Asylum Page 27

  "Are you okay, Jerry?" Nurse Winter asks, smiling at me as she sits at her desk.

  "Yeah," I reply, though I know she must sense how wired I am. "Can't you call Eddie on his radio and see how he's doing?"

  "I don't think that would be a good idea," she says. "The radio makes a noise, and he might be trying to sneak up on the intruder."

  "I suppose," I say.

  "Don't worry," she continues. "I'm sure we'll get to the bottom of all of this." She smiles. "If he's not a ghost, Eddie'll get him out of there. And if he's a ghost, well, I guess there's not much we can do. But you don't believe in ghosts, do you? So you'll be fine working down there, even if the rest of us think the basement's haunted. Won't you, Jerry?"

  I smile weakly. She's blatantly enjoying this. She's always goaded me about my refusal to accept that ghosts are real, and now she thinks she's got me in a position where I'll have to start believing. But she's wrong. I'm still absolutely certain that there's no such thing as ghosts. Somehow, there's gonna turn out to be a totally rational explanation for all of this.

  There's a knock at the door and Eddie enters, looking a little hot and bothered. He barely acknowledges me, instead heading straight over to Nurse Winter.

  "Well?" she asks, smiling. She doesn't seem too worried.

  "We checked everywhere," Eddie replies. "Every single room down there. We didn't find any intruder. We didn't find anything we didn't already know was down there."

  Nurse Winter turns to me. "Did you hear that, Jerry? Nothing down there."

  "We also checked the perimeter again," Eddie continues. "There's only one external door that leads down into the basement, and it's padlocked. No windows."

  "Are you sure?" she asks him.

  "Dead sure."

  "Well," Nurse Winter says, taking a deep breath, "we have a problem, don't we?" She's clearly loving every moment of this. "Jerry insists that he saw a man down there, yet no man can be found. Eddie, do you think it's possible that our basement is haunted?"

  Eddie shrugs. "There ain't no man down there, that's for sure."

  "Are you listening, Jerry?" she says, almost taunting me. "Eddie is absolutely certain that -"

  "I saw him," I say firmly. "As plainly as I'm seeing you two right now. I fucking saw him. If he's not down there now, that means he got out."

  "Not possible," Eddie says humorlessly.

  "Of course it's fucking possible!" I say, walking over to him. "Maybe you and your guys just didn't do your fucking job properly. He's down there. Some kind of fucking psycho asshole is in the basement."

  "I'm a professional," Eddie says, scowling at me. "I do my job properly every fucking time. It's not my fault if you've gone nuts down there and started imagining things."

  "Let's all calm down," Nurse Winter says. "Perhaps Jerry was influenced by reports of the maniac who was seen outside the house? It's understandable that his imagination might have run overboard and he -"

  "I didn't imagine this," I say. "I saw him."

  "You saw him, yet now he's not there," she replies. "It's almost as if he vanished into thin air, like a ghost." She takes another look at the photo of Francis Morgan. "You still don't believe in ghosts, do you?" she asks, glancing over at me.

  "No fucking way," I say, though to be honest, I'm starting to doubt myself. I know I saw that guy. I'm not given to fucking hallucinations, and I know for a fact that he was standing right there in front of me. I also have to admit that even though I don't like Eddie, the guy's good at his job. Nevertheless, just because I can't explain what's happening, that doesn't mean I have to just abandon my reliance on science and accept that there's a fucking ghost in the basement. The only people who believe in ghosts are idiots and freaks.

  "So what do we do here?" Nurse Winter asks, thinking out loud. "Jerry, are you willing to go back down to the basement?"

  I pause, trying to decide what to say. I mean, I don't want to go down there and risk having that guy show up again, but I also don't want to let anyone see that I'm scared. "I -" I start to say.

  "I tell you what," she says, interrupting. "Perhaps Eddie can come down and spend a few hours with you. For your own protection, and also so that he can take another quick look around."

  "Is that really necessary?" Eddie asks, obviously not keen on hanging out with me.

  "Sounds stupid," I say.

