Kolney Hatch: Buried Secrets (The Secret of Kolney Hatch Book 2)

by Stefani Milan

  And another.

  The little house that held me close

  Was all that I could keep

  My only chance of freedom

  From a life of strife and grief.

  That little house, a slice of life

  A place my heart beseeched

  Away from brother’s bars

  And away from evil’s reach.-M.

  “The little house. It’s hard to tell if she’s a patient or someone who frequently visited Kolney Hatch.”

  “What I don’t understand is why my Aunt Greta had these letters. How would she have known anyone from Kolney Hatch? There has to be another clue in her cottage. I’ve stayed out of sight long enough. It’s time for me to go back. And I won’t involve the Whitemoor Police. I don’t know that I trust anyone.”

  “Well, I won’t let you go alone Paul. If there’s something to be found, we’ll find it. We’ll rest tonight and leave in the morning.”

  “Paul?” Laura’s silvery voice said as she opened the back door of the cottage and walked over to Harold and me. “You’ve received a letter.”

  “Thank you,” I answered as I took it from her age-spotted hands.

  The letter was from Richard.

  Dear Paul,

  I hope your extended stay in Whitemoor is proving to be productive. The production is going well here in France, but we are eager to return for the summer. We will be home in late May and plan to host a mid-production party. So whatever it is you’re uncovering in Whitemoor, please expedite your detective work so that you are home for the party. Stay well.

  Richard.

  Richard needn’t worry, I thought. I was going to uncover every detail and secret buried in Kolney Hatch with a relentless pursuit as soon as possible.

  34 M is for Mary

  Paul Watson’s Journal

  April 11, 1927, evening—With tired and heavy eyelids from a bad night’s sleep, I set out with Harold for Aunt Greta’s house early in the morning. The journey was a short drive from Harold’s house, and by the time we reached Aunt Greta’s cottage, the mists had lifted slightly. I stepped out of the car and stretched in the cool, damp air.

  Harold and I had a plan. He would search the entire downstairs, floorboards and cupboards for anything out of the ordinary, while I searched the entire upstairs for the same. We entered with my key through the back door, and I headed up the creaky wooden stairs to begin my pursuit. Knowing that I’d already searched Aunt Greta’s room, I decided to revisit that room last.

  I began with the guest room where my mum and I had stayed during the war. I looked in every closet, every drawer, and in every nook and cranny for anything that may be a further clue to understand how Aunt Greta came to possess letters from the mysterious M. and if she had a connection to Kolney Hatch.

  I searched the upstairs for an entire hour, and by the time I reached Aunt Greta’s room, hunger and exhaustion overcame me. I sat hunched over Aunt Greta’s old bed above the still removed floorboard and stared in a trance.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that one of the boards a few feet from me was the same light colored wood as the removed piece. I quickly stood and then knelt down on the floor.

  I wonder, I thought, running my hand over the floorboard. With slight difficulty, I used my fingers to pull up the second board. Once I removed it, I stuck my hand down into the floor as I did with the other floorboard just a month before, and felt around. Immediately, I felt something, and when I pulled it out, I was in complete shock, for there in my hand, I held another box.

  It was a replica of Aunt Greta’s trunk only much, much smaller. I brushed off the thick layer of dust on the top of the box. Looking at the similarity between the keys of the trunk and these keys, I was thankful I had decided to bring them with me on my journey.

  I retrieved the set of three keys from my coat pocket and turned each key until the box clicked opened.

  Surprisingly the box was filled to the top. I pulled the top piece of folded parchment paper and opened it. On it was another one of M’s writing, only this time, it was a simple quote.

  Though graves hold the secrets of dead men, it is men that hold the secret graves of living men. –M

  I contemplated this line for several minutes and then carefully laid the old paper down beside me. Beneath the parchment paper was an old bound leather journal. Wondering if it was Aunt Greta’s journal, I ran my fingers over the smooth skin and unbound it. I scanned the first page.

