Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
44 years later.
“Ho-lee shit,” Chris Saito said, peering out the van’s window. “That place is fucking huge.”
In the passenger seat, Nigel glanced at his notebook. “The building is 1,295 feet long,” he reported. “Almost a quarter of a mile, built from hand-cut stone.”
Oscar Fox slowed the van to a halt on the cracked, two-lane road that ran along the upper edge of the valley. Below lay a small river spanned by an old stone bridge. On the other side, directly across from the road they were on, loomed what had once been the Howlston Lunatic Asylum.
The building where his grandmother had spent her final years. A medium like himself, weakened by drugs, trapped amidst a century of pain, terror, and death.
He’d seen pictures of the asylum while prepping for this trip. But no picture could come close to the impact such an enormous structure made in real life. Its upper stories towered over the trees and underbrush that had grown up over the decades since its abandonment. The spring green of honeysuckle and grape vines crawled up dark stone walls. Sunlight flashed only dully from the grimy windows, and the white paint on the clock tower above the entrance had flaked away like diseased skin.
Had Mamaw glimpsed the place before she was taken inside? Maybe not, if she was brought in an ambulance. Otherwise…
He couldn’t imagine. It was overwhelming enough just to look at. Knowing you were about to be locked away inside would be nightmarish, even if the place had been in better shape at the time.
Tina took off her glasses, rubbed them on her flowing orange skirt, then put them back on, as if that would help her take it all in. “I don’t want to be a downer, but that place is enormous, and there are only four of us. What exactly is Ms. Montague expecting us to do?”
Oscar wished he knew the answer. Patricia Montague had become their benefactor when they investigated a haunted house—or rather, she’d paid for the grant to fund Nigel’s research at Duke University’s Institute of Parapsychology. She’d come through for them again, when the team found themselves confronting the ghosts of Oscar’s ancestors, during what had originally been planned as a simple Christmas visit to his parents’ house.
This time, she approached them directly. Oh, she knew Oscar hoped to come here eventually and do what he could to free any spirits still trapped in this place. But he’d imagined some future version of himself undertaking the task, one with more experience as a medium under his belt.
Ms. Montague either had more confidence in him than he did, or this was a test of some kind.
No, that was ridiculous—he was letting his own uncertainties make him paranoid. Turning away from the grand spectacle of the decaying building, he eased the van back on the road.
The GPS guided them onto a street that dropped steeply down toward the river. The moment they were off the highway, the pavement turned into an unmarked surface that was just as much pothole as asphalt. Trees and shrubs grew wild, obscuring the doors and windows of collapsing houses.
“We’ve got to take a day so I can get some shots of the town,” Chris said, patting their camera case. “Is the whole place abandoned?”
“According to the brief Ms. Montague sent,” Nigel replied. “Howlston began life as a coal town—the asylum even had its own mine to supply its boiler, apparently. The problem is, coal isn’t an infinite resource. The mines dried up, and the only jobs left were in the asylum. After it shut down in 1994, the last few hold-outs left.”
“West Virginia is full of ghost towns.” Oscar rolled through a stop sign in what had been the old downtown, now just a row of brick buildings with boarded-up windows. “Lots of places started off as coal camps, or shipping points on railroad lines.”
“Mining is great for boomtowns, less so for long-term settlement.” Nigel put his notebook away into his backpack. “Unless there’s some other reason for people to stay, of course.”
“So the nearest anything is out on the interstate?” Tina asked.
Oscar nodded. “Pretty much. No quick grocery runs for us, so let’s hope Ms. Montague was as good as her word and set us up for the next few days.”
The road took them over the railroad tracks, which was the only thing that still seemed to be in use for miles around. Beyond lay an old stone bridge, built from the same dark brown stone making up the walls of the asylum. The small river beneath looked shallow, its clear waters tumbling over smoothed-out rocks.
The cracked road beyond led a short distance uphill until it reached an iron fence overgrown with honeysuckle and wild grapevines. A great iron gate stood open, the words Howlston Lunatic Asylum worked into the arch spanning the road.
Beyond lay a disintegrating asphalt drive, cutting through what had once been open lawn but was now a mix of wild field and young forest. The asylum loomed directly ahead, its immense bulk like a crouching animal waiting to pounce on them.
Oscar shook his head sharply. His mind was getting fanciful, knowledge painting his perception of the place in a darker shade that it would have otherwise. He needed to keep a clear head to use his talent as a medium.
The drive widened and split into a circle around a majestic fountain long gone dry. Just to the left, the brush had been cleared back, allowing for three large white tents to be erected, accompanied by generators and other gear. Another car was parked at an angle in the circle, so he rolled to a stop and parked as well.
“Here we are,” he said, trying to keep the trepidation from his voice. What if he wasn’t ready for this? It had been less than a year since he’d admitted, even to himself, that he was a medium. This was surely too much, too soon.
His gaze followed the sweep of the drive to the steps leading up into the looming building. The wooden doors looked made of heavy oak; to either side of them were narrow windows of clear glass panes set in a diamond pattern.
Was that a movement in one of the windows? Or just a shadow caused by the trees outside?
