((For best results, play the following song on Youtube: watch?v=XjvjbriIDvs&t=5960s))

...

Billie Dean stirred and opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was concrete. She felt the cold hardness of it and realized she was lying on the floor, on her stomach. She lifted her head and looked around. She was in a room twice as big as her cell, a storage space filled with dusty boards and rusty metal drums. Everything was a uniform drab dark brown in hue. The only light came from a weak, flickering bulb over by the only door that led out of the room.

She sat up and her head started to hurt. She traced the source to a tender spot near her temple where she felt a large lump growing. She traced her fingers lightly over the injury and winced. Fear set in then. The last thing she remembered was that she was on laundry duty. She'd been worrying about Heather's meeting with Timothy.

She got to her feet and crept closer to the door. Thinking back, she remembered seeing one of Rosemary's combs on the floor and she had bent to pick it up.

That was her last memory before waking.

She paused with a hand on the door handle. She tried to hear through the door but either it was quiet on the other side, or the metal was too thick to hear through. She froze up. Whoever put her there could be right outside. She wasn't sure she was ready for a physical confrontation. But what choice did she have? She couldn't stay in the room and wait for her fate.

She took a deep breath and screwed up her courage. There was nothing in the room that could serve as a weapon so she readied herself with the idea that she might need to kill someone bare-handed. She planned to go for the eyes and throat.

When she pushed on the door, it opened with a faint creak. She hesitated in the strip of light that came through. When nothing happened, she peeked through. The slight opening didn't afford much of a view; all she could see was the floor and a dingy wall. After a few agonizing seconds of waiting without seeing or hearing anything, the frightened woman carefully pushed the door wider, stopping when she could poke her head out for a better look.

The light from the hall was coming through large windows across the way from the door. There were four of them and they started about a foot above the floor and went nearly to the ceiling. The sun coming in told Billie Dean it must be about noon. She'd been on laundry duty during the late morning so she mustn't have been unconscious for long.

Emerging into the hall, she could see several wheeled hospital beds in the hall, haphazardly positioned and covered in thick, white dust. The floor was covered in the same powdery substance. Footprints were evident in the dust, some older than others. The freshest went directly to the room she just came out of.

The hallway terminated in a wall to her left; there was no way out that direction. There were other doors along the wall, and they all looked similar to that of the room she'd come out of. She didn't expect any of them to lead to an exit. That left only the hall to her right: The direction the freshest footprints lay in.

She looked around for something to arm herself with but there was nothing helpful in the hallway. The windows were reinforced with steel mesh fused inside the glass. While they were made to be opened, they would only do so a few inches: Just enough to let in fresh air but not enough to permit escape. Billie Dean had seen the same locking mechanism on the windows of the common room. No help there either.

She advanced down the hall toward the intersection at the far end where the shadows took over. The sound of the building settling startled her and made her stop for a moment. She listened, all senses keened. When nothing else happened, she made herself keep going.

It was strange to be so afraid in broad daylight. All the scary stories she'd read as a teen would have the reader fear the dark, but daylight wasn't proof against nightmares. If anything, the bright sunlight coming through the large, dusty windows made her feel exposed; vulnerable.

Billie Dean had never empathized with a cockroach before until she suddenly found herself understanding what it must be like for one crossing a kitchen floor when the overhead halogens come on. She scurried toward the shadowy corridor at the end, the urge to hide growing to near panic by the time she reached it.

She paused for a moment in the dim recess. Told herself to calm down. She was letting fear take control. She couldn't let that happen. Briarcliff was too dangerous for her to lose it. Steeling her resolve, she kept going. She left the bright room behind for the narrow back hall.

The hallway smelled stale and old. The medium could see more light at the far end of the hall, amber in tone and flickering slightly. Moving as quietly as she could, she crept to the end and peeked around the corner. She was greeted with another long hall that stretched off into darkness. She saw doors lining the walls on either side. It looked like a ward similar to the one she stayed in.

Timidly she entered the corridor and started down it. She hugged herself and wished again that she had a weapon. She slowed as she passed the first doors. They were positioned directly across from one another, just like the ones in her ward. They had the same sort of windowed doors.