  “....a walk into the garden. I planted the flowers...”

  I skipped ahead another few pages.

  “I found out from Wendy that William died in battle today, and I wept for my sister. William was a good man to her and Paul.”

  Sure enough, I was right. A lump rose in my throat as I remembered the still vivid details of the day my father died. I wasn’t sure I wanted to read on, so I skipped ahead a few more pages. It was the next journal entry that caught my eye.

  “She came to me, nervous. Her worried eyes told me something was wrong. I asked her what happened, and she replied she had to tell someone for the safety of a child. ‘What?’ I cried to her. ‘What is it?’

  Mary wouldn’t speak to me at first. I hardly knew her, only from when I would see her with Rose or Rose’s young child, Amy.

  Finally, she grabbed my face and said, ‘Watch out for the man with the double face. His grin will quickly be replaced. For when you see his other face. His evil will leave not a trace.’

  I asked her what she meant, but she said nothing else. She only cried and curled into a ball on my floor.

  I knew I had to get her back to Rose or to Kolney Hatch. Rose was a nurse there, and married to the superintendent. I planned to go and tried to get Mary to come with me. It was much too late for Mary to be out, and I knew they would be worried sick about where she was. When Mary wouldn’t come with me, I decided I would go over to Rose’s cottage myself and let her know. But when I stepped outside, my eyes filled with horror as I watched Rose’s cottage go up in flames. That fateful day, Rose and her child died in that fire, and I was so deeply affected that I could not let poor Mary go back to Kolney Hatch. I decided I would take care of her myself, until someone came along for her. In the days that followed, Mary was distraught. She said she had secrets to tell me, but that she was afraid if she did, I would die too, just like Rose.

  She said the only way she would tell me the secrets is through her poems. One said, ‘A secret file, Stowed away, Never meant to see the day, But when it’s found, There is a cost, For when it’s found, A life is lost.’

  She said there was a message in this poem that I needed to pay attention to...”

  I stopped reading. The next few pages had been torn out. I searched through the box for them, hoping to read on, but all I found were more poems from M, who I now knew was Mary. I turned back to the journal then, skipped the torn pages and eagerly read the next section.

  “I fear someone is watching me. When the guards came to get Mary, they wanted to know what I knew about her condition and what information she told me. I told them I didn’t know anything, but I made sure to protect Mary’s poems, and so I hid them. But now, strange happenings lead me to believe I am in danger after all. I better write to Bran and Wendy and tell them what is happening.”

  The journal was empty after that but there was a folded letter hidden among the blank pages. When I opened it, I saw it was from my aunt to my mum.

  “My dearest sister,”

  This is my very last letter to you. I know you will tell Oscar everything. I hope you will be the one to put an end to this madness. Remember, part of the evidence is at Kolney Hatch Asylum and the other part is in the second box in the floorboard. You must go to Kolney Hatch, but please, be careful. Follow Mary’s clues in her poems. Remember to trust no one except for Oscar. And please reveal your secret, or it will only hurt everyone in the end.

  I love you dear sister. I’ll watch over you from Heaven.

  Love always, yo
ur Sister,

  Greta.

  My mum never received that letter, but she must have known something was wrong. My aunt was said to have died of natural causes, but what if she was murdered? And what did Aunt Greta mean when she wrote for my mum to reveal her secret?

  I reached my hand into the box again and retrieved the last item. It was a yellowed edged photograph of two young boys, one much younger than the other; the last piece of the photo was torn off. I was curious about the picture, and when I turned it over I saw two names written on the back, Thomas and Carson. I had so many questions. Was the little boy Thomas Reid, I wondered? And who was Carson? And where was the missing piece of the photo? But I was even more curious that Aunt Greta found this photo of any importance.

  One thing was for sure. I would follow my aunt’s clues. I would solve the mystery. I would end the madness for good.

