Once the roadhouse neon had disappeared behind the trees, the road was deserted and black, and Ben thought, These roads are haunted now. —Salem's Lot
"I'm just saying that this seems like a really dumb idea."
"I know, Braeden," Chris says, monotone. They've been having this conversation for the better part of two hours and they haven't even left her front door.
"Monumentally dumb, DB Cooper dumb." Chris nods along with the ever-expanding list. He's pretty sure the neighbors have a bet going on what exactly is so dumb that Chris needs this list in the first place. Maybe they think he's in a biker gang because of his leather jacket and tattoos or maybe they think he's planning to rob a bank. Both are plausible, but he's also driving a minivan with a duck sticker on the back window.
"Braeden, I know I'm dumb. I'm the dumbest man alive, but I'm also going to the looney bin on haunted hill to find my sister. Now, are you going to babysit or should I call someone else?" To be completely honest, Allison became dead weight in his arms an hour ago and now his biceps are pleading for a break.
"Of course I'm going to babysit. I'm not gonna let some stranger from Angie's List take my goddaughter trick or treating." Braeden finally takes Allison from him, resting her chin on the dark waves. She presses a kiss there and then sets Allison down on her feet. "We're gonna have fun tonight, huh?"
"Yeah," Allison grins. "I'm gonna be Tinkerbelle."
"And I'm gonna let you pull the hair of every Wendy we come across." Allison giggles at that, looking like the sweetest thing in all of creation. Chris isn't fooled, he's seen this hellion whack another kid over the head with a slinky because the kid had cut in line to the water fountain. "And your daddy is gonna be careful. Isn't that right, Christopher?"
"Yes, dear," he grumbles. She smiles at him, fond and sad all rolled into a small tilt of her lips. He knows that smile, had given it to his baby sister the night she left for the Hale Institute. He kneels down so he can give his baby one last hug, breathing in the smell of baby shampoo and bubblegum. "I love you, Ally."
"Love you too, Daddy," Allison says. She gives him a loose interpretation of a hug, then she's wriggling free so she can go play with Braeden's dog. It's a Pitbull named Noodle that has a soft spot for small children and a resting bitch face that could rival his owner's. Chris straightens up, watching as Allison plops down next to Noodle and tries to play tug-of-war with one of Braeden's boots.
"I'll take good care of her, Chris."
"I know." He clears his throat and rubs a hand over his mouth, harsh enough to make his lips burn. "You, uh, you have full custody of Ally if I don't come back. I need to make sure she's looked after by someone with a little common sense." It hurts to put the words out there, like he's jinxing himself. Braeden just nods like she expected nothing less, handing him her favorite sawed-off shotgun.
"Don't do anything stupid, Argent. Come back to that little girl."
"I will," he promises.
Ethan and Aiden have gone into full-on research mode; they've downloaded old news articles from the 30's and 40's, mapped the route to the Institute, found out the barbaric treatment Hale had used on innocent people. People back then didn't want to treat mental illness, they wanted to hide it away from society. In short, the boys are ready to find Hale's ghost and kick his ass.
"Are you guys ready for the movie," Erica asks, knocking on the doorframe. She always knocks even when the door is open or the boys are in the living room, it's a respect thing her parents never gave her. She's still young enough to know what privacy is.
"Sorry, Eri," Aiden says," Coach wants us to do a lock-in in the gym. Something about extra practice and how he lost a testicle in the war. He never said which war, though."
"Oh, okay." There's a crease between Erica's brows, more disappointment than worry. Everyone in town knows how crazy Finstock is. He calls his team out for random lock-ins at the gym all the time. There's at least one a month. "Well, we can postpone the movie tonight and just pull an all-nighter tomorrow. I won't even make y'all go to school."
"Tomorrow's Saturday, Ma," Ethan reminds her with a smile.
"Fine, you can skip on Monday."
"Sounds like a plan. What are you and Boyd gonna do while we're out?"
"Probably watch musicals and eat our weight in popcorn. The usual when you two are busy." She shrugs and the disappointment has slowly drained out of her expression, replaced by excitement. The twins hate musicals of all kinds, so Boyd and Erica only watch them when the twins are out. "I bet I can convince Boyd to give Repo another shot."
"That musical is God awful."
"So is your report card but you don't see me complaining." Aiden laughs at that and Ethan elbows him sharply in the ribs. "You two take an extra change of clothes, don't forget to drink water, and mention eggs if you want Coach to go on an hour-long rant to give y'all a break from suicides."
"Why eggs," Aiden asks.
"Boyd and I egged his house every Halloween for four years. He fucking hates eggs."
"Does he know it was you two?"
"No and it's going to stay that way if you two wanna stay alive." She gives them both a warning look, but it doesn't last long. She's in a good mood, which means it's easier to trick her. Guilt is eating its way through Ethan's spine, but he's gotta see this thing through. He and Aiden have an idea of what's causing all this crazy shit to happen at the Institute. "Love you, boys."
"Love you too, Eri."
"Yeah," Ethan nods, wrapping her up in a hug. "We love you, Ma."