Curious, she went to the one on the right and peeked in. It was too dark to see anything. The whole wing felt deserted. It was silent save for the distant sounds of the building settling. She didn't believe the impression though. Someone had put her here and that someone was most likely still close by.

Experimentally, Billie Dean tried the door. It was locked. The next one down was locked too. She'd considered hiding in one but that didn't seem like an option. She pressed on. It wasn't long before she arrived at a nurse's station. Like the rest of the area so far, the station was neglected and covered in dust. It hadn't been cleared out: The old-fashioned telephone was still there. A clipboard with patient paperwork still sat on the counter. It was like the nurse left for a break and never came back.

Billie Dean hugged herself. She looked around, wide-eyed in the dimly lit room. The amber light came from a small emergency fixture in the ceiling above the nurse's station. The hallway branched out in four directions from there, including the one she came from. Based on what she'd seen and what she already knew of Briarcliff's layout, she reasoned that she'd come from some sort of day room for the wing. This might even be the hospital's old tuberculosis ward.

She registered a rattling sound to her right that was coming closer. It sounded like a cart or something rolling. Fear gripped her. She panicked. She couldn't go that way and she knew there was no escape the way she came. That left only two options. Either was just as likely to lead to a dead end.

Moving as quickly and quietly as she could, Billie Dean darted down the right hall. She passed a few doors marked with signs she couldn't make out in the dim light. The position of the rooms wouldn't help, being all interior and likely offices or storage. She kept going down to the end of the hall where two large doors blocked the way. She pushed on one. She was relieved to find it swung open easily and silently.

She ducked into the room beyond. The illumination from the backup lights painted everything in the cluttered area a sickly orange. She wasn't sure what sort of bizarre apparatus stood before her blocking her way, but it was big.

There was a bed in the center of the thing. A wooden frame had been constructed around it to support several wires and tubes. Metal framework along the outside held withered bags and hoses. There was a huge machine of some sort near the head of the bed. It had a wide dial on it with a red needle buried at 0. To the left of the bed another exactly like it was positioned, head to head with the first. Several more were were behind and to either side of them, each set with its own big machine.

It was very creepy. The big machines resembled the ones Billie Dean had seen as a little girl. They reminded her of radiation. In order to explore the darkened back portion of the room, she would have to pass the machines. She didn't want to do that, but there might be a way out back there, or a weapon. Someplace to hide.

She started back, between two sets of weird beds. The light overhead sputtered, producing the illusion that there was something moving in the back of the room. Billie Dean paused, spooked. Was it an illusion? Or was it one of Briarcliff's unfriendly spirits?

She couldn't just stand there indefinitely. Forward or back; neither choice was ideal. She pushed on ahead, into the gloom. She was just about to pass the second row of strange beds when a soft sound behind her betrayed a presence.

Billie Dean didn't have time to turn completely before the person's hands were on her, grabbing her, but she managed to twist around in their grasp till she was facing them. The man was head and shoulders taller than she, thin but not malnourished. He wore a stained old patient's uniform that was tattered and smelled like a bathroom. His face was partially covered by a surgeon's mask that looked relatively new.

"You're not supposed to be awake yet," he rasped. He sounded like an old man who'd been smoking cigars all his life. He didn't look older than 40, if he was that old.

"Let go of me!" Billie Dean shouted.

She kicked at him but couldn't score with the wild, close-range blows, so she reached for his face to claw at his eyes. He pulled his head back. He couldn't go far without letting go of her, and he didn't want to do that. Her nails weren't carefully manicured any longer: Many had jagged edges. She sank them into his face.

He grabbed one of her wrists and pulled her hand back. She wouldn't let go. To her horror, the skin she gripped came loose from the bone. She had a hand full of dripping mess, like warm plastic wrap pulled from a microwaved casserole. She dropped the grisly flesh with a strangled cry of disgust. Panic drove her into a wild flurry of a struggle, but the man held tight despite his bleeding face. The surgeon's mask came loose, held on only by one ear loop. His mouth was a vile sneer.

