"You little hell spawn! Git back here - we gotta beat the devil out of you! You listen to your Pa now and git back here this instant! Bless your mother's soul if she knew she died for nothing more than a Godless little pup!" Running never worked in her nightmares, as hands from her father's congregation closed down upon her and the thorny switch rose high above her father's head, ready to come crashing down upon her as it always did. "Let Jesus take you little lamb, or you'll always be alone with the rest of the sinners and wolves!" "Let Jesus heal you – let him take away these horrible visions of the Devil!"
She wanted to cry out that they were wrong – Jesus had given her this gift, the spirits had told her so! She was special – not cursed – they were all in danger, they had told her that as well, but they would not hear of it, just as her father refused to hear her warnings. He was holding to his beliefs as tightly as to the switch in his hands, which now started sailing forward in an unreal slowness....
Down onto her face, into her wide fearful eyes – seeking to blind the lying eyes that God… no… they were not one of God's gifts they were willing to accept… that Satan had given her. Only he could provide such lies - the dead didn't roam the earth, spirit or otherwise, it was either Heaven or Hell, no middle ground – obviously a horrible trick of the Devil was being played upon the Pastor's hapless charge. A high scream broke from her throat as the prayers continued on and whickering sound of the air being wrought filled her ears…
Blue awoke with a start, hands already going to her face feeling the familiar phantom sting upon her forehead and cheeks. Breathing heavily she viewed the darkened room, offering up a small comforting sigh to no one but herself and her hands fell back to her lap. Always alone… she glanced over to the empty side of the full sized bed, running her left hand over the rumpled coverlet and sheets she had most likely disturbed in her sleep. Always going to be alone…
No. I'm not alone. I'm never alone. Well there was no need to sit around and mope in bed all day, instinct told her to get up and start the business of the day. "Have to get up…" She pulled herself from the warm covers, still feeling more than slightly shaken from the already fading nightmare that had dogged her until the moment the sun had risen, disappearing to its unknown crevice within her skull. Years and years of trying and still she couldn't get used to such a vivid memory, not even crawling blindly into a bottle of the nearest alcohol or pills could ward off her creeping nighttime intruder. It came with the territory she supposed, the dreams and visions – one could not possibly exist without the other to humble. But as it came it also left, there would be no point in worrying about it – that could easily be done at home – not in some motel in the middle of no where. Finish the work and go back to being alone…
A shiver crossed her bare shoulders as she took a glance at herself in the mirror as she moved to the small cubicle of a bathroom. Staring back at the creature with tousled hair sticking to her forehead and shoulders, tacky with the same sweat that already was drying to a foul film, empty blue eyes that stared back in confusion – as if either side hardly knew what to make of the other.
````````````````````````````````````
She sat down once more this time upon the floor, her light hair now darkened to a gray from the excess moisture of a long shower, the water cooling and running down the bare skin of her back. Her eyes roaming, taking in the lines of reports upon the papers with renewed interest, papers new from the folder, old from what the lawyers had previously sent. Surrounding, if not effectively cornering her where she sat at the foot of the bed with information. Paranormal activity… manageable structural damage to main administration area of asylum … limited surviving records of the deceased: Dwight, Joseph… Khun, R. E.… Straubhaur, P.…telemetry identifying at least thirty plus on base recordings around asylum's surrounding area… readings on electromagnetic activities inconclusive to previous recordings....
But what stood out finally was a small snip of transcript, undated and nestled between studies on the phantom noises and breezes found in the hallways of the second floors. "I can hear them, see them - they're running and yelling from the guards and doctors – climbing the fences. Christ, how many stupid kids have been up here, its fucking everything up... hard to concentrate on one thing... There's cold here, total confusion – they've sought shelter of the woods as the asylum burnt – to hide from their captors, to run from the screaming…
Christ... that screaming is hurting my head....
I don't know who's doing the screaming, okay? No. I don't want to investigate the asylum right now, no. No. I said it once. No more, no more today, all right? That's it, call the car, I'm done for the day."
Blue smirked, running a finger along that line, rereading it slowly – now who in the world had said that? Perhaps she had been wrong in thinking that no medium had previously visited the grounds – Mr. Kriticos had made no effort to mention it before, her own fault for not asking. Perhaps he was trying to stoke her ego by making her think this was a first high-end job for her? But the words... they were interesting, it sounded like the reaction of an amateur who was realizing just how far down the proverbial supernatural rabbit hole went.
