Tate woke to the sound of the theme song from Bewitched playing across the room somewhere. He hadn't seen an episode of the show on a television in months. The break with the norm brought him closer to consciousness. He felt cold air on his face and smelled crisp winter air with a hint of burning leaves.

Opening his eyes brought in fuzzy, bright light. Painfully bright. He blinked a few times. His eyes were slow to adjust. He tried to lift an arm to shield them and encountered resistance. His wrists were cuffed to the bed he was in.

Looking around, he saw the familiar gray walls of Briarcliff. The room was like one of the doctor's offices only it had been turned into an apartment. Nearby a loveseat and small television sat on a circular handwoven rug, one of those trendy things from South America. The TV was the source of the sitcom music. It switched to an ad for scouring pads.

Beyond that, a barred window let in the light and smells of January. Gauzy café curtains dressed up the view of the side of the building. Across the room were some locked cabinets and a popup wardrobe zipped closed. Beyond that, at the far end of the room was a wide floor screen, a medical screen of the sort that would be put around an operating table. Tate couldn't tell what was behind it.

He wriggled a little, testing the cuffs. They were medical restraints, expertly fixed in place. The bed he was secured to was one of the heavy ones from the wards. He could wriggle all he wanted, and the thing wouldn't move. He knew that from experience. He had no interest in tiring himself out pointlessly, so he lie there a bit and took stock of his situation.

A cottony sense of floating lingered, leading him to assume he was still drugged. He hoped he was. Otherwise, the strange, detached-from-reality way he felt was his new normal. That was a scary thought: What if he couldn't come down?

He wiggled again, rattling the cuffs unproductively. He kicked some but that only messed up his blankets. There was some rattling behind the screen then his mother came out, smoothing the kaftan she wore. Seeing Tate awake, she came over to his side. Her dress flowed with the motion, hugging her frame.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she said.

He settled down, looked up at her piteously. "I need up. I have to use the bathroom."

"Soon," Constance assured. "Your father's coming with the key."

"Father?"

Before she could say more, a door off to Tate's left opened and Dr. Thredson came in. He looked first to the screened alcove then to Tate's bed. He smiled.

"He's awake," the man said as if this was a great thing.

"He needs to use the lavatory," Constance said, standing aside so Thredson had a clear path to Tate.

"I would imagine so." Thredson almost sounded amused. When he spoke directly to Tate, however, his tone shifted to something oddly patronizing. "I'm going to let you up now, Tate. Please behave yourself. Your mother and I hate having to keep you restrained."

The doctor freed Tate's left wrist. He rubbed his nearest eye because it burned. "Father?" he repeated, too sluggish to express himself better.

"Yes, Tate," Thredson said, working on the other lock. "Your mother and I are married now. That makes me your father. We've been a happy little family for a couple of weeks now. If you do your part and behave yourself like a good boy, you can stay here instead of going back to the ward."

Mention of the ward brought a flash of horror for Tate: People shouting at him, hitting him, telling him to run. Thredson caught the fleeting look of terror and privately relished it. He opened the last cuff and stepped back.

Tate sat up, then had to brace himself because he moved a little too quickly. "I need to go to the bathroom."

Constance moved to steady him, but he flapped his hands at her to shoo her away. The extra motion was too much. He staggered another step forward and threw up on the floor.

.

-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-

.

Ben's pace quickened. He could see the door to the Administrator's Office ahead. His pulse sped up, too. He wasn't looking forward to the confrontation.

When he got to the door, he stopped to rap on it. A voice muffled by the wood bade him come in. He steeled his nerve, took a breath, and opened the door.

Dandy was within, seated behind the stately desk Monsignor Howard used to occupy. It was strange for Ben to enter the room and see a former patient there.

"Good morning," Dandy said pleasantly. "Cigar?"

He motioned to a glass canister filled with fine Cuban smokes. A silver tin of matches sat beside them. Ben was tempted, but it felt too much like sealing a deal with the devil.

"No, thank you."

"Do sit."

Ben took the chair Dandy waved at, a simple wooden one of a pair stationed before the desk.

"So, how are things in the Children's Ward?" Dandy inquired. His polite veneer seemed quite sincere.

Ben didn't trust it, or him. "Crowded. You keep dumping more kids on me—kids who aren't even supposed to be here. They aren't mentally ill. Some of them aren't even sick. They're orphans. They don't belong here."

Dandy leaned back in his nicer executive chair. Steepled his pointer fingers over his lips. Thinking.

"They have to go somewhere," Dandy pointed out. "Besides, the asylum needs the money. The state pays $500 a head for those orphans."

"This isn't a boarding school!"

"Are you unhappy with your position, Doctor Harmon?" asked Dandy, his brows arching. His tone was overtly sympathetic. "If you find yourself...overburdened, you can tender your resignation any time. I will understand."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Ben volleyed. "First you cut my wife from Occupational Therapy, now you want to cut me, too?"

Dandy folded his hands before him on his desk. The picture of insincere commiseration. "You're sounding a touch paranoid, Doctor. I do hope the stress of your work isn't starting to get to you. Perhaps you should speak with your supervisor, Doctor Thredson."

Ben's blue eyes iced over above his tight smile. "I'm fine, thank you. I just wanted to point out that the ward is dangerously overcrowded. We have kids sleeping on floors."

"Duly noted," Dandy said. "We'll order more bunks."

"And put them where?"

"That's your concern."

Ben seethed inwardly. But he knew he needed to address his other matter of concern before Mott decided the conversation was over.

"Fine. One more thing," said Ben. "Why was Tate Langdon taken off my patient roster? And where has he been transferred to?"

"I don't keep track of individual patients and their whereabouts," Dandy dismissed.

The audacity of the lie was enough to make Ben grit his teeth. He forced it into another tight smile. "Fine. Sorry to have wasted your time."

When he left, Ben showed the utmost restraint by not slamming the door behind him.

...

Author's Note:

Happy Halloween month!

I've been itching to get this update posted, but things have been popping like popcorn here. Some good, some not so good. Projects are still on track. We're starting to film the horror short I wrote in November at a location that turns out to have a haunted past. It's kind of eerie: We picked the place because it's a ringer for a building I described in my screenplay. As it happens, the window I mention in the first scene of my screenplay has a doppleganger at the real life location. That window is broken in reality, covered over with a board. The owner won't let us up to the 3rd floor to film or even look around which makes me wonder even more about it.

Does this all sound like an episode of American Horror Story waiting to happen? It kind of feels like one...

But what would a horror film be without a creepy behind-the-scenes backstory?

Next time: Dandy's Briarcliff takes on a whole new level of crazy when all of his new therapy machines are up and running.