  "I think it's a good idea," she continues. "Eddie, I want you to go down to the basement with Jerry. Just keep an eye on things for a while, make sure there are no unusual noises. If everything goes well, perhaps we can finally put all of this behind us." She pauses for a moment. "It's quite possible that Jerry merely got a little over-excited and was spooked by his own shadow. As for the maniac who was seen outside the house, he was probably just that. A maniac. I'm sure he didn't get into the building, so we're all quite safe."

  I decide not to argue. I don't want Eddie to come down to the basement with me, but I also don't want to be down there alone, so I figure I might as well just put up with him for a while. Turning and walking out of Nurse Winter's office, I head to the elevator and, as I get there, I hear Eddie's footsteps behind me. We both step into the chamber, and I hit the button to send us back down to the basement.

  "This doesn't have to take long," I say, feeling awkward.

  "It won't," Eddie replies. Clearly he doesn't want to be doing this.

  "I'm not crazy," I say. "And I don't believe in ghosts."

  Eddie doesn't reply. Instead, the doors open and we step out into the basement.

  "It stinks down here," I say. "Don't your men ever take a shower?" I walk over to the equipment I set up earlier. Everything looks to be working fine, and I guess I'll just have to get on with my work. Frankly, having Eddie down here isn't much better than having a ghost or an intruder. "So," I say casually as I unhook one of the old machines, "do you believe in ghosts, Eddie?"

  "Never seen one," he replies sternly.

  "So what exactly do you think I saw down there?"

  "No fucking idea."

  I smile. Eddie certainly has a very brusque manner. As I plug in a newer machine and get ready to disassemble the old one, I pause for a moment. "I don't believe in ghosts," I say, as much to remind myself as to inform Eddie. "I believe in science. I believe in explanations. Everything can be explained."

  Eddie sighs. "I'm gonna take another look around," he says, wandering through to one of the other rooms.

  "Adios," I mutter. To be honest, the past couple of hours have tested my resolve. Despite my insistence that ghosts don't exist, I've got to admit that it's unnerving to think that the guy in the basement seemed to just vanish once Eddie and his men got down here. Nevertheless, I know that human imaginations have a tendency to run wild. There's a perfectly rational explanation for everything that's happened, even if I don't understand the precise sequence of events. Trying to distract myself, I carefully lift the CPU from one of the computers, holding it aloft and marveling at it. "You lucky thing," I say quietly, resenting the ease with which a computer is able to get on with its job. Do computers get spooked and believe in ghosts? No fucking way.

  "Freeze!" shouts Eddie, off in another room.

  Dropping the CPU, I spin around, and then I spin back as I hear the CPU smash to the ground, breaking under the impact.

  "Don't fucking move!" Eddie shouts.

  I stare down at the CPU. It's wrecked. Ruined.

  Eddie comes running through, waving his gun around. "Where is he?" he shouts at me.

  "Who?" I shout back. "What?"

  "I saw the fucker," he says.

  "Careful with that thing," I reply, uncomfortable with the way Eddie's pointing the gun at anything that looks like it might move.

  "Don't tell me to be careful," Eddie says. "You must have seen him. He came right through here."

  "I didn't see anything," I reply, looking down at the broken CPU. "You made me drop something important," I say bitterly.

  "He's here," Eddie insists.


  "What did he look like?" I ask. "Ill, like his skin was discolored?"

  Eddie nods. "Just like you described him. How the fuck did he just vanish like that?"

  "Maybe he's a ghost," I say, joking a little.

  Eddie turns to me. "Are you gonna stand there talking shit, or are you gonna get to the elevator?"

  I'm about to reply, when I see a figure stepping out from behind a door on the other side of the room. It's the intruder, and I can't help but stare at him. My blood runs cold as I realize I might be staring at a ghost. I've always been so certain that supernatural phenomena aren't real. I've always believed in machines, and in rational explanations. But there he is: Francis Morgan, one hundred years after he died, slowly walking up behind Eddie.