Her assailant forced her to the ground and ripped at her dress with his free hand. She struggled. He was bigger and stronger than she was, so she tried for his face again, this time punching. She was using her off-hand though. Contact with the slippery exposed viscera didn't seem to faze the man. She felt his hand go up her skirt and paw at her undergarments.

"HELP!" she screamed.

The sound echoed strangely in the disused room, as did the sounds of their struggle. There was no one near to hear her. If she didn't do something, things were going to get very bad. So she did what she could. She opened her mind to the spirit world and sent that same cry into the darkness of the other side.

She saw immediately that the man atop her was being ridden by an entity, much like Heather was. The thing on him was living shadow and the reason the man's skin was so thin. Seeing it for what it was terrified her. She knew instantly she'd made a mistake.

—

The psychic signal the medium sent out was like blood in the ocean. Dark things responded to the helpless cry, drawn to the promise of a fresh victim. The possessed man had penetrated her by the time the first one arrived, rutting and grunting like a boar despite the way Billie Dean struggled.

When she saw the double doors swing open on their silent hinges she stilled, thinking at first that she was saved. Then she saw the thing that lumbered in. Her heart stuttered with terror. The hulking creature was as tall as the door frame. It had to hunch a bit to get into the room. The beast's legs were trunk-like, fat stumps with knobbily knees that made it lurch when it walked. Its arms were disproportionately long. As it drew closer, Billie Dean could see it was naked and very male.

Another layer of fear bloomed for the psychic. She renewed her struggles. The possessed man didn't care; he just thrust harder, nearing orgasm. Billie Dean wanted to scream but fear paralyzed her when the abomination shambled right up to them.

It stood there for a moment, watching the man rape her, then it reached over with a mitt-like hand and seized his head. The man stopped his rutting. The creature squeezed. The man grabbed at the monstrous hand that circled his head. The possessed man wasn't strong enough to break the thing's grip; soon blood trickled from his nose, shiny black in the dim light.

Some dripped on Billie Dean. She she recovered her senses enough to scramble back, away from them both. She scrabbled to her feet and ducked around the creature while it was still preoccupied with the man. She hit the double doors full tilt. She ran like she'd never run before. Dreadful thoughts of those awful things pursuing her spurred her on even after her side began to hurt. She didn't stop running until she found herself in a part of the hospital she recognized.

"Hey!" barked Roman when she darted into the mezzanine. He was one of the less tolerant orderlies. "You're not supposed to be here!"

The orderly had a young nurse with him, The top buttons of her were uniform undone. The medium didn't care about either of them beyond their ability to be a physical barrier between her and whatever might be coming after her.

"I got lost," she lied and smiled weakly. She knew how disheveled she must look. "New meds have me..." She twirled a finger near her temple and tried to look even more apologetic.

Roman's expression softened a little and he gave her a longer look, noting her mussed hair and rumpled skirt. It wasn't compassion in his eyes, though. He glanced at the nurse then looked back at Billie Dean. "Get on back to your room," he said. "I'll be doing room check on you later, so you'd better be there."

"Of course," Billie Dean said, blinking with the effort to keep the smile on. She didn't like the implied meaning underscoring the man's words.

She beat a hasty retreat then, down the hall and back to the women's ward. She was a wreck by the time she got to her room. She fell onto the cot where she sobbed into her pillow for several minutes. It was a hopeless sort of emotional dump that didn't make her feel any better afterward.

...

Later that night...

"Monsignor! Reverend Monsignor Howard!"

The urgent cry was accompanied by pounding on the door of the man's personal room. It brought him up out of sleep into a panicked, hazy state of almost awake. He threw on his robe and hurried to the door. He pulled it open to the sight of Sister Mary Eunice in hysterical tears.

"Sister? What is it?" the priest exclaimed, reaching for the distraught young woman.

But she wasn't there to be comforted. She grabbed his hand and tried to tug him out into the hall. "They found her! There was a man in the old tuberculosis ward—a patient! There was a patient down in the ward and he's the one who—"

Timothy pulled away from the nun, confused. "Please slow down, Sister. I don't understand what you're saying."