It's a little after dark when Chris arrives at the Institute, staring up at it through his windshield. The place is massive and just like he remembers it when he'd been young and people would dare each other to go stand on the front porch. There's a dark feeling that clings like soot to the metal, created and maintained by something inhuman.
"Katie, you better be alright," Chris mutters to his steering wheel. He sits in the minivan for a good ten minutes before finally working up the nerve to get out, his cell in his pocket and the shotgun grasped loosely in his hand. Whoever he's meeting here might not be friendly, they might be dangerous or just some whacko or even some degenerate kid getting a kick out of other peoples' misery.
The front door swings open on silent hinges, revealing a lobby that had seen better days. The marble floor is covered in a thin film of dust, dry leaves scattered here and there, piled up against old furniture. It's like an arsonist's wet dream in this section alone.
He moves over to a lopsided table, police tape and glass trampled under his boots. Overhead is a damaged mural of stained glass, the middle panel missing entirely. Chris had gone over the crime scene reports himself; he knows the smudge of old blood on the edge of a large shard of glass belongs to Stiles Stilinski, the shreds of yarn in the basement came from Vernon Boyd's craft store, the pair of shoes in the bar belong to Erica Reyes. And the phone, the one that was cracked and smeared in blood, was the only evidence Kate had even arrived at the Institute.
"Kate," he calls out, listening to his own echo. He flicks on a nearby light switch, the glow pitiful but better than nothing. He'd forgotten to bring a flashlight, so he's just happy this dump still has electricity. "Anyone here?"
"Upstairs," a voice calls. It's almost tinny with static, like a call with a bad connection. Chris tightens his grip on the shotgun and moves to the stairs, taking them two at a time. He gets to the second floor and turns to the right but doesn't move away from the stairs.
"Hello?" A light flickers on, faint, throwing a rectangle across the floor at the end of the hall. The rest of the hallway is dark, the carpet letting out clouds of soot with every step he takes. He stops in front of the door, taking in the frosted glass with brown smears. He knows without going inside that this is where Kate was taken from.
Part of him wants to yank the door open and confront whoever's on the other side, demand answers. The other part of him knows that there's a real possibility that there are no answers, that his sister is gone forever. He'd seen the crime scene photos, knows that the blood soaked into the carpet and covering the walls belonged to Kate. No one can survive that, not even headstrong little sisters.
But still the hope….
The knob is cold against his palm and it doesn't want to turn at first. He forces it, nearly snaps the damned thing off before the latch releases and he stumbles into the room. Apart from the blood, Peter Hale's old office almost looks pristine. The file cabinet has been righted, the desk repaired, there's even paperwork laid out across its polished surface. Someone's been busy.
"Hello," he calls out again. Someone has to be in here, the light couldn't have come on by itself. "Come out or I'm leaving."
"You shouldn't have come here." Chris tenses at the voice, at the familiarity that makes his heart clench. He turns slowly, afraid that moving any faster would make this moment disappear. There's a woman standing in the doorway, her blonde hair dull and a deep well of sadness in her eyes.
"Katie?"
November 7, 1928
The Hale Institute is a respectable place the day Kira Yukimura is wheeled inside, her wrists and ankles secured to the wheelchair with leather straps. She's putting up an admirable fight, nearly convulsing as she tries to escape. Behind her, pushing the wheelchair, the orderly keeps a blank-faced expression in place. They stop at the front desk where Elliot Gable is doing a crossword puzzle, only looking up when Brunski raps a knuckle against the wire mesh.
"I didn't think we had any appointments scheduled today," Gable says, frowning.
"The police called Doctor Hale personally," Brunski shrugs. "She tried to set a classmate on fire." Gable whistles low and pulls out a chart, licking the tip of his pencil before setting it against the page. "Name is Kira Yukimura, aged seventeen." Gable nods as he scribbles the information down, his handwriting reminding Brunski of a woman's. It's neat with a few little flourishes, nothing like the block letters that Brunski writes in.
"Aside from the arson, do we have any other details?"
"Parents are on their way over." Gable nods and rises from his chair, unlocking the door to the side of his office so Brunski can get Kira out of the lobby. "Who's in today? Gotta have one of the girls look her over." Gable glances at the schedule pinned to a corkboard just inside his little office, humming.
"Mrs. Stilinski should be in the break room." Brunski nods and continues down the hall, his keys jangling against his hip. The examination rooms branch out to the right and he wheels Kira into the first one, leaving her long enough to go down the hall to the break room.
Marcelina Stilinski is a beautiful woman with rich, dark hair and a smattering of moles along one shoulder. Before she'd gotten pregnant, she'd had a figure that would have most men drooling and even now, a year after little Elias was born, she could still give Fay Wray a run for her money. She smiles when Brunski pokes his head inside, but there's no spark of recognition in those blue eyes.
"Got a patient that needs to be looked over, Mrs. Stilinski. She's a wild one."
