Chapter 5: The Stuff Of Nightmares
The plant room was dark and stank of oil. Poorly lit, the basement of the hospital building was filled with shadows and punctuated by the occasional blast of red and orange from the setting sun. The building was long and narrow, north facing, with windows to the east and west. Broken glass in the small Victorian lead frames let through sporadic blasts of cold air and the first sniff of winter. The boiler chugged contentedly in the room next door, heat belching its way through the brick wall. On the surface everything was as would be expected. Dirty, poorly attended, but functioning. The basement of the building also provided a convenient refuge for local cats that squeezed through the broken windows and nestled contentedly on dirty rags. Apparently unconcerned by the Doctor's presence a fat ginger tom opened a lazy eye to inspect the uninvited visitor then closed it again with a vague look of displeasure at having his sleep disturbed. The Doctor eyed the hairy creature warily, remembering cats in nun's habits.
Feline's were, however, usually very good at sensing danger, and if they were sleeping here on a regular basis it was unlikely that they were being disturbed by unearthly goings on. The Doctor was disappointed. The boiler room, and associated areas, would have been a perfect place to lie in wait for any hungry monsters. The remainder of the basement, so he had been told by a helpful porter, contained the old morgue, a disused therapy suite and an equipment store. If the monster, whatever it was, wasn't in the boiler room he would be willing to bet the old therapy suite was the next most likely home to the creatures from Suffolk's nightmares.
Like an old train carriage a passageway ran down one side of the building which allowed access to all the rooms. Light bulbs were few and far between and the corridor stretched from one end of the basement to the other with pockets of semi-darkness liberally spread along its length. It was hard to imagine the rooms had ever been used for the purpose of care, each one dark, dank, and reeking of mildew. The morgue, disused, was the next room he passed. The door was securely chained and, peering through the window, the Doctor could see that the place was empty with no where for any creatures to hide. A chill ran up his spine unexpectedly. He had spent too long with humans, their tradition of ghost stories had started to rub off on him.
The far end of the corridor was obviously more frequently used, it had been brushed clear of grease and grim at some point in the last month and there were wheel marks, presumably from beds or wheelchairs which had been dragged out of the equipment store. Opening the unlocked door and peeking inside it was clear the room was crammed with wheelchairs, hoists, bed screens and all manner of other devices, wedged in from floor to ceiling. The Doctor nodded to himself, nothing out of the ordinary here. Therapy room it was then.
The final room along the corridor, and the one nearest the main staircase, was the Therapy Room, as indicated by the fading blue sign with white writing which was hanging on one screw down the centre of the door. Fear emanated from the room, an age old stench that assaulted the Doctor's nostrils which he narrowed in response. Therapy. Electro-shock treatment. The electricity was still in the air even after decades of abandonment. Gritting his teeth, face set hard, the sonic screwdriver popped the lock and the Doctor made his way in.
To his disgust the room was evidently still in use, although not, he noted quickly, for the same barbaric purpose for which it was designed. A chair set in the corner of the room was equipped with restraints and it was positioned so that the patient, or the victim, would be forced to look at a large black hole in the wall. Behind the chair was a trolley laid out with equipment that was covered by a piece of blue paper, evidently set up for the next session. The remainder of the room was empty and, unlike the rest of the basement, perfectly clean. In other words, frequently used. Drawn to the hole in the wall the Doctor approached it carefully, sniffing the air. Whatever it was, it wasn't human. The hole stretched on forever, far beyond the realms of possibility, an inter-dimensional portal that somehow felt dark and oppressive.
"Well you're impressive," he said to the hole, "But what are you?"
Tentatively he reached out to touch the space and found his hand touching brick.
"Odd," he muttered softly, running his hand over the centre of the black space to be sure. Still brick.
"Oh very clever, cunning, amazing... and definitely not human. This is a million years beyond the capabilities of mankind. So Torchwood can't have made it. They've found it, here, in this place and they've taken over the asylum to use it." He felt a sick feeling sweep through him. "A portal. A psychic portal. Tuning into the brain of every poor soul that's stuck in that chair."
Feeling the blackness grow stronger in his mind as he stared at the portal the Doctor turned unsteadily away and forced himself out of the room. He needed to know what was coming through the gateway and Suffolk seemed to be the man with the answers, or some of them anyway. He checked his watch, it was just after seven. He needed a conversation with Suffolk before the night shift took over. Running up the staircase the Doctor hoped he wasn't going to be too late.