Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
“So she’s trapped in this cube,” Ms. Montague said, turning the Devil’s Toy Box over in her hands.
They’d returned to find her waiting for them in the command center, dressed in a gray suit with lavender blouse, not a hair out of place despite the late hour. She might have been on her way to a high-powered board meeting.
In contrast, Dr. Lawson looked like she was ready for a camping trip, in her flannel shirt, jeans, and well-worn boots. “For now, at least,” she said.
Ms. Montague arched one shaped brow. “What do you mean by that, Ruthie?”
“We can’t leave her in there forever. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
Ordinarily, Nigel would agree. But after watching the nurse’s outline looming over Oscar on the SLS, he wasn’t feeling very charitable. “We also can’t let her go back in the asylum. She’s too dangerous.”
“Let me worry about that.” Ms. Montague passed the box to Ethan.
Dr. Lawson’s eyes narrowed. “Patricia…”
“I was against your teams working together,” Montague said, turning to them as though Dr. Lawson hadn’t even spoken. “Although I’m not entirely pleased you proceeded without permission, the results have been very satisfactory, so I’m inclined to let the matter go.”
Nigel felt Oscar stiffen slightly beside him, but neither of them spoke. Best to let the matter drop rather than risk antagonizing her.
“So what next?” Zeek asked. “It’s only midnight—are we going back in?”
“I think we should,” Oscar said, glancing at the rest of them for confirmation. “With the nurse out of the way, hopefully we can re-establish contact with the spirits she was trying to keep quiet.”
“And find out what she didn’t want us to know,” Adrienne said darkly.
“Maybe we can reach the doctor, the one you saw in the mirror before it broke.” Zeek grabbed his camera. “Let’s do it.”
The two of them left, and Chris and Oscar began gathering their equipment once again. Nigel took a fresh tissue and blew his nose; his head and chest both felt packed with cotton. Still, he wasn’t running a fever, and judging by the trip to the library, it would pass as soon as he was away from whatever he was so allergic to.
“I have a question, Ms. Montague,” he said, folding the tissue and tossing it in the wastebasket by Tina’s desk.
The old woman cocked her head and waited for him to continue.
“We asked Ethan earlier, but perhaps you know more about the site.” Might as well butter her up if he could. “Is there any way to get into the basement?”
“The elevator was the primary method, but of course it needs electricity to run,” she said.
Given how many times he’d seen well-maintained elevators break down at hotels, it probably wouldn’t work even if it had electricity. “All right, but what about before the elevator was installed? There must be a stairwell leading down somewhere. Certainly a coal chute to get fuel to the boiler.”
She lifted one elegant shoulder. “No doubt, but I have no more knowledge of the asylum than you do, Dr. Taylor. The owner didn’t mention anything about a basement when we spoke.”
Something flickered in her eyes—the shadow of a lie? No, that would be ridiculous—she wanted them to gather evidence, to succeed. He was imagining things.
“We’ll take a look around for a door to the basement while we’re in there,” Oscar said. “Maybe we missed it before, considering we weren’t actively searching. If not, we can go around the back of the building and look for a coal chute or cellar doors.”
They left the tent and walked back up the driveway toward the asylum. The moon had just risen, and its beams picked out the stark white paint on the clocktower. Or what was left of it, after the work of wind and rain stripped it off chip by chip.
As they climbed the stairs, Oscar came to a sudden halt and pointed his headlamp’s beam at the narrow glass window to the right of the door. Cracks reflected the light back unevenly. “Was that broken before?”
Nigel searched his memory but failed to come up with anything. “Maybe?”
“We can have Tina check our earlier footage,” Chris suggested.
Oscar shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I just couldn’t recall.”
Inside, the wallpaper drooped sadly, exposing the mildew-spotted plaster. The big splotch of mold seemed to have grown exponentially, and Nigel tried to remember if it had been that big when they came in earlier that evening. How fast did mold grow, anyway?
Well, unless it was some kind of ghost-mold, it didn’t make any difference. They passed through the security door into the first ward, then stopped.
“What’s the plan?” he asked Oscar.
Oscar paused for a moment, considering. “The chute ghost seems restricted to communicating through taps. We need to talk to her eventually so I can help her move on, but for now, let’s try the ghost in the hydrotherapy tub. We got her EVP before, so she might be willing to use the spirit box.”
Nigel frowned. “Is that a good idea? She had a bad effect on you before.”
“I remember,” Oscar said with a shiver. “Believe me, I don’t want to go through that again. I’ll offer her some of our extra batteries to draw from if she needs energy, and ward myself against her.” He glanced at them. “If she tries to affect either of you, don’t hesitate to use your salt, all right?”
Nigel wasn’t entirely reassured, but it was Oscar’s decision. He nodded, as did Chris.
Oppressive silence wrapped them up as they trudged down the long wards, broken only by the crunch of decades worth of dirt and paint flakes beneath their boots. They shone their flashlights around, searching for what might be a door into the basement, but noticed nothing more than they had before.
The metal cage around the stairs groaned as they climbed to the second, then third floor. Yellow paint came away from the cold metal railing under Nigel’s hand, and he hastily wiped it away on his pants leg. A coughing fit took him halfway up, but he shook his head when Oscar asked if he needed help.