"Alright, I'm coming." She stamps out a cigarette in the ashtray and then she's moving, the floral scent of her perfume wrapping around his head and clouding his thoughts. His wife would kill him if she knew the way his eyes fixed on Marcelina's swaying hips, but his wife would never catch him.
(he doesn't know it yet, but he'll be dead in three years and his wife will move in with a lovely woman who treats her right)
Kira is still struggling when they return to the room, her dark hair hanging over her face. Overhead, the light sways and casts strange shadows across the girl's face, almost giving the impression of gleaming fangs.
"Hello," Marcelina greets, smiling warmly. "I'm Mrs. Stilinski." The girl stops fighting long enough to gaze up at Marcelina, tears caught in her lashes like chips of diamonds. It's the first time Brunski's had a chance to see her face clearly; soft, round cheeks, a plump bottom lip, tanned from the California sunlight. And, of course, there's the eyes, rich brown things that would be beautiful if not for their shape. Brunski can't stand Japs.
"Why am I here," Kira asks, breathless. Marcelina purses her lips, giving Kira an appraising look. Brunski's seen that expression enough times to know that she's trying to figure out if this girl really doesn't remember or if she's just trying to avoid consequences. The little bitch probably enjoyed watching the flame dance on the end of that match before she pressed it to a student's jacket.
"Do you think you don't belong here?"
"I know I don't. I didn't do what they said." Marcelina sits on a rolling stool, propelling herself closer to the wheelchair. They're on the same level now and Brunski lets his hand drop to his baton. He doesn't care if the patient is a girl, he'll whack the fuck out of her if she makes a move on the doc.
"What's your name, dear?"
"Kira Yukimura."
"And do you remember what you did?" Kira nods, lower lip wobbling and fresh tears gathering. "Tell me about it, then."
"I was in class, we were learning about the World War. I- I remember taking notes and then I was being tackled to the ground and one of my classmates was yanking his jacket off. It-it was on fire." Kira looks dazed, but Brunski isn't buying it. "They said I started the fire."
"You don't believe that."
"No."
"Then who did?" Kira looks almost desperate now, but she doesn't struggle. She meets Marcelina's stare with widened eyes, tears falling across her cheeks. "Who set the fire, Kira?" Brunski almost doesn't catch Kira's reply, two words that come out on a thin breath of air.
"A demon."
October 31, 2019
It's a three hour drive to the Hale Institute, a little longer when you factor in traffic, getting lost, and Aiden's poor driving skills. Aiden is still grumbling that his driving skills are perfectly adequate when they come to a stop behind a minivan. It's a sleek gray number, something Erica and Boyd have sworn they'd never get unless there's an apocalypse where gas is five bucks a gallon.
"Looks like we got company," Ethan says.
"Is it a soccer mom? I bet it's a soccer mom with one of those Karen hairstyles." Ethan laughs at the mental image of a middle-aged woman stomping around inside, demanding the ghosts get their managers.
"Maybe she's trying to get a refund on her sanity." Aiden snorts and climbs off his bike, Ethan following suit. They bring their helmets inside with them, setting them on a busted table with an enormous shard of glass sticking out of it. "Bro, that thing could kill someone."
"Probably did. Hale was supposed to be pretty sick in the head." Most of the bodies had been recovered back in '31, a few more when Lahey bought the place and began rebuilding, but not all of them. A family had come forward when news of the fire broke, asking about their daughter, one that the five survivors claimed not to know. It was like they tried to erase Kira Yukimura from history.
"Erica always has nightmares about the basement. Should we start there?" They both eye the door that leads down into the belly of the house, the top of the steps barely visible in the faint light. Someone's propped the door open with a chunk of marble. There's a faint mist collecting in the doorway, tendrils of dark mold working over the doorplate like the veins of some monster.
"No…. No, we're not going down there." Ethan pulls his flashlight out of his jacket pocket, swinging it this way and that to find somewhere else to go. The basement is bad news, but the rest of the building is free real estate.
"Let's check out that room over there." They head past the basement door and to the left, coming into a small lounge that had been the waiting room at one point. There are a few couches arranged in a square around a coffee table, a few glossy magazines shining under the flashlight's beam. "Are those recent?"
"Yeah." Aiden picks one of them up, a National Geographic from just last month. "Maybe the soccer mom bought this place and she's trying to fix it up." Ethan doesn't buy that theory.
"Who looks at this place and thinks it's good for anything except a horror movie? It's a dump."
"Yeah, well, these are new magazines and the lights are working so obviously someone is interested in getting this dump up and running again." Ethan is ready to argue when there's a loud bang from the front of the building, the twins jumping a mile in the air. "I think we made the soccer mom mad."
"Or the building ate her." They share a glance and then they're dropping to their hands and knees without another word. They stay low and quiet as they crawl to the doorway, Ethan cutting off the flashlight before peeking around the frame.
There, at the table with the glass shard, are a group of people with guns and flashlights. If that wasn't disturbing enough, two of the people are unarmed and the slighter of the two has a gun pressed against their temple. Ethan squints to make out what's going on and then has to choke off a scream before it can escape because he knows those two people.
It's Boyd and Erica.