Mary Eunice gave a woeful little cry and gulped a quick breath to steady herself. "They've found Rosemary's body. One of the patients led them—the orderlies—he led them to her body. You've got to come!"

The Reverend's stomach knotted up. He shoved his feet into his shoes without bothering to put on socks. "Where?"

—

It was freezing cold outside. The ground was soaked with recent rain. Thick clouds overhead blotted out the stars. A small group of guards armed with flashlights, a handful of orderlies, and a small assortment of doctors had gathered together behind the greenhouse. With them was a disheveled man in his mid-fifties who was wearing a filthy patient's uniform. His hands were cuffed in front of him. His ankles were also hobbled. He looked like he'd been in a fight recently.

"Monsignor," Sister Jude said, arriving on the scene as well. Mary Eunice had gone to her first but she had taken longer to get changed.

"Jude," the priest greeted and the pair embraced briefly. "What have they found?"

"Didn't Sister Mary Eunice tell you?"

They both looked over at the younger woman, who was keeping her distance now that she'd successfully fetched the Reverend. She didn't want to get too close to the scene. She'd heard what was found; she didn't want to see it.

"She tried," Timothy said diplomatically. "She said Rosemary has been located?"

The older nun nodded and waved a hand in the direction of the cluster of men. "More or less."

"More or less?"

Sister Jude looked dour. "The criminal who killed her cut her up."

Timothy rubbed his eyes with one hand then pinched the bridge of his nose. "I see. I see. So..." He let his hand drop and looked at Sister Jude despondently. "Well."

She pursed her lips. "We can't go to the police."

He sighed and glanced over at the gaggle of people milling about. "No." That was becoming a too-common refrain: Avoiding police involvement. "We'll have Freeman... do his thing."

"Are you sure that'll be enough?"

The priest eyed her, torn between gratitude for her foresight and irritation at being questioned. "We'll send him down to Heath's ward afterward."

She nodded grimly. She didn't like the tunnel ward but, at a time like this, Dr. Heath was useful. "I'll file the paperwork. Billie Dean turned up as well, in her room. One of the orderlies found her unharmed. She claimed she 'got lost'."

"Well, that's a relief," said the priest earnestly.

Jude started to move toward the milling group of people, but Monsignor Howard caught her elbow. Puzzled, she looked up at him. Thunder grumbled overhead.

"There's a girl. Heather Thompson."

"The one from the cult?" the nun prompted.

Timothy nodded. "She's... She's been possessed."

Sister Jude stared at him, searching his expression. She could tell by the worried knot of lines between his brows that he meant what he said. His certainty spread his worry to her. She believed whatever he did.

"What are we going to do?" she asked, a bit breathlessly. Things were getting more bizarre the longer the night wore on.

The priest glanced up at the dark sky when the first cold drops of rain began to patter down. "Pray," he said. Then, looking at her again: "I've been trained to perform exorcisms, but I'll need help."

Sister Jude felt her heart leap. "If there's anything I can do..."

Monsignor Howard took one of her hands and clasped it between both of his and looked into her eyes with utmost sincerity. "Ordinarily I would call in another priest who's also been trained but—" He hesitated, not wanting to verbalize how impatient the Church was growing with the shenanigans at Briarcliff.

Sister Jude didn't need him to spell it out for her. "Just tell me what you need from me, and I'll do it."

He tried to smile but it was just a flicker of an expression. "I know I can always count on you."

The nun felt her heart flutter again. His confidence made her heady with delight. "Of course, you can."

He gave her a gentle squeeze then released her. She curled her hand in against her chest, close to her heart, then headed off toward the dispersing group. Timothy debated leaving then; Jude was more than capable of handling the situation. But others would expect him to be there. So he went, trying to brace himself for whatever lay ahead.

One of the guards stopped Sister Jude. "Sorry," he said in a tone that wasn't at all apologetic. "This is no place for a lady."

She stared at him, momentarily stunned into silence by his presumptuousness. "I run this place!"

The priest put a hand on her shoulder. The nun lost some of her bristle instantly.

