The Cabin II: Asylum Page 5

  “Listen...” she went to continue.

  I stopped her dead, “Maybe we should just drop it,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t see any ghosts...”

  “What?” she looked confused.

  “I made the story up.”

  “You didn’t...”

  “Yes, I did. It was some old story that my dad was told. Something I used...”

  “No...”

  “Yes...I told the authorities so they’d send me here instead of a real jail. I wouldn’t last in a real jail amongst the general population. I killed my kids. You know what they’d do to someone like me in there?”

  “You’re lying.”

  Is there anyone in here who believes what I say without questioning it?

  “No I’m not. I needed people to think I’m insane.”

  “You’re lying,” she repeated. “You’re scared. That’s all.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Listen...”

  She won’t let it drop. A chill ran down my back as though someone was watching us. A quick look over my left shoulder - the doctor was standing in the room’s doorway. His eyes clearly fixed on us.

  “...I know who it is,” she continued. “I found out his name.”

  I turned back to Vicky. I’m curious to know what she thinks she knows but I understand the danger she...We...I know the danger we’re in if she continues talking about it. For all I know my dream was a premonition of things to come; a dream I want to avoid for Vicky’s state. I know I don’t know her - and I don’t have a reason to care - but I don’t want her hurt. Enough people have been hurt because of me. I don’t need to be adding to the list.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said. I stood up and turned around. The doctor was still watching us; his head shaking slowly from side to side as though warning me of my actions.

  “Don’t you want to know?” she called out after me.

  “It wouldn’t do any good,” I told her with my back still to her, “it won’t bring my family back.”

  I walked away, through the room of crazies, past the doctor and out the double doors he stood in front of. I wanted to ask him if he was happy. I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. I said neither. No point in angering him, or his colleagues. Hopefully they’ll soon tire of tormenting me...At least, that’s the hope. Just as long as I don’t rise to the bait.

  As soon as I was standing in the corridor I stopped and leant against the wall. A few deep breaths to calm myself down. I wonder if outsiders know how patients are treated within these walls. I wonder - do they care?

  “Dad!” Jamie’s voice called out from the side of me. I turned my head and saw her standing at the far end of the corridor. She motioned, with her hand, for me to go over. I felt no fear. I’m used to seeing my family now. Grateful even, despite part of me wishing they could rest peacefully.

  I checked behind me to make sure the doctor wasn’t still watching. He wasn’t. A quick look through the door’s window and I can’t see him at all. Probably for the best. I turned back to my daughter and walked towards her - my eyes fixed at the bloody hole between her eyes.

  The hole my bullet caused.

  Just as Ava did when I met her in the corridor, when I neared, Jamie disappeared out of sight. I turned the corner - half expecting to see her further down the next corridor - and jumped when I practically walked into her.

  “Jamie...” I went to hold her in my arms but she stepped back, away from me.

  “Talk to her...”

  “What?”

  “The lady. Talk to her.”

  “Vicky?”

  Jamie nodded slowly, “Please...listen to what she has to say...Talk to her.”

  Jamie’s eyes suddenly widened with fear as something behind me caught her eye. I turned to see what it was, half expecting to see the boy with the scar or the doctor, but there was nothing there. I turned back to Jamie. Her eyes were completely black now. She opened her mouth and screamed. A scream so loud it echoed throughout the corridor and straight through my splintered soul. I closed my eyes and covered my ears to drown it out.

  I opened my eyes when the screaming ceased. Jamie was gone and I was back sitting opposite Vicky in the daycare room.

  I looked around. She must have noted the confused look upon my face.

  “What is it?” she asked with a genuine look of concern.

  “How did I get back here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I left. I was sitting here with you. I left. And now I am back. How did I get back here?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. You didn’t go anywhere.”

  “Yes. Yes I did...”

  “We’ve only just sat down...”

  I looked over my shoulder expecting to see the doctor watching us. He wasn’t there.

  “I was thinking...” Vicky continued.

  “I know. You were thinking about the boy I told you about yesterday. We’ve had this conversation - well, part of it. I stopped you and walked out because I don’t want to get you in trouble...”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The doctor...The one who did this...” I showed her my fingers; a look of disgust on her face as she flinched away ever so slightly. “He told me, last night, that I shouldn’t be talking to you about what happened...I shouldn’t be talking to anyone...I think, if we carry on, they may do something to you.”

  Vicky didn’t say anything to start off with. She fidgeted in her seat uncomfortably. Eventually she asked, “What do you think they’ll do?”