“I’m fine,” he croaked, though he gratefully accepted the water bottled Oscar passed him.
Chris looked at him with concern. “Are you sure you’re up to this, doc?”
“I’m sure.” Phlegm made his voice rough, so he took another swig of water.
Oscar’s brows drew down into a frown as Nigel passed the water bottle back to him. “I don’t like the sound of that cough. I’ll drive you to Weston tomorrow, find an urgent care clinic.”
Nigel shook his head vehemently. “We only have another couple of days here. I don’t want to waste our time driving around.”
“Your health isn’t a waste of time.”
The sentiment warmed Nigel, and he leaned against Oscar’s shoulder for a moment. “I’m not feverish. It’s just allergies.” At Oscar’s skeptical look, he said, “I promise I’ll let you know if I feel worse, all right?”
“Stubborn,” Oscar muttered, but he kissed Nigel on the forehead. “Fine.”
Nigel managed to make it up the next flight of stairs with no more debilitating coughing fits. The ward closed around them, not as utilitarian as the fourth floor, but without any of the bright paint or extra touches of the first two floors.
The silence was broken by a single, loud plink of water dripping.
They all froze and exchanged looks. The door to the bathroom where they’d encountered Mariah, the hydrotherapy ghost, still lay about fifteen feet ahead.
“What was that?” Chris whispered.
“Water.” Nigel glanced at Oscar. “Should there be any water?”
“There was electricity at the library, so maybe?” Chris looked around nervously. “But I would have expected the asylum to have its own well, given when it was built.”
“And a well needs a functional pump.” Oscar shrugged. “We’ve seen weirder things in abandoned buildings. No need to freak ourselves out.”
It was an admirable attempt, but Nigel didn’t think Oscar bought what he was saying any more than they did. Moving more cautiously now, they crossed the remaining distance to the door and stepped into the bathroom.
Their lights reflected off ripples. One of the hydrotherapy tubs was filled to the brim with dark water.
“What the fuck?” Chris whispered.
Oscar took a deep breath, grounding and centering at the impossible sight of the filled tub.
Maybe there had always been a slow drip. Or maybe they’d jarred something loose when in here the other day, and it had started a drip that filled up the tub over the course of the intervening hours.
Or maybe he was looking for a rational explanation where there wasn’t one.
Nigel strode over to the row of sinks and turned on one of the taps. Nothing came out. Mouth pressed into a line, he went to the next sink and the next, but every tap remained dry.
Cold prickled along Oscar’s skin, accompanied by the sensation of being watched.
“Chris, make sure you get a good shot of the tub,” he said, keeping his voice calm. Then: “To everyone watching, when we were in here before, there was no water. Now there is. As you’ve seen, none of the other taps work at all.” They’d splice in footage of the sinks from Nigel’s head cam. “According to the EVP we heard earlier, the name of the woman who died here is Mariah. I’m guessing from the water that she wants to make contact.”
The sense of someone watching intensified when he spoke her name. Visualizing his football gear protecting him as a ward, he took out a D cell battery and placed it on the rim of the tub. “Mariah, we’re here to talk to you. If you need energy, take it from that battery, not from us.”
A flicker of frustration lapped at the edge of his awareness. He firmly ignored it as he took out the spirit box. “This device will allow you to talk to us directly. If you had radios during the time you were alive, it’s like that.”
Static exploded out of the spirit box when he turned it on. From the corner of his eye, he saw Nigel holding his EMF. He’d turned off the sound, but the lights flashed wildly, spiking from yellow to red and back again.
Holding the box loosely in his hand, Oscar said, “Is this Mariah we’re talking to? If so, can you say your name back to us?”
The static hissed as the device skipped randomly from one frequency to the next. Then “Mar-i-ah” formed amidst the jumble.
Single words were usually dismissed as unreliable, but a multiple syllable word should be more accurate. “Thank you, Mariah. My name is Oscar. I’d like to know your story. When were you here in the asylum?”
There was no answer but static. Possibly she didn’t understand what he meant. “Okay, let’s try a different question. Why were you here?”
“Flapper. Parents.”
His heart sank at the words. “Your parents put you here because you were a flapper?”
“Too wild. Disapproval. Fix me.”
“They wanted to fix you because you were too wild?”
“Yes. Boyfriend. Bad girl.”
Fuck. “They sent you here because they didn’t approve of your lifestyle and your boyfriend.”
Rural West Virginia in the 1920s was riddled with bootleggers…but that didn’t mean every family was either in the business or approved of headstrong daughters even if they were.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” he said, at the same time sending the emotion toward her so she’d hopefully know he meant it. “Earlier, when I asked you what happened, you said ‘cold.’ Did they leave you in the tub too long?”
“Weak. Bleeding. Took too much out. Tried to escape. Put me here. So cold.”
“Took too much out?” Oscar asked, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“So cold.” Her voice sounded quieter now, even though he hadn’t touched the volume on the spirit box. “So cold.”
Maybe she was getting weaker. He crouched by the tub, holding the spirit box out over the water in hopes it would take less effort on her part if it was closer to where she’d died. “Can you tell me?—”
A pale hand erupted out of the dark water and wrapped around his wrist. Before he could so much as cry out, it yanked him down, into the freezing tub.