Would she ever meet the person that had given the report? Someone who could witness the past would have been a boon to the investigation. But regardless, it would certainly be an interesting conversation if they were ever to cross paths.
But still... what would they be like? The question lingered as she pulled on a clean shirt and squirmed into her jeans – the material fighting against the damp skin of her legs. Did they see things like her? No. Maybe just glimpses of things, no real depth. Things would be worse inside the building.
Than again it could have been edited, countered another section of her brain as she fought with the laces to her boots. Maybe gleaned from some previous visit by one of those members of high profile paranormal specialists... the ones that called her a difficult, crack potted, boarder lined grave robbing....
Fists starting to clench over the leather of her now partially emptied knapsack, no, didn't need to think about those idiots at a time like this. Headphones slid over her ears as the first strains of music began.
It was time to move.
And there was one last place she needed to go before heading off to the dragon's den.
````````````````````````````````````
Yet again, Dennis was having a horrible morning.
And a breakfast coffee that perfectly mirrored that obvious fact.
He forced another sip, wincing at the bitter flavor that invaded his mouth; it really was a lousy coffee – almost the texture of sifted cat litter - perfect for such a lousy, hole in the ground town.
No wonder Cyrus wanted to get his next 'curiosity' from here – it was always the white bread type of places that harvested the worst in people. Serial killers, pop stars – ghosts, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth – chasing away the tired expression on his face as he continued to stare out at the motel from where he sat in the diner across the street.
There, it finally was opening. Immediately taking him up from his sulking slouch as the door in question finally opened up. Staring at the girl who exited – and speaking of curiosities. She looked like she was about to go to some obscure college class – as he took in her choice of clothes entailing a tan shirt, jeans, book bag, and headphones – what was it with those stupid headphones of hers anyway? No one could be that attached to music. But regardless, she certainly didn't fit the bill of a supernatural professional - not enough to go tramping around in an asylum looking for the ghost of a long dead sadistic murderer, not enough to actually go and do it alone. Not even he was that suicidal.
She certainly looked smarter than someone who was about to risk one's personal safety. Let alone a sizable chunk of their own ass; an ass he wouldn't have minded to get slightly closer to if it didn't offer his own chances of having a seizure and the unneeded details of her personal life. So maybe Cyrus had made a mistake by hiring her, maybe she would change her mind if she couldn't find what she was looking for at the library, and maybe his chances would definitely improve to regain the favor of his employer.
And maybe fucking pigs flew.
Dennis knew Cyrus was getting tired of his questions, but after risking his neck time and time again for the old man's collection, he should have expected questions to be raised about the collection. Murder victims, murderers, freaks, and a burnt up housewife – what the hell did Cyrus want with such a motley group of ghosts? Fucking stick them in his study for an interesting conversational piece for his ancient friends while they sat around and slowly rotted and got richer?
And for that matter, when the hell was he going to see the money Cyrus had promised for his services?
He had to wonder if she had seen him yesterday, as she left his line of sight, but thankfully to some loitering teenagers – the chances that he had been spotted by the pale girl were slim when she had looked in his direction. Not that she would probably know who he was anyway....
But still, why – why her? Blue was a, well - a damn guidance counselor for ghosts from what he could tell from the files Cyrus had on her. A consideration passed through his mind as he swallowed another mouthful of the coffee with a grimace, that she would possibly need his help – his guidance – any sort of warning of what kind of hell she was getting herself into by trying to find Ryan Khun on his turf. Unconsciously once the cup was back down on the table he rubbed at the healing scratches high on his arm, feeling the skin suddenly crawling with a demanding itch.
Nah.
Meeting Ryan once was enough for him for now, and if she didn't get the job done – it'd be one last person to compete against later.
Dennis would let her try reasoning with the dead psychopath.
One way or another, it'd definitely benefit him in the end.
````````````````````````````````````
The sound of the ocean is dead
It's just the echo of the blood in your head
It didn't take much wandering, before she realized that the library was really nothing more than a small stone building nestled in the courthouse's shadow.
She paused upon entering, breathing in the scent of managed dust and old paper, letting her eyes roam over the room before her, finding that no one seemed to really notice let alone mind her presence so far. Always a good thing, considering most towns this day and age weren't too keen on having strangers in their midst, even ones that looked like her - strangers to them would always bring trouble in most folk's thinking. But than again perhaps those nay-say types were still slowly awaking to greet the day with grumbles and grunts of annoyance.