  "What?" Eddie says, not realizing what's behind him. "Are you gonna get out of here, or do I have to shoot you and drag your fucking corpse out myself?"

  Nurse Winter

  Middlebridge, 1999.

  It's just before 3am when I reach my father's house. Fortunately, he hasn't changed much since I was a kid, and I can see a light on in the kitchen. When I was younger, my father was always a night owl, staying up until dawn and then sleeping through the morning. While Lorraine has gone to bed, my father has stayed up on his own in the kitchen, using his laptop. I hate to think what kind of pictures he's looking at, but it doesn't matter. I'm not here because of things he's done to other people. I'm here because he deserves to die. Sure, my half-brother or half-sister will have to grow up without a father, but in some circumstances that's actually better. My father is the man he's always been, and he shouldn't be allowed near any more children. After watching him through the window for a few minutes, I realize it's time to draw him out so I can finish the job. I walk over to his van, the same busted-up old wreck he's been driving since I was a kid, and I use an old tree branch to smash one of the side windows. Then I step back into the shadows and wait.

  "Who's there?" my father shouts as he bursts out the front door. He's got a shotgun. I didn't anticipate that he might be armed, but it's not a big problem. I strengthen my grip on the knife. All I have to do is wait for him to get close enough so I can sink the blade into his head. I might not have had the strength of character to do such a thing to my mother, but when it comes to my father I don't think I'll have any problem at all. This is something that I should have done a long time ago. I've been building up to this moment since I was seven or eight years old. I guess I just had to wait until I could finally accept that I'm this type of person.

  As expected, my father cautiously steps out toward the van. He has the gun raised in case he meets anyone. My father's a lot of things, but he's no fool. I'd hoped I could just step up behind him and strike with the knife, but I guess that's not going to be possible now. Taking a deep breath, I finally accept that sneaking around isn't going to get the job done. If I'm the kind of person who can really do this, then I also have to be the kind of person who can tackle the problem head on and be brave.

  "Hey Dad," I say, stepping out of the shadows, keeping the knife hidden behind my back.

  He turns, lowering the gun a little. "What the hell are you doing out here?" he asks, the friendliness of earlier now gone from his voice. "What the hell happened to my car?"

  "I'm sorry," I say. "I had too much to drink, and I came back to talk to you, but I fell against the car and broke the window."

  He stares at me for a moment. "Is that right?" he says, clearly suspicious. "How much have you had?"

  "A few beers," I say. "Some vodka. Some other stuff, I can't remember what the barman called it. I'm real sorry about your car. I can help you get it fixed. How much do you think it'll be?"

  "Don't worry about it," he says, lowering the gun all the way. "Jesus, Kirsten, you scared the shit out of me. I thought it was some kid causing trouble. This isn't exactly the quietest neighborhood, if you know what I mean." He pauses, smiling. "Well, I guess in a way that's what you are, isn't it? A kid causing trouble in the neighborhood."

  "Just like old times," I say.

  "Just like old times," he agrees, grinning.

  All I have to do is get him to turn around, so I can plunge the knife into the back of his head. "Maybe I should clear the glass out of the car," I say. "I've probably made a hell of a mess."

  "Relax," he replies. "I'll fix it in the morning. You want to come inside?" He pauses for a moment. "Or we can go for a walk in the garden. You remember how you used to like the garden when you were a kid? I'd always have to come and find you down in the bushes. Never really knew what the hell you were up to down there."

  "I was a kid," I say. "You know what kids are like."

  "You were a weird kid," he replies. "But that's okay. There's nothing wrong with being weird. Some of the best people I've ever met have been weird." He laughs. "You know what's really weird? When you get someone who's weird and they try not to be weird. Like they try and be all normal and stuff. Those are the people who look weirdest."

  "I guess," I say. Why the hell won't he just turn his back on me for a moment?

  "Come on," he continues, reaching out and grabbing my hand. "Let's go look at the garden."

