6
Dr. Prescott stepped over the threshold into the hallway, but Peter froze to the spot. Dill and Gwen didn’t budge, either.
Prescott realized he wasn’t being followed and turned around. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Peter craned his neck and peered down the fluorescent-lit hallway. Door after door, metal slabs painted white, stretched a hundred yards. They had small glass windows, maybe six inches square, about five feet above the floor. Palms pressed against a few of the windows. A fist thudded dully against one, over and over and over.
“They’re not going to hurt you – they can’t get out,” Prescott said impatiently. “Come on, let’s go.”
When none of the kids moved, his face contorted in anger. “I said COME ON.”
Peter reluctantly stepped into that hallway, for the moment more afraid of Dr. Prescott than of the horrors around him. Dill and Gwen followed just a few inches behind him, staring up at the windows.
Peter was glad he wasn’t tall enough to see inside.
Satisfied, Prescott turned around and started down the hallway again.
The heavy metal door CLANGED shut behind them. Dill moaned and pressed close to Peter’s right arm.
“Don’t wet your pants,” Peter whispered in an effort to make a joke.
“I’m trying,” Dill whispered back.
“Ew,” Gwen muttered, but it was a testimony of how scared she was that she didn’t step away in disgust. Instead, she pulled closer.
Peter tried to focus on specific details that didn’t have anything to do with people screaming or pounding on glass. He noticed that beside each door was a little keypad with a slot – for a card, maybe? Like a fancy hotel room key…