Blue looked up at the slightly faded painting hanging upon the wall near the entrance, finding her attention shifting for a moment from the few people she could see. Most likely of the founder - Peter Campbell was the name upon the small brass plate - so perhaps she was correct in her assumption. The small library otherwise was quiet and somewhat empty, but still could not mask the presence of others within its walls. What with the soft rustle here and there of turning pages, the groaning squeak of a weighted down book cart somewhere further off, hidden amongst the mass of shelves, the insistent hum of the microfilm machines - all of it filled the thick void.
Cautiously she turned down the volume upon her headphones, taking in the calm quiet; it surprised her to find that even the voices of the dead were soft, almost coyly hidden amongst the noises of the library. Whispering of trivial things, mumbling of the everyday comings and goings of their personal realm.
Speaking of personal realms...
Building plans, maps, any sort of news articles - that's what she wanted. Considering for all she knew they had given her a plan of the original building that perhaps had gone through multiple renovations as the need for more room for patients became more and more demanding long before the second fire shut down the asylum for good.
Dead ends, remodeled halls that weren't listed, non-existent rooms, most likely awaited, she wasn't willing to take the chance of going in blind and wind up getting lost - let alone cornered by whatever it was she was looking for.
Even after getting herself settled with a meager pile of the town history and newspapers, hardly a feast of information in her eyes, she found herself in a rut. Of course, its not like the good people of Red Ridge would leave their dirty laundry out to airs for anyone to find - certainly it wasn't the stuff this historical society would care to have a day of memory dedicated to - but still.... Blue couldn't help but lower her head and pinch the bridge of her nose – fighting away the impending headache of frustration.
The entire picture the story Cyrus' lawyers had offered and the story being painted before her made no sense as she studied the newspapers, mystified especially as one day the town called Borehamwood, somehow phased itself into Red Ridge. As if they had swept everything earned from their previous name over night under the rugs, regardless that it was all in all the same building - an asylum was an asylum no matter the name, the source of funding or the cause of fire.
When it rains. Most definitely it pours.
"Can I be of any service to you, miss?"
Looking up from the clippings she found herself being watched, it was the same man that had been in the painting at the entrance of the library, everything from the thinning gray hair, down to the old well worn tweed jacket and cherry wood pipe. Merely faded now while he stood before her table, as most ghosts were, but showing no real sign of the cause of his death, likely a peaceful passing in a comfortable chair back wherever his home used to be. They haunt the places they know best. His voice was faint, but in the silence of the library clear enough for her to hear... no wonder she had felt so welcome entering the door.
"Aha, so you do see me." Offering up a warm friendly smile, he nodded his head towards her and the meager collection of papers. Most definitely he looked like the sort of fellow that used to spend his weekends reading to children, almost a heavy set Mr. Rogers when she really thought about it as he sat at the table across from her. "Margery said you would, not many of your type pass through this area often, so pardon my curiosity."
Blue nodded, word must travel fast in a town like this, even for the dead, one would hope that gossip didn't leave the borders of the town. Did anyone wonder what Cyrus wanted with the old asylum on the hill? No.... most likely the common man probably thought it had to do with the delicate dance of real estate, probably the vague mumbling of condominiums would be offered and the subject would pass. She kept her voice low, not wishing for people to think ill upon seeing a young woman holding a conversation with empty air. "So would you know -"
"Why the town is called Red Ridge, yes?"
"Yes. Anything would help honestly…" She started up, but silenced herself as one of the younger members of the library staff passed by the table, the young man being more engrossed with watching the clock than really watching any of the patrons.
But Mr. Campbell took that as a sign to begin as he cast an annoyed glance to the man's back, mostly a unwilling witness to his beloved library's abuse – a broken book spine here, a misplaced card in the registry there... "Well, when I was a boy the local yarn was that when the nut house went up in flames the first time, you could see it from town. When I grew older, it was still the same." The spirit nodded taking his mind off of brooding while giving a tap to his pipe as he let his voice take up a parody of the stronger local accent. "A'uh, bright red flames burning over the tops of the trees. Like a hole from hell opened up out there - went and lit up the entire town long after the sun went down. And after the ashes had cooled, along with the tempers of many of the citizens - the foulest winter blew in out of nowhere and hit us hard. Town was never the same again after that."
"And when the news hounds got hold of what was going on there, and the luck that seemed to have been passing through, it didn't seem fitting to have a town named after the same asylum. Right?"
