James retorted, bristling at the words, “and although I detest saying it you have plenty of them in here.”
Morbridge gave what was reminiscent of a grin or a snarl, his teeth somewhat yellow from age and neglect.
“Those I use for study are in need of medical attention, you, I hope, are in better shape than those unfortunate souls who I tend to.”
He gave a snort of apparent amusement before continuing on his way, not interested in hearing any response James might have.
Had he waited he would have been disappointed for the other man made no attempt at retorting; his eyes sparkled angrily but his tongue stilled itself.
There was little time to think over the vexation. As the footsteps faded the weeping grew louder once again.
Sighing in frustration James disregarded it as best as he could which was not an easy task since it almost seemed as if it the sound was confined inside his very head.
But it was the only option, ignore and hope it would eventually die down.
Thinking logically, it had to be one of the patients, but the cry sounding feminine which threw that into doubt. There were no females in this section; they were all confined at the opposite end, well away from the males.
He moved down the corridor, attempting to cast the pained sobs back wherever they originated from and hoping the continuation of his job would take nullify them in his mind as least. Some unorthodox part of him almost wanted an unruly patient.
But they all seemed quiet, sitting either motionless or rocking gently, their eyes as empty as they felt their lives were.
His feet paused by the last room, Silas’s area, and checked through the hatch, nonplussed to see the man was still lying on the bed, tossing the paper as if he had never ceased.
Instead of walking away James’s hand reached for his keys and unlocked the heavy door, pushing it open with a wailing screech.
Silas did not flinch at the sound or the intrusion, continuing the rhythmic motion, throw and catch, throw and catch, over and over.
“Good evening, Mr Grey, always the pleasure.”
Catching the paper, he crumpled it further in his slender fingers before flicking it away, uncaring of where it would land, and shifting himself into a sitting position. He tilted his head and looked at the other with expectant, curious eyes.
James did not return the half sarcastic greeting, too preoccupied with his own thoughts for the words to register.
“Do you hear strange sounds in here, Mr Everett?”
Take aback by the abruptness and suddenness of the question Silas said nothing for a moment, blinking in bemusement before giving a complaisant smile.
“One hears all sorts of peculiar sounds in such a place,” he answered casually. “In the day, overnight, under night…”
“Under night?”
“I have too much time on my hands; I make up my own little words and phrases.”
“I see. Well to be more specific have you ever heard sobbing? Sobbing that sounds distinctly like a female?”
Silas looked unperturbed by the oddness of the elaboration and instead he chuckled lowly.
“So many tales drift through these walls they are like a constant mist. Tales of those who remain long after the physical body expired; perhaps the thought of freedom that can never be realised keeps them on.”
James looked dubious. When it came to such things he was cynical, unless he experiences or saw something that he was unable to disprove.
“Imagination runs wild under such conditions,” he stated flatly as if trying to quell his own nerves “I am fairly certain that was all it was. Stories and speculation just add to anxiety, lead to the instability of a mind.”
Silas gave a listless shrug and dropped back onto his bed.
“You asked me, I answered,” he said as he gazed back at the crack in the ceiling. “You can believe me or believe me not.”
“I wouldn’t say you gave an answer, just a ramble,” James huff
ed, leaning against the door. Most would have added that what could one expect from someone incarcerated in a madhouse? But James would not, and if he was about to, Silas spoke before.
“Well, if you want a concise answer, then no. I haven’t noticed as such but as I stated one hears so many sounds that they go over your head.” Lazy eyes turned slowly. “It isn’t uncommon to mistake the call of birds for the weeping of a human. Perhaps they are mimicking the actions we are forbidden.”
His idle gaze picked up the downcast expression that appeared briefly on the others face, a matter of seconds, before he assumed his normal stoic one.
“This is a place where the mind can easily have jests played upon it, it isn’t to say you’re,” he paused, giving a sniff of amusement, “losing your sanity.”
“Something I indeed wish to avoid,” he tapped a blunted nail on his thumb, bitten down rather than trimmed judging by the raggedness of the edge.
“Try closing your eyes and counting slowly to ten, I’ve heard that can work,” Silas suggested. “Apparently focussing your mind on such a banal objective takes its focus from what you are concerned about.”
“Worth a try, thank you.”
He fell into a stagnant silence, feeling the weight of the green eyes on him. For some strange reason this didn’t bother him as much as it ought to have done, nor did the fact he was standing in the same room as someone certified as insane.
But Silas…Silas was far more placid and seemed far more stable than the others who he checked on, their souls as empty as their eyes.
Broken dolls that feared their mender.
James looked down at his watch, he’d dallied long enough and if anyone happened by the consequences were not something he’d welcome.
“I had best go but I’m sure I will see you again.”
“Of course. Do write before you drop by, after all I’m dreadfully busy and have a rather full schedule, darling.”
James couldn’t hold back the chuckle which resonated around the room; hurriedly he bit his lip. It wouldn’t do to run the risk of having someone hear.
He gave a cursory smile and left without another word, the door sounding violently behind him. The papers he held seemed damp, or was it just his palms?
‘James..?’
James stiffened, halting his walk down the corridor. He didn’t want to turn around, the sound of discernible words more fear inducing than the woeful weeping.
He shifted, prolonging the turn as long as he could; there was no way of continuing without assuring himself it was the result of an overactive imagination.
The woman was on the taller side, her curves perfectly fitting the red dress with wore under the sheer top.
It was short. Cut above the knees, something that was apparently seen in the seedy surroundings of a backstreet brothel. At least if the words of his colleagues could be believed.
Her sandaled feet were reddened from the cold, the rest of her skin pale as though drained of its life’s blood.