  Against my better judgment, I let him lead me around the back of the house. The garden is where I used to play as a kid, avoiding my father and trying to get lost in another world. The funny thing is, it never occurred to me that I could run out the front of the house and try to get away completely; no, I always ran out the back of the house, into the garden, where I could never get away completely. I guess I preferred hiding to running.

  "See?" my father says. "Those are the same bushes you used to play in when you were a kid."

  "Yeah," I say quietly. I need to strike. The second he turns his back, this blade is going straight into his head. I just have to be patient.

  "You miss those days?" he asks as we stand in the dark.

  "No," I say.

  "I do," he replies. "Sometimes. I know I wasn't a very good father at times. I could have looked after you better. I could have..." He pauses for a moment. "We all have regrets, Kirsten."

  I take a deep breath. "Mom died tonight," I say suddenly. I hadn't been planning to tell him, but it somehow came out. I guess I want him to understand what's happening, and why I'm here.

  He doesn't respond immediately. There's a long pause. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says eventually. "I hope she didn't suffer."

  "Actually," I say, "I think she did. Suffer, I mean. Her head was... I think she suffered."

  "What happened, exactly?" he asks.

  "She died of neglect," I say. "She couldn't look after herself. She lived in filth, and things got so bad that little beetles starting eating her flesh. Eventually they got through the bone and into her -"

  "Okay," he says. "I don't need to know the details."

  "Don't you?" I ask. I hate the idea that he thinks he deserves to be somehow shielded from the truth.

  "Your mother's death is not my fault," he says.

  "I didn't say I blame you," I reply. "I just thought you should know what happened. I was there. I saw it. I saw those things crawling in and out of her brain, making their home on the back of her head while her face was filled with confusion. Beetles literally crawling through her thoughts. Can you -"

  "She should've been in a hospital," my father says.

  "She -"

  "She should've been in a hospital!" he says firmly, turning to me and glaring at me with that old intensity I remember from my childhood. "Did you come all the way out here just to make me feel bad?"

  Without thinking, I lash out at him. I'm overcome by a kind of white rage, and for a moment it's as if my body is completely out of control. It takes a few seconds for me to register what I've done, but finally - in the moonlight - I see the knife embedded deep in his face. I step back as blood pours from the wound. With a shocked look on his face, he reaches up and manages to pull the knife out, dropping it on the grass. He stares at me for a moment, but all I can
do is look at the flow of blood sloshing out from the front of his face. Slowly, he turns and starts walking toward his house. I pick up the knife and follow him, wondering what to do. I can't believe he's still walking. With a wound like that, he should be dead on the ground, but he's still managing to put one foot in front of the other. Finally, as he reaches the steps that lead up onto the back porch, he pauses for a moment and finally collapses.

  I stand there, filled with a completely unexpected sensation: relief. I'm not sad, or scared, or angry. I'm just relieved. My father's dead, and I never - ever - have to worry about him coming into my life again. My unborn half-brother or half-sister will be spared his wandering hands. Sure, they won't have a father, but that's a price worth paying, even if they never realize that themselves. I guess they'll find out that I was the one who killed him, so they'll know that their big sister is a murderer. I'll have to run, but I won't get far. There's no point going to Lakehurst, not when my father's death will inevitably be traced back to me.

  Suddenly the back door opens and I see Lorraine standing there in a night-dress. She stares at me for a moment, before I turn and run away into the night, clutching the bloody knife in my hand.

  Jerry

  Lakehurst. Today.

  "You might want to look behind you," I say.

  Eddie frowns for a moment, before a look of realization hits him and he spins around to face the intruder.

  "Don't shoot him," I say, grabbing Eddie's arm so that he can't use his gun. It's quite obvious that the intruder isn't a danger. He's got a blank, empty stare as he lurches toward us. Whatever's wrong with him, it looks like his mind is gone.

  "That's not a ghost," I say, as Eddie struggles to get his hand free from my grasp. I bang his wrist against the corner of my workbench, which causes him to drop the gun. "That's a man," I continue. "Look at his eyes. He's got locomotor ataxia and tabes dorsalis, signs of syphilis. He's sick. He's dying."