  35 The Crawlspace

  Paul Watson’s Journal

  April 20, 1927— After finding the second box in Aunt Greta’s cottage, I decided to continue my investigation at Kolney Hatch—what was left of it, anyway. Heavy rains thwarted my pursuit, however, and I spent the next few days at Harold’s cottage rereading all of Mary’s poems.

  On a damp, cool day in April, Harold and I reached Kolney Hatch at seven in the morning. I did not know what to expect since I had not been back to the asylum since the fire. A thick mist blanketed the green and slate colored mountains in the distance. It smothered everything in its path, and when the half-crumbled structure finally came into view, the suffocating mist flowed through the remnants, sending an eerie feeling through my veins.

  I thought about the night of the fire and the lives that were lost. Memories of Ransford burning in the fire and Hannah dead on the ground surfaced as I stepped over the crumbled stone of the facility.

  Harold was silent as he stood next to me. After several long minutes, I spoke.

  “When I first met the detectives I’m working with, they told me the police examined this place and pulled charred bodies from the inside. So, we won’t have to worry about seeing anything terrible.”

  “Thank goodness,” Harold said as he wiped his brow and then smoothed out his red hair.

  “They also examined the place for evidence, but they had a difficult time navigating the tunnels. The system is complex and there is no floor plan. Anyway, I suppose we should go in then. I don’t think the police will turn up here, but I understand if you prefer to stay out here.”

  “I’ll come with you, Paul. I want to be useful if I’m here.”

  Harold and I held our well-lit lanterns in front of us as we walked through the tall archway of the asylum, which still stood intact. Inside, I could not believe my eyes. Most of the top floor had burned and fallen through to the first. Charred pieces of the asylum still flapped in a gentle wind. Wet, burnt items were strewn about, including hospital beds and equipment, chairs, fixtures, and other medical supplies. I stepped over destroyed paintings, pots and pans, and half-burned linens.

  The items had a stagnant water and permanent smoke smell that was almost unbearable.

  “This is horrible,” Harold remarked.

  “It is.”

  I thought about abandoning my mission. Something about returning to this place after the tragedy seemed wrong. I couldn’t get Hannah’s face out of my head.

  “Let’s hurry. I don’t want to be in here longer than I have to.”

  Harold agreed and we began to move through the rubble. Surprisingly, the lobby doors were intact, so I easily navigated through the debris to Doctor Reid’s office.

  “It’s amazing. With all the destruction in this asylum,” I pointed out, “his office is virtually untouched.”

  In the office, only a part of the ceiling was missing, but the walls of the office were still whole. I searched for a secret door, but I did not find one. The mist had settled into the room, and a chilling feeling crept through my bones.

  “Paul,” Harold called from across the room.

  On the wall, Doctor Reid’s portrait still hung. I could not look into his brooding eyes.

  “If there is a secret door, then it must be behind here,” I said as I attempted to push the painting to the left. I was sure it would move, but it did not.

  “Let’s try to take it off,” Harold said. When I grabbed for the painting, we heard a click and suddenly the painting opened like a door.

  Behind the painting the opening was only the size of the portrait, big enough for a man’s body to crawl through.

  “This is it.”

  I wiped my brow, and held up the lantern in my hand.

  “I’ll go down there alone,” I insisted. “I’ll investigate it and then come back.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I nodded. “I need you to guard this entrance, in case someone followed us here.”

  “Understood,” Harold said as he examined the back of the painting. He felt the back of the canvas and gently removed a piece that had been loosely fastened to the back of it. Holding it up for me he said, “Someone cut out and reattached Doctor Reid’s eyes.”

  “I thought I saw eyes flicker in one of the paintings here when I first arrived at Kolney Hatch. It terrifies me to think someone was peering through portraits at me or anyone else.”

  “Terrifying indeed,” Harold said, letting the piece of canvas fall to the ground.

  I turned to face the entrance, hesitating before climbing into the blackness. Memories of the first time I stepped into those tunnels haunted me. But I told myself, if I was going to unravel this mystery, I would have to enter despite my apprehension.