  I shook my head, “I don’t know.”

  “They wouldn’t do anything, they’re just trying to scare you...What have you done to them to make them hate you so much?” she asked.

  I raised my fingers again, “I don’t know....Maybe because I killed my family? Maybe because they’re sadistic sons of bitches? You heard the story, right? They pulled the child’s vocal chords out because of his screams at night...The locals said he wasn’t the only one...”

  “His name was Anthony Ward.”

  “What?”

  “The boy...I found out his name - Anthony Ward. I was talking about your story to one of my other friends... My friend was on the same ward as him...The boy...He had his vocal chords removed just as the boy you described...There’s a whole ghost story centering around it...”

  “You were talking about me?” I felt a surge of annoyance. I had told her something in confidence and she couldn’t wait to gossip it to her crazy friends?

  “His name...He’ll have a file...We can find out what happened to him...”

  “What good would that do?” I asked.

  She didn’t have an answer for me, unsurprisingly.

  What, did she expect the curse to suddenly be lifted if the boy’s story was revealed?

  “This isn’t a movie!” I told her.

  I heard the double doors to the daycare room slam shut - loud enough to make me turn my head. The doctor was standing on the other side of them, staring through the glass straight in our direction.

  “What is it?” asked Vicky.

  I turned back to her, “We have to stop talking about this. I don’t want them to do anything to you...”

  “Who?” Vicky peered over my shoulder. “What were you looking at?”

  I turned back to the doors; the doctor was gone.

  “Nothing. I guess.” I stood up and said, “I’ve got to go.”

  “Where are you going?” Vicky asked.

  I didn’t answer her. I didn’t have anywhere in particular to go. I just wanted to back away from the unwelcome conversation and the possibility of angering the powers that be more than they’re already angered.

  If I have to stay here, I’d sooner have a quiet life.

  I passed the other loonies and pushed the doors open to escape their random, barely audible, mutterings. I should never have bothered leaving my room in the first place. I was right - people like me don’t deserve frien
ds and a friendship between Vicky and I will never work...Even if I wanted it to. I can’t trust her not to tell other people anything we talk about. And I don’t want her hurt. She doesn’t deserve it.

  Just as my family didn’t.

  I’m the only one who deserves everything I get.

  I turned right, when I left the daycare room, and headed down the long corridor - lined with the various colourful art projects I had seen so many times before - back towards my room.

  I stopped.

  A framed picture of a small hand-print, made with red paint, on the wall. There was a plaque next to it which read ‘Anthony Ward - aged 6 months’. Another one next to that, slightly bigger, which read ‘Anthony Ward - aged 1.5 years’...The next picture was a scribbled mess of various colours. ‘Anthony Ward - aged 2 years’. The whole wall was like a private gallery to this little boy.

  Aged six months? Who admits their child to a mental institute at six months? Surely it’s impossible to diagnose someone, at that age, with mental illness. It’s hard enough; I’m led to believe, to diagnose an adult - let alone a baby.

  I hurried to the last picture on the wall; a picture of two people - an adult and a child - in front of what I presume to be the asylum. Is that one of the doctors?

  ‘Anthony Ward - aged eight’.

  The next, and final corridor before my room, was lined with artwork from an assortment of different patients.

  There was nothing else from Anthony Ward.

  6.

  The doctor stopped inserting pins under my nails and looked me directly in the eyes as though shocked by what I had just asked.

  “What did you say?” he asked. He sat back in his chair and put the remaining pins onto the table which separated us.

  “I asked who Anthony Ward is.”

  “How’d you learn of that name?” the doctor asked. I couldn’t read his mood. His face suggested, though, that I had awakened a long since dead memory.

  “Who is he?” I pushed.

  The doctor stood up; a flash of anger through his eyes. Unfortunately it’s quite easy to read his mood now. Definitely angry. He yelled in my face, the first time I had heard him actually yell, “I told you! I’m the one who asks the questions!”

  I screamed as he hit the single pin underneath my nail. I tried to move my hand away, to nurse it close to my chest, but the doctor’s helper kept it firmly on the table.

  The doctor moved closer. The stench of his breath was enough to distract me, momentarily, from the pain. “Do you understand me?”

  “Who is he?” I asked again.

  “You have no rights here!” he screamed. He stood to his full height and nodded towards the helper. The helper released my hands, from the table, allowing me to pull my hurting hand close to my chest to massage it better with the other. It helps a little but doesn’t numb the sting entirely.

  “He’s the one I’ve been seeing...” I continued, ignoring the anger of the doctor.