She looked at him; her limpid eyes were set deep and were pleading as she held out a white hand, urging him to take hold of it.
James backed away.
Although too solid for any spectre it was clear by the aura she exuded that she was not of this world. Or not of his world anyway.
Seeing him start to retreat she lifted her other slender arm, seeming desperate to clutch him to her. And at that James wrenched open the nearest door, not caring where it led, and fled through it.
The woman watched, tears slowly coursing down her cheek as she faded away like the mist on a summer morning.
James leant against the cold metal of the door, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps, his heart pounding wildly in his breast.
He felt light headed and the cold surroundings swayed nauseatingly before his eyes, the vision seeming hazy.
Closing his eyes he slowly counted to ten, taking the advice not long given, feeling relief wash over him as he opened them to sense that all had returned to normal.
‘It had to be an inmate, a lock must have broken,’ he thought logically to himself ‘the face seemed somewhat familiar.’
The doorway he had retreated through had led to long, empty corridor, leading down towards the female quarters.
It was an area that the men rarely set foot in unless the common issue of the monthly curse turned to hysteria that the matron was unable to control.
Ever there but seldom frequented it had taken on a musty, dank stench like an abandoned basement.
With much trepidation James turned back to ease open the door again, the hinges screeching at the slowness and pressure of the movement.
Nothing.
Nothing but the soft whisper of the wind outside and the dismal brightness from the moon that resembled the face of a dying maiden beyond the trees.
Chapter Five
The next few days passed in quiet, monotonous fashion, all merging into one long headache. This was increased when the only sounds the ears heard were constant metallic bangs and piercing screeches of unknown origin.
The evening had hit another lull in activity and having finished the normal checks James lingered to speak with Silas again.
No one was around, the others keeping well away from their charges now they had finished their act of charity by making sure they still lived.
Silas was sat languidly on the chair near his desk, toying with a thread he had pulled from his shirt cuff; the buttons had long been removed in case he attempted suicide by choking on one.
“I am fortunate I was not considered an esteemed individual, had I have been this may have been in the papers and God knows what distasteful things I would have been accused of,” he sighed, draping the cotton on the desk. “My good name tarnished by malicious speculation.”
James shifted from his position at the door.
“Do you really not know why you are here?”
“My dear fellow I have my doubts that any of us do, you certainly don’t.”
James’s eyes glazed momentarily with irritation, bristling at the remark.
“I work here!” His tone was indignant. “There can be no aspersions cast upon me!”
Silas shook his head, his lips twisting into a smile of both pity and disdain. There was uncertainty in the others words which his sharp ears noted even if the other didn’t.
“Mind’s eyes, James.”
He turned his attention back to the white fibre, apparently done with the subject as his words became lighter.
“You know I used to be an expert this knots and ties,” Silas chuckled lowly. “I especially had a flair with corsets, no one was able to get them tighter than I was, although,” he studied his nails, “it wreaked havoc on these.”
The attendant gave him a withering look while attempting not to chuckle himself. The other frowned, tilting his head incredulously.
“Why is it that I always appear to be a figure of fun?” he said with an air of exasperation. “I’m surprised they don’t display us like zoo animals and have people pay to gawk at us.”
James cleared his throat and regained himself.
“I have the feeling that that wouldn’t be beyond some people’s way of thinking but since this location is hardly accessible to the average traveller then it is impossible.”
“Then perhaps I should think myself fortunate in other ways also.”
Silas idly played with a lock of his long hair, plaiting it dexterously before undoing it in similar fashion.
“Did you find the source of the sounds you heard?” he suddenly asked in blasé tone. “Weeping was it not?”
James felt as though icy tendrils wrapped about his heart at the recollection of that evening, the memory of the form that seemed so real and yet could not have been.
“No,” he answered as indifferently as he could “I suspect it was imagination or just a misunderstanding. As you said the sounds of the birds are so seldom heard that it is easy to think of them as something else. I am just glad
superstition does not run rife here, otherwise they would see it as a sign of witchery or to do with my eyes.”
Silas nodded, making a hum of agreement before silence fell within the room. Well read, he knew the tales of what people called ‘ghost eyes’.
“I had best leave, I won’t be popular if I’m discovered loitering,” James said before giving a slight sniff of amusement. “Less popular I should say.”
The emerald eyes shifted from the silver hair and fixed themselves upon the other, a steady gaze that would make most quiver with unease despite the almost kindly glow they cast.
James waited, sensing the man had more to say but instead he gave a lengthy blink before turning his back. Whatever words he had contemplated speaking would remain unsaid and stored in the vast library of thoughts within.
Giving a nod James departed, closing the door as quietly as possible before returning to his own space to try and persuade his fatigued body to unwind.
The world about him seemed to have frozen again, no movement or sound existed in the gloom save for the little that he himself made as he climbed the stairs.
As if the universe had become trapped in time or forgotten that it existed.
He tried not to let this odd stillness disconcert him too much and shut the door to his room firmly, the dust that had settled upon the sparse furniture billowing up in a small cloud. He rolled his eyes, he had put off dusting for some time and apparently he could not get away with it much longer.
Lowering himself onto his bed James felt his muscles protest. After being cramped and stiff from the constant standing and stress they were unwilling to lessen the tautness.
After a few moments and a few curse words he finally managed to settle himself. Turning his head he noticed the letter he had neglected to open for some days, or had it just arrived? He couldn’t recall.
Reaching over he took hold of the creased envelope and looked for a postmark to find some indication of where it was from or maybe a name or initials scrawled on the back.
But there was nothing, just his name inscribed on the front and the name of the asylum; it was a wonder it even arrived.