  I gave Harold one last wide-eyed look before I crawled into the darkness.

  36 The Room

  Paul Watson’s Journal

  April 20, 1927, continued—I held the lantern in front of me and noticed the passage turned slightly on a downward path. The tight space made me feel uneasy. I batted at spider webs that still covered my face and hair. Small rocks dug into my hands, and my knees scraped across the stone as I crawled. My breathing grew heavy and my heart raced as I realized there was no room to turn around. Even though the space was cold, a clammy feeling ran through me, and I could not breathe. In spite of my dread, I kept moving. Several minutes later, I saw three small slits of flickering light shining through the crawlspace. As I continued toward the light, I heard a man’s voice in the direction of the flickering light.

  Not wanting to be seen, I stopped as I neared the end of the crawlspace.

  “Just leave it. We’ll tell her we burned it, and we’ll do it later,” the man’s stern and vaguely familiar voice said.

  I wanted a glimpse of who said those words, but when I reached the end of the crawlspace, he was gone and the only light was from my lantern. I started to panic as I realized I wasn’t sure if I could open the other end of the crawlspace. I pushed on it but nothing happened. Using my lantern, I inspected my surroundings and saw a small latch at the bottom. I lifted it up and a small door opened.

  The lantern shone on a crawl way that led to a circular room very similar to the torture rooms in the tunnels. I eased my way out of the space and a familiar musty odor filled my nostrils.

  Thankful to stretch my legs, I stepped out of the space and took in my surroundings.

  I couldn’t see much in the room, but I knew I had to find the thing the man said he would burn later. Very similar to the other torture rooms, this room had many medieval weapons: bows and arrows, halberds, swords, powder horns, and a long stabbing knife which I recognized as a dirk. I decided I would take the dirk, just in case I encountered any trouble trying to leave the tunnels.

  I navigated the room as quickly as I could. There was a tall wooden door at the end of the room, and I was anxious knowing that at any moment someone would return. In the corner sat an old wooden desk covered with stacks of files and ledgers. As I glanced at the files, I realized they were the files of asylum patients. I wondered if these files were what the man had p
lanned to burn. After rummaging through the drawers and finding them mostly empty, I grabbed as many of the files and ledgers as I could hold, knowing that I would have to wait until I was back at Mr. Newbury’s house to properly examine them.

  A shuffling sound stopped me in my tracks, and I dared not even breathe. I worried someone would burst through the door, and my breathing became heavier the more I tried to keep silent. When the sound would not cease, I held my lantern high and saw two black beady eyes. Rats scurried about on top of an old rotting table. The sight of the vermin disgusted me, and I knew I needed to leave. But on top of the table, I saw something else. Something I did not expect I would ever see again.

  On the table was Aunt Greta’s box, the first box I pulled from beneath the floorboard, the day I was hit by that faceless assailant. I ran to the box, no longer caring about the rats, and grabbed it.

  There was no time to open the box. If the man returned, I would be discovered. I also knew I could not return through the crawlspace with all my new finds, so with the files and box under one arm, the dirk in my pocket, and the lantern in my free hand, I slowly crept out of the tall arched wooden door and prayed this passage would lead me safely out of the tunnels.

  37 Light at the End of the Tunnel

  Paul Watson’s Journal

  April 20, 1927, continued—I was completely lost. My only clue to my location was that the crawlspace that led to the torture room was somewhere under Doctor Reid’s office.

  My breathing slowed and disorientation set in as I remembered my escape through the tunnels months before. The familiar smell of human waste and stagnant air filled my nostrils. This time it was mixed with remnants of smoke, and it made me gag.

  The path was straight for a distance and then curved to the left. I knew I was still under Kolney Hatch, but I had no idea where. When I came to a familiar and much dreaded fork in the tunnel, I stopped. I wondered if I had made the right choice. Perhaps I should have taken my chances traveling back through the crawlspace.