Disclaimer: Asylum is mine. Story is mine. Danny Phantom is not mine.
Author's Notes: I'm sorry for the update lag. I trudged through this chapter, as I am easily distracted, and I have written a few other stories in the meantime. Music helps me to stay on course. Especially asylum-related music. So do thank Emilie Autumn for the much-needed story fuel. ("Miss Lucy Had Some Leeches" is a notable one.) Also, thank J.S. Bach, because he DID compose a largo I had on "repeat" as I was writing this. Depressing music aids in writing depressing stories, no? Yes. To compensate for slow writing and updating, this chapter is one of the longest. In fact, in spite of its lengthy composition time, this is one of my favourite chapters. And thank you to the reviewers, as always.
Chapter Six
Iron and Ice
The asylum boasted a large, rotting iron gate, through which all who entered the grounds had to pass. The gate, however rusted, still stood erect upon feeble hinges, and remained an ominous, wickedly-spiked guardian which loomed over any who dared to cross its threshold. Danny swallowed hard as he was forced past them, and he wondered if the gate was meant to keep people out, or the inhabitants of the building in. Both, maybe.
The sanatorium itself was an old, sprawling structure which appeared as if it was going to crumble into nothing more than a massive pile of rubble any moment. Layers of ivy crawled about upon its surface, twining through the deteriorating mortar between the weather-worn bricks – they were as threads sewn into the construction, creating stability, keeping the asylum standing. Anyone who happened on it would most likely assume it was abandoned, for there was a conspicuous silence – not even the birds sang. Of course, anyone who happened upon the hospital would soon learn of its ghastly reality, either when they were being admitted into it as a patient, or as that person was being dispatched.
Danny hadn't realized that he was shaking until an especially violent tremor – nearly electrical in nature – vibrated through his spine. There was something extremely menacing about the building before him. It was an odd feeling, given that fear was not an emotion Danny felt much anymore, and that the building in front of him seemed entirely innocuous. It was just a building, however dilapidated and worthy of condemnation. Other than the idea that the whole place could cave in, what did he have to worry about?
What didn't he have to worry about? There was absolutely nothing normal about the way he was treated – the Tasers, the restraints, the way he was forced up the scant, winding dirt path up the mountain, the fact that the grounds of the asylum weren't maintained. . . Even though Danny knew nothing of the practices of mental hospitals, none of it seemed right. The ghost-proof handcuffs around his wrists were the most suspicious – they were too bizarre an item to be overlooked.
Something's going on here, Danny thought. Something bad. Nothing about this place makes any sense. It's like someone knows I'm half-ghost and wants to keep me here. I need to get out of here. I needto. Even if I do get out of the handcuffs, if they see I've disappeared, my parents might find out about it. . . Augh. Last resort. It has to be a last resort. I just hope I actually can escape if the time comes.
Danny gazed up at the decaying doors before him. The entrance was covered with peeling white paint, revealing rust underneath. One door was missing its door-handle, and the other door's handle seemed as if it was going to fall off at any moment. An employee grabbed the remaining handle and gave it a forceful tug, causing the door to unwillingly swing from its closed position with a loud creak, and also allowing a horrid smell to leak from the asylum's interior. The stench reeked of the filth and sourness of human flesh, of murk, of dirt, of age, of grime, and it seeped into Danny's airways, causing him to practically choke on it. He barely noticed that the taste of winter tinged his lips.
Then, suddenly, Danny was shoved into the building's interior. It was dingy and dilapidated – as the outside was –, but it showed no signs of falling to pieces immediately. A blindfold was secured around his head, successfully obstructing his vision.
Placing a hand on one's shoulder is considered an act of sympathy and comfort, yet when Danny felt hands upon his shoulders, he did not feel sympathized with or comforted. These hands were not upon him for consolation – they were strong, tactless hands, guiding him to a place of death and anguish.
The first of many screams was saturated with agony, despair, and almost certainly madness. Danny cringed as it ripped through the air – it was bloodcurdling, as well as entirely unexpected. The further he was led into the hospital, the more frequent the shrieks and moans – some muffled, some shrill – became.
In addition, he was freezing in spite of the mild warmth of April. Icy air filled and rushed from his lungs repetitively, which was odd – maybe the handcuffs didn't entirely neutralize his powers. Scientific inquiry aside, one fact remained: there were ghosts here, and plenty of them. It made sense, in a way – asylums were traumatic places, and this one in particular seemed especially disturbing. One's mind could entirely be lost, and maybe – somehow – it would be difficult discern death from life. Maybe some held grudges; after all, this seemed more of a prison than a hospital. In fact, Danny was fairly sure he had been treated better in Walker's prison. At least, in Walker's prison, they didn't inject sedatives into your bloodstream; however, here, they did not remind you of possible execution. . . three times.
After climbing about six flights of stairs – which had started as metal and turned to wood as they ascended, some of which dangerously creaked in protest –, Danny was forced to stop, and his blindfold was removed. He looked about him – there was the staircase behind him, and a door in front of him.
A worker he had not seen before unceremoniously opened the door and did something surprising before he practically threw the ghost boy inside. He removed the handcuffs. For a moment, Danny felt a surge of relief. That ease quickly faded when the worker exchanged a restraint for a restraint, as Danny was soon efficiently bound in a straitjacket. For the worker, it was a skill which had improved with time and continuous practice.
He shut Danny inside, and the metal door shut with a thunderous bang, leaving him in a darkness laden with the damp scent of mildew. Frail light seeped in through a crack in the ceiling – which could only be the roof – and dimly illuminated the cell, which appeared more like an attic which had fallen into disrepair.
That night, Danny could not sleep. It wasn't due to the filth of the room, or the fact that he laid upon rotting boards, saturated with years of rain water damage. The shadows were moving. His frigid breath was condensing. Danny wasn't afraid, but he was incredibly uncomfortable.
He was being watched.
Author's Notes: The plot thickens. I'll work on the next chapter as soon as I can, but be on the lookout for new stories from me. Know that I will never abandon this, but I have a new series in mind. Switching on and off series may shake things up a bit for me, leading to more productivity and less distraction and boredom. The new series may either be an actual story or it may be an ongoing serial. It will be AU, delving into a subject I am quite interested in. I cannot give you the title (and I DO have a title in mind). It'll give too much away. :)
As always, please take the time to review. This is one of the longest chapters yet, and I'm really hoping for some feedback! All feedback - positive and negative - is greatly appreciated.