“What the fuck!” Chris exclaimed. They pressed against the window, staring out at the drive rather than at the asylum. “What are they doing here?”
Chris flung open the van door and hurled themself out. The normal, easy-going person Nigel knew had vanished, replaced by tensed shoulders, an angry scowl, and stomping footsteps. All their attention was focused on a pair of figures standing beside a dark gray sedan with a decal on the side proclaiming they were Zeeking the Unknown.
“What the hell?” Nigel asked, glancing back at Tina.
Her light brown face wore a confused expression. “I have no idea.”
The van rocked slightly as Oscar slid out from behind the driver’s seat. “We’d better make sure they’re okay.”
Nigel scrambled out as well, just in time to hear Chris demand, “What are you doing here?”
“I should ask you the same question!” a woman shot back.
“Whoa, whoa!” Oscar, ever the peacemaker, hurried to put himself between them. The thousand-watt smile that never failed to melt Nigel’s bones turned on the two newcomers. “Um, hi, I’m Oscar Fox and my pronouns are he/him.”
“Adrienne Cooper, she/her,” said the white woman who’d answered Chris. Her honey-blonde hair was swept up into a loose ponytail, and she was dressed all in shades of either black or screaming pink. Nigel winced when he realized the pink perfectly matched the shock of color dyed into Chris’s otherwise black hair.
“Zeek Holt…uh, he/him, I guess?” said Adrienne’s companion. He offered an uncertain grin, displaying dazzling white teeth, then glanced at Adrienne. “Are you, like, fans?”
Tina twisted her hands in her flowing multi-colored skirt. “I, uh, I have seen your show. Great editing!”
Another online ghost-hunting team, then. After hooking up with Oscar, Nigel had briefly browsed through similar shows. Most were complete drivel, and all of them seemed to visit the exact same well-trodden locations telling the same tired stories.
“I do most of the editing myself, so thank you,” said Adrienne in a voice like Antarctic wind. “Now, what are you doing here, Chris?”
One of the tents opened, and Ms. Montague herself stepped out, followed by a young man Nigel recognized as the secretary who’d let him in to see her during their first meeting.
“Everyone is here at my invitation,” Montague said in her steely tones.
Patricia Montague was in her 70s, highly intelligent, and extremely wealthy—as in Old Tobacco Money rich. Though cigarettes didn’t bring in nearly as much cash these days, Nigel had no doubt she’d diversified her portfolio long ago. She wore her white hair in a pixie cut, above a baby-blue suit that had clearly been tailored to her form. Her only concession to age was a cane topped with a silver handle.
His doctoral advisor, Dr. Lawson, had warned him against dealing with Ms. Montague. But so far, she’d done nothing but throw money and supplies at them, unconcerned with the cost.
He wondered if that was about to change.
“You brought in another team?” Oscar asked, as though this investigation wasn’t in any way desperately personal for him.
“I never keep all my eggs in one basket, Mr. Fox.”
Nigel shouldn’t feel betrayed. He’d met her while applying for a grant; rich people—or their trusts—tended to scatter their largesse over more than one area. But he’d thought they were, well…special.
Annoyed with himself, he said, “We’re just surprised, that’s all.”
Adrienne cast an unfriendly eye at them. “You have a show, too?”
“OutFoxing the Paranormal,” Oscar said, beaming. “It’s sort of a play on my last name, Fox? But it’s a team effort—I just do most of the on-camera work.”
“Never heard of you, bro, but I’ll be sure to check you out,” Zeek said. He dressed all in black as a complement to Adrienne, and wore a Zeeking The Unknown ball cap—backward, of course.
Adrienne snorted. “Don’t bother. It’s boring.”
“Because we don’t turn every bump into a bunch of screaming and running!” Chris burst out. “We take this seriously, not like?—”
Ms. Montague cleared her throat and even the wind seemed to fall silent. “As Mx. Saito has pointed out, your teams have very different approaches. However, I have respect for both. This location is extremely large, so there’s plenty of room for your teams to investigate independently of one another.”
Was this a competition? If Montague wanted to invest in only one ghost-hunting team, this would be her chance to judge them side-by-side, with all other variables controlled. Same location, same dates, same conditions.
This wasn’t what they’d signed up for.
When no one objected, Montague continued, “Ordinarily the Howlston Lunatic Asylum is off-limits. It’s too far from civilization to attract bored teenagers, and the owner has private security patrol to make sure no urban explorers or ghost hunters get in. He is kindly allowing us access for four days.” By which she no doubt meant he kindly allowed her to give him a large sum of money in exchange for access to the site.
“Everything is set up and waiting for you,” she added, gesturing to the tents. “The smaller tent will be your command center. The larger is for eating and sleeping. The third tent is my private retreat, which I ask you all to steer clear of. Both gas and solar power are ready for use, and there’s plenty of food and water. Ethan here will assist you if needed.” She gestured to the secretary.
Of course she’d want someone on site to keep an eye on how the teams were interacting, just in case anything came up. “So he’s staying here with us?”
“Indeed, Dr. Taylor.” Montague smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “We both are.”