"I'm Reverend Monsignor Howard," the clergyman said to the guard. He needed no further introduction; he was the one who signed the man's paychecks. "Sister Jude is with me."

"Be that as it may, yer Holiness," said the guard with more respect in his tone. "But the Sister here don't wanna see this."

The asylum's authority figures exchanged glances. Timothy wanted to allow Sister Jude freedom to fulfill her role as upper staff at Briarcliff, but he had a few old-fashioned leanings. He couldn't in good conscience insist she be shown something that might be traumatizing.

"Wait here a moment," he said to the nun as kindly as he could.

She bit back her frustration and nodded. The Reverend stepped past the guard then and picked his way through the small throng that blocked view of the crime scene.

There was a collection of large terracotta pots near the back outer wall of the greenhouse, one smeared in blood. Dr. Heath was crouched beside it, inspecting a dismembered arm and torso that someone had placed on one of the hospital's sheets. The white cloth stood out starkly against the dark ground, bringing the grisly remains into vivid contrast in their livid morbidity. Dark red blood was smeared across the sheet.

As the Monsignor struggled to recover from the shock of seeing pieces of a once-live human woman, he realized something that made him feel ill. "W—Why are there only—only two?"

Dr. Haddonfield was there. He came over to the priest. He was wearing medical gloves but that didn't stop him lighting a cigarette. "That's all he's shown us so far."

"Who is he?"

"A patient. David Duffy," the doctor supplied. "Serial rapist. Never killed anybody before. They found him coming out of the old tuberculosis wing, hollering about wanting to confess to the murder of three of our missing female patients. Looks like somebody beat the hell out of him but he won't say who."

"Three?" the priest echoed, surprised. He glanced back over his shoulder. He could see Sister Jude as the orderlies were beginning to head back to the hospital. He looked back to the doctors and nearest guards. "Let's get that covered up. Take it inside if you need to examine it, please."

Dr. Heath flipped the sheet over the ghastly remains and stood up. "We need to find the rest."

The priest nodded and rubbed a hand over his mouth. Too many things were happening at once. "Let's find out what we can from the patient. Get the information... however you must." He glanced at the sheet then looked away. "If you need anything from me, please let me know."

"We should have this handled," Haddonfield assured, glad to have the priest butt out. He was hoping to keep any of the parts they found for further research once the crisis was managed. It would be easier to do that if there were less people involved.

Reverend Monsignor Howard nodded and left them to finish up. He went back over to where Sister Jude was waiting. The sour look on her face cleared when he approached.

"Let's go inside," he said, passing her by without stopping. He knew she would follow. He was counting on it to distract her from the remains.

She went with him, of course. He knew he should tell her what he'd learned from the doctor—he wanted her to know what was going on at Briarcliff. It was the only way she could act for him when he wasn't available. With the problems at the hospital mounting, he needed her now more than ever. He just had to quell his instinct to shelter her from the dark realities they were facing.

"There are two other victims as well," he said at last. "The missing female patients. The man apparently has an extended history of sex abuse."

The nun made a sound of disgust. "He should be castrated!"

"Agreed," the Reverend said quite seriously. "I'm sure Doctor Freeman can take care of that along with the lobotomy."

"May I handle his atonement before that, Monsignor?"

The priest unlocked the side door of the western ward and waited for the nun to pass before following her inside. The amber lights overhead flickered and made shadows dance on the walls of the narrow gray hall.

"You may, Sister."

...

Author's Note:

This chapter was influenced by stories of the shadow people and serial killers such as the Atlanta Ripper and the Florence Monster. Silent Hill and The Suffering, two of my favorite video games, also helped shape this installment.

I've had a couple of folks tell me the current season of AHS has reminded them of scenes out of some of my previous fanfics. I haven't been following Season 8 (I have a weird schedule so it's easier to wait and just binge it all when I can) but I appreciate hearing that. Makes me feel good whenever someone ranks my stuff anywhere near the source. Thanks, guys! I love ya!

Next time: The asylum hastily buries the evidence of the Lady Butcher and then it's T-day. Yes, even Briarcliff observes Thanksgiving.