"Sharp girl. Very sharp. Especially when a majority of their patients saw the light of day for the first in a very long time. And many more lost their lives in the snow months later, from the cold and from the loyal citizen's patrolling the woods with shotguns after someone was found dead and another robbed."
"The patients were killing townspeople?" No wonder they had swept this thing to be out of sight and out of mind.
"Well, I don't believe it was a person – more like a hen house and a root cellar that belonged to someone in town that took offense, town manager mayhaps. Folks didn't want to believe there was an asylum up there, as much as they didn't want to accept that there were people freezing and starving in the woods either. Just wanted the problem to go away."
"Not that sharp, folks still don't seem to want anyone up there, with the problem long dead and gone or not. I don't see why though, the only thing that should be haunting that place now are some really mean raccoons and an occasional bunch of drunk sophomores." Her eyes traveled from the spirit back to the article about the second disaster, a small fire in the eighties that escalated to larger proportions when it had finally reached the poorly maintained furnace – and caused it to explode.... Thus putting the final nail in Borehamwood/Red Ridges aspirations of mental wellness, holding back the questions she so desperately wished to ask. Who died in that first fire? Who died in the frost? What of this second accident?
"They have a right to, there'll always be nothing good up there. Nothing you'd want to get involved with. Even when they tried opening up another asylum on that same site, there was nothing worth while for them either and that one I did see closed up and abandoned right after the second fire blew off the roof. And you didn't have to be some fancy other realm scholar to know there's always been something wrong with that place."
"Why?"
"The young folks have a habit of disappearing' up there every few years still. And they always wind up dead or crazy – and than dead. If'in there is something up there still, none of the folks down here are willing to find out."
"So that's why there's the noticeable lack of feline spirits, curiosity doesn't run rampant in this area."
The old man smiled, "And you say you're not sharp, shouldn't lie to your elders my dear."
"And what about the ones still up there? Even if no one wants to be curious there has to be some sort of knowledge as to who he, she, they might be."
"There's a lot of things up there. But I'm sure you already know that."
"Well than the next thing I need is a better building plan." She placed the folded page upon the table top, almost expecting him to merely point in the correct direction she needed, but he shook his head with disappointment of her getting back to business and not taking heed of his warnings.
"It's been gone from here for a while… I'm sorry… but the distasteful has a habit of being swept under the rugs around here."
"Than let me guess the next answer to my question - how over grown is the road to the asylum? Well, considering how long ago the place has been from running - I'd most likely be better off wandering around in the woods with the lost crazies until I stumble across it."
The man smiled, beginning to fade away. "You would be better off not even going, if you care for my opinion. But if you still go, indeed follow the woods not the roadway - otherwise you'll find yourself in a jail cell for trespassing long before you reach it."
"Something tells me that won't be the last time I hear that phrase… but thank you."
"It's the least I can do."
````````````````````````````````````
Blood and bone, grime and gore – he racked his claws over the pile of rent flesh once more, disappointed to only receive silence from what had once been a girl… hardly a woman by any standards – but tainted none the less by the disease only he could see. The asylum had taken her – just like the others, filling the pitcher of the slain farther, no one would seek him out lest they wished the same fate, no one would hurt him – they wouldn't allow it, he had worked hard enough to see to that.
My cup runeth over…
Foul harlots… Ryan raised his head without problem despite the weight of the cage locked around it; he carried both it and his guilt effortlessly now in death – dragging in air that he didn't need past torn lips, bare jagged teeth, another laugh filling his being as the burning returned.... Cackled as it scorched his eyes with phantom light, seared his lungs, filled his brain, demanding to be sated once more regardless of how much blood was poured upon the growing flames – flesh fed to the ever consuming coals. The carcass was nothing to him now - blood flowing from a stone, a useless pile to rot away into the dirt, something new had his attentions. It called to him, dancing in the darkness – caressing him in a destructive embrace – heeding him forward, seductively whispering in his ears the sweet melodies of revenge and pain – stroking his scarred and drawn face with a winter's burning freeze. Now there were only two.... An easy task of searching for the two that had eluded him so far awaited, and the taint came to him, soft red lights glowing in the darkness – a stench in the air, fouler than rot, thicker than smoke... blood. Oh yes, blood. They would bleed for him... they always did.
They had stopped running – for now – the little bitch and the whelp that followed her, sniffing her skirts – a harsh cackle broke up from the ice that held his lungs… 'Get out… get out… get out before I make you… get out before you can't…' He faded, they would be running soon enough when he found them. -