  “Just because a crazy person tells you a name - it doesn’t make it true. You’re simply dragging an innocent into your story to make it seem more real to yourself. The truth of the matter is, you’re nothing more than a murderer...” the doctor spat.

  “The ghost stories around the town...They center around this boy...There are paintings of his on the walls...I’ve seen them myself...Who is he?”

  “He is an ex-patient...”

  “What happened to him?” I shouted.

  The doctor looked to the helper, once more, and gave him a nod. With no warning, the helper slogged me on the side of the head. A hit, so hard, it shook my brain.

  The room was empty.

  Derelict looking.

  I was alone.

  I shook the pain of the punch off.

  The doctor was standing opposite me again with his helper to my side.

  What the hell was that?

  “Look at you...You’re pathetic...”

  “I’m not crazy and you know it,” I argued back - still reeling from the pain of the helper’s fist. “Others have heard of the story...”

  “The story! Exactly that! The story. Just because of what happened to that poor boy...It doesn’t mean he, or any other patients from here are living on as tormented spirits...”

  “I’ve never been in trouble with the law. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. What happened to my family was because of what I went through on that night...”

  “I’ve had enough of this...” the doctor looked to the helper again.

  Another fist to the side of the head.

  * * * * *

  I’m not in the room anymore.

  Not sure how.

  I’m in the daycare room - unlike earlier it’s near empty. The doctor is in the far corner of the room, standing over a nurse who was clutching a little baby. Both of them are smiling. The first happy scene I’ve witnessed since being in here.

  I can’t hear what’s being said. The world is on mute once more, just as it has been in dreams prior to this one. I’m expecting to hear a scream any minute. That’s what happens.

  Suddenly the doctor and nurse looked in my direction. There’s no anger in their eyes, though. They looked as though they were looking through me. I turned on my heel to see what had caught their attention.

  I was in a different room.

  Same decor as the daycare room.

  It looked to be some kind of visitor’s room; smaller tables than the ones found in the daycare room. Grey plastic chairs either side. The room was empty with the exception of a little boy and a man - a man who had his back to me. The boy looked genuinely happy to see him as the man slid a present across the table to him.

  His father?

  I stepped closer and noticed a birthday card on the table - a large number five was on the card.

  “Am I coming home soon?” the boy asked.

  The man shook his head from side to side. The little boy - Anthony I presume - bowed his head down in disappointment. The man tapped on the top of the nicely wrapped gift he had passed over - no doubt a gesture to encourage Anthony to open it.

  Anthony duly opened it but he didn’t look excited about it. If anything it looked as though he was doing it more to please his father as opposed to actually wanting to see what it was.

  He held it up, once opened, allowing me to see it too - not that that was his intention. It couldn’t have been. He didn’t know I was here. I was nothing but an invisible witness to a scene gone by. It was a jigsaw. A picturesque scene of a cabin in the woods - brilliant sunlight spilling through the dense woodlands behind the wooden building.

  Anthony dropped the box and ran from the room. I gave chase. I don’t want to miss what happens. All these images, the messages from my family - someone is trying to tell me something and I need to know. I want to know.

  Out in the corridor and Anthony had vanished. The doctor was at the far end with a man who had his back to me. They seemed to be in heated discussion.

  “We can’t keep him here forever.”

  The man passed over an envelope. The doctor opened it. I could see it was full of cash. The doctors didn’t force the lad to stay here? The father paid them to? Why? The doctor slid the envelope into his white jackets inside pocket. He then shook his head and disappeared around the corner.

  The man scratched the back of his head and then followed - a few steps behind.

  “Wait!” I called out.

  I ran down the corridor and turned into them - straight into Anthony.

  We’re in the daycare room.

  Anthony is on the floor painting - the finishing touches to the painting I saw hanging on the corridor wall; a man and child standing outside of what must be the asylum. He looks older now. If memory serves correctly, from the plaque on the wall, he must be eight. He looked up, directly at me, and called out, “Dad! You came!”

  I turned around and jumped when I came face to face with Anthony. He was practically standing on top of me. His skin was pale, his eyes clouded over, a messy s
car running the length of his neck; he opened his mouth and his scream filled the room.

  I stumbled backwards and screamed at him, “What are you trying to tell me?!”

  He didn’t answer me with anything other than his ear-piercing scream. I turned my back on him and was pleased to note his screaming stopped as soon as I did. The room had changed again too - I was back in my padded cell...Standing right slap bang in the middle of it.