Chapter 15 Forgetting to Check for Traps
Forgetting to Check for Traps
The corridor beyond the patient room stretched into darkness, wallpaper peeling in long strips. Levi’s flashlight beam swept across abandoned wheelchairs and rusted medical equipment, creating dancing shadows that made everything appear alive.
He maintained a careful distance from Asher, staying three steps behind as they navigated the debris-strewn hallway. Their footsteps echoed against cracked linoleum, punctuated by the occasional creak of settling wood.
Directional signs emerged from the gloom, painted arrows pointing toward different sections of the building. “Psychiatric Ward - East Wing.” “Medical Services - Central.” “Research Wing - North Corridor.
“Research Wing,” Asher said, studying the signs intently. “Tyler mentioned it on his building schematics. Near the front entrance, if I remember correctly.
“Research makes sense,” Levi agreed, forcing practicality into his voice. “If there’s information about what happened here, that’s where we’d find it.”
They followed the painted arrows, their flashlight beams revealing decades of neglect. Water damage had warped floor tiles into treacherous ridges. Ceiling tiles hung at precarious angles, threatening to crash down at any disturbance.
The Research Wing doors stood partially open, heavy metal barriers scarred with rust and impact marks. Beyond them, a laboratory stretched into shadow—glass-fronted cabinets lined the walls, filled with specimens floating in cloudy preservative fluid.
“Jesus,” Asher breathed, stepping into the room. “Look at this place.”
Vintage medical equipment dominated the space like monuments to forgotten science.
An electroshock therapy machine squatted in one corner, its leather restraints cracked but intact.
Surgical instruments filled display cases—bone saws, trepanation drills, lobotomy picks arranged with clinical precision.
Levi approached a cabinet containing labeled specimens. Brain tissue suspended in formaldehyde, cross-sections revealing internal structures. Human organs preserved in various states of dissection. Tags bore dates from the 1960s and patient identification numbers rather than names.
“This isn’t standard psychiatric research,” Levi said, photographing the specimens with his phone. “This is experimental research.”
At the far end of the lab, another door stood locked, a heavy deadbolt securing whatever lay beyond. Beside it, a filing cabinet had been secured with a padlock that hung loose and broken.
“Let’s see what they were hiding,” Asher said, approaching the cabinet.
The top drawer resisted their initial attempts, warped wood binding against rusted tracks. Asher positioned himself beside Levi, both of them gripping the handle.
“On three,” Asher said. “One, two—”
They pulled together, the drawer screeching open with the sound of tearing metal. Their hands brushed during the effort, Asher’s fingers warm against Levi’s knuckles. The contact lasted only seconds, but Levi felt electricity shoot up his arm.
Don’t. He’s just helping with the drawer. Nothing more.
Inside the cabinet, manila folders spilled out in disorganized heaps. Patient files dating back fifty years, some bearing official letterhead from the state psychiatric board, others marked with red stamps reading “EXPERIMENTAL” and “CLASSIFIED.”
Levi grabbed a handful of files, spreading them across a nearby examination table. The contents made his stomach turn.
“Treatment - reconstruction,” he read from one report. “Subject 47 showed remarkable resilience to standard lobotomy procedures. Recommend increased voltage and extended duration of direct contact ECT.”
Asher leaned over his shoulder, reading along. “Memory suppression protocols. Jesus, what were they doing to these people?”
The clinical detachment in the reports was horrifying—patients reduced to numbered subjects, their suffering documented with scientific indifference. One file contained before-and-after photographs, showing a young man’s gradual deterioration through multiple procedures.
“Look at this,” Levi said, pointing to a recurring signature. “Dr. Faine. The same name from the visitor log.”
Asher straightened, genuine disturbance crossing his features. “He was performing unauthorized experiments. Using psychiatric patients as test subjects.”
For a moment, Levi forgot to maintain his wariness. The empathy in Asher’s voice sounded authentic—horror at human suffering, outrage at medical abuse. It was the kind of reaction that made him seem entirely human.
“These aren’t medical treatments,” Asher continued, flipping through more files. “It’s torture disguised as research.”
A photograph slipped from one of the folders—a group shot of medical staff posed in this same laboratory.
Dr. Faine stood in the center, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses and an unsettling smile.
