My Probation Consists of Guarding an Abandoned Asylum | Part 16

 

Part 15 | Part 17

After almost a full term (9 months) of guarding the Bachman Asylum, I’ve learned to be in this place. You never investigate anything bizarre or abnormal that happens if it is not an issue. Yet, stupidly and by pure instinct force, I went up the stairway to the second story. To the dorms. The sobbing had been bothering me just for a couple of hours.

Unsurprisingly, the cry was coming out of the red “X” room.

At approaching, the whining intensified exponentially. The “X” seemed painted with bare hands using blood as pigment. A couple of spots were coagulated, and the ends had distinct finger strokes. A flickering light escaped into the hallway through the lower aperture at the weeping’s rhythm.

Fucking job. I entered.

***

It was like traveling through a time portal. The dorm was in excellent condition. No broken window nor rusty bedframe, but an unperforated mattress and fresh sheets. A young woman sat on the bed, crying.

With my first step approaching her, the newly waxed plywood floor squeaked. The alive looking lady turned at me.

“You also came here to humiliate me?!” She yelled at me.

“No,” I answered confused and concise.

Two more steps towards her. I smiled as friendlier as I could. She didn’t seem keen on the idea, but didn’t back away either.

“You fucking liar!” a high pitch, irritable voice shattered my eardrums from behind.

Two people, around middle age, man and woman, stood in the threshold of the room. Even the hallway appeared habitable. The red “X” on the door was freshly done.

“Please, stop,” whispered between tears the girl in the bed.

“You crazy bitch,” the man in the entrance intervened. “No one even wants to talk to you because all of your bullshit.”

That bastard.

“Hope you get lobotomized!” the irritable-voice lady closed strongly.

They marched away while the only sound left in the room was the sobbing of the woman I’d encountered first.

She was indisposed. My best road to answers was going after Mr. Asshole and Mrs. Witch.

I exited.

***

I returned to the present. The horrible, dark, smelly and barely standing corridor appeared in front of me. The crying sounded more real than before.

The now-ghostly-looking lady, pale and suppurating a cold atmosphere, was still inside.

Cautiously, I entered again, but time travel was over. Just the same bent bed frame and termite eaten furniture all around the building.

Confidently, I neared the whining spirit.

She disappeared in front of my eyes as if I had triggered a proximity sensor.

Unfortunately, the problem was still unsolved. The disturbing noise kept coming.

***

I found the moaning specter on the management office. She read a file though her tears.

“Please, I’m just here to help you,” I explained to her as I approached.

The folder dropped when I got close.

Abandoning my failed ninja-noiseless walk, I retreated the file.

The whining lady was a caregiver. She slept in the dorm I found her in. Coworkers painted an “X” on her door. Diagnostic: paranoid, compulsive liar and delusional about the treatments the patients received.

The weeping returned.

***

The crying phantom woman was in the library, behind the round table in the center of the humid dark room.

Slower than a slug, I approached. Every step I made sure the lady wasn’t even flinching. She kept tearing, looking at me.

I got just three feet away from the table, the closest I managed to approach her. I relexed. In the table were a couple of scraps and a pen.

A newspaper note header read: “Island Asylum’s overseeing psychiatrist denies allegation of lobotomies and shock treatment on patients.” Of course, the picture attached was one of Dr. Weiss hiding behind a fake smile.

A second news story was: “Family once in charge of the Bachman Asylum denies having any relationship with Dr. Weiss or the medical facility.” In this case, it had an image of a middle-aged couple posing in front of an expensive chimney and an oil painting of them. In between them, there was a five-year-old child smiling. Never seen him before, but rang all my familiar bells. That nose and face constitution already existed in my unconscious memories.

On a smashed frame, there was an old photograph. For the clothes of the characters, I will say late eighties. Two men shaking hands and smiling to the camara, Weiss and the guy from the picture of the last newspaper scrap.

No newspaper or document I had read named the Family. The closest I had gotten to it was “N Family,” as appeared on an article about the trial that cost them their control over the island.

In the middle of all the gears cracking in my head, a breaking voice disrupted my mental thoughts.

“They want this place back,” the ghost failed to control her sobbing.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make something about it,” I told her, being as vague as possible.

The situation worsened with the apparition of the gossiping spirits from before.

“Stop lying, you treacherous bitch!” The sharp voice shrieked.

“You should be ashamed of betraying Dr. Weiss’ trust,” culminated the male specter.

The pitiful whining I had listened through the whole building turned into an anger cry.

The weeping lady threw herself against her bullies like a rabid animal.

Slapped one.

Pulled and tore hair from the other’s scalp.

A kick on her knees dropped her to the ground.

My punches flew through the ectoplasmic bodies without my foes even realizing it.

For a minute, I watched this bastard ghouls attack the outmatched weeping phantom.

Oh, shit. Electricity!

The library was powerless. Looked around for something capable of having a charge. Nothing.

I padded my body looking for something I could use. My flashlight.

Unscrewed it and took the two C batteries out. Kissed one as a prayer and threw it against a ghost.

The assaulter received the projectile. It snapped him out of his torturing spree. A crack appeared on his intangible face.

The dead asshole ran towards me. Screaming.

I shot the second battery down his exposed throat.

He didn’t stop as his body exploded, covering me over with ectoplasmic ooze.

An even higher pitch shriek interrupted my gag.

I grabbed the pen from the middle table.

The crying lady, whom I had followed all night, stood up.

The crazy bullying bitch dashed against me.

I raised the pen, knowing it wouldn’t do anything.

The phantom that had shown me the truth about what had happened here, not crying anymore, snatched the violent ghoul, holding her in place.

I rubbed the pen on my cotton shirt.

The high pitch witch yelled.

My aiding spirit gave me a worrying look.

“Let her come and get me,” I indicate her.

She doubted.

“Let her!” I commanded.

She set her free.

The bullying woman rushed towards me.

“You all need a lobotomy. I’m gonna mark you with a bloody X…”

She didn’t finish her idea when the statically charged pen pierced through her left eyeball. It caused an internal hemorrhage in her immaterial gray matter. The pen lost its charge.

Fell to the ground.

The ectoplasmic residues faded through the cracks of the rotten floor planks.

Retrieving my breath, I approached the lady who spent the whole night whining, but not anymore.

“Don’t worry. I know someone who will help us expose everything that happened here,” I explained her.

She smiled gratefully. Peacefully disappeared, leaving nothing more than the deep and, contrary to most nights, reassuring silence of the Bachman Asylum.

***

So, yeah. I put together all the scraps, papers and articles I could find about Dr. Weiss, the N Family and whatever happened to this corrupt place. There are still a few absent pieces, mainly the true name of these N motherfuckers. I’m sure Lisa will find those missing links.

I delivered the information package to Alex, asking him to send it by mail.

“Sure, man,” he replied. “I’ve been having a little trouble finding what you asked me. It’s kind of a specialty item.”

“Don’t worry. It’s nothing urgent.”

He left the island with a conspiracy case in his hands. I stayed.