Around him, nurses and orderlies arranged themselves with the casual confidence of people who believed their work was justified.
Levi studied the faces, looking for anyone familiar. None of the medical staff resembled his current companions, but something about the photograph felt significant.
“The locked door,” Levi said. “If Faine was conducting secret experiments, he’d have a private workspace. Somewhere the regular staff couldn’t access.”
They approached the secured door together, examining the heavy deadbolt. The lock appeared newer than the rest of the building’s hardware, as if it had been installed specifically to protect whatever lay beyond.
“We need a key,” Asher observed, testing the lock mechanically. “Or maybe I can work around it. I did some locksmith work in college—beer money, you know?”
Levi returned to the filing cabinet, searching the remaining drawers. Medical supplies, administrative paperwork, personnel files—and at the bottom, wrapped in oiled cloth, a set of keys on a simple metal ring.
One key fit the deadbolt.
The locked door opened into a corridor even darker than the research lab they left behind. Levi’s flashlight beam swept across more scarred linoleum floors and peeling wallpaper, revealing a section of the hospital that felt fundamentally different from the patient rooms they explored earlier.
Asher stepped through the doorway first, his own flashlight cutting through the gloom.
“Administrative Wing,” Asher said, reading a faded sign on the wall. “Dr. Faine’s private office should be along here somewhere.”
They moved deeper into the corridor, footsteps echoing against damaged floors. This section showed signs of deliberate abandonment—file cabinets left open, papers scattered, desk drawers pulled out and emptied. Someone had searched through everything in haste.
“Looks like someone cleaned this place out before it closed,” Levi noted, photographing the ransacked offices with his phone.
A metal examination table dominated the center of one room, its surface scarred with decades of use. The restraints looked sturdy despite their age—thick leather straps designed to hold struggling patients. Levi reached out to examine one of the mechanisms, curious about how the buckles operated.
His fingers brushed against what looked like a simple placemarker, but the moment he made contact, machinery whirred to life beneath the table. Metal clamps shot upward like striking snakes, slamming shut where his hand had been mere seconds before.
“Sh-shit!” Levi jerked backward, his heart hammering as he stared at the vicious steel jaws that had nearly caught his fingers. The clamps remained locked in position with blunt serrated edges designed to hold—or crush—whatever they captured.
Strong arms wrapped around his waist, yanking him away from the table. Levi found himself pressed against Asher’s chest as they both tumbled backward, Asher’s momentum carrying them away from the triggered device.
They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, Asher’s arms tightening around Levi to cushion their fall. For a moment, they lay frozen in an awkward embrace—Levi’s back against Asher’s chest, those arms still circling his waist.
“You okay?” Asher’s voice was breathless, his face close enough that Levi felt warm air against his ear. “That was close.”
Heat flooded Levi’s cheeks as he became hyperaware of every point of contact between their bodies. Asher’s chest rose and fell against his back, solid and reassuring. Those arms around his waist felt steady, protective—nothing like the violence he remembered from previous encounters.
“I’m fine,” Levi managed. He started to push himself up, but Asher’s arms tightened, holding him in place for another heartbeat.
“Are you sure?” Concern colored Asher’s tone. “Your hands—let me see.”
Only then did Levi realize his fingers were trembling. Asher caught his wrists, turning his hands palm-up to examine them for injury. His touch was careful as he checked each finger for damage.
“Nothing broken,” Asher announced, his thumbs stroking across Levi’s knuckles—a gesture so gentle it made Levi’s breath catch. “You were lucky.”
Lucky. Right. Levi’s pulse hammered as those thumbs continued their gentle movement across his skin. The tenderness of the touch made his chest tight with confusion.
They disentangled slowly, both of them sitting up on the dusty floor. Asher released Levi’s hands reluctantly, fingers trailing across his skin as he pulled away.
“Thanks,” Levi said, not quite meeting Asher’s eyes.
“Of course.” Asher stood first, extending a hand to help Levi to his feet.”Can’t have my partner getting crushed by antique medical equipment.
Partner. The word hung between them, loaded with implications Levi didn’t dare examine.
They looked at the examination table from a safe distance, noting how the clamps locked into position. The mechanism appeared designed to activate when pressure was applied to specific points—a trap for the unwary, or perhaps a security measure to protect the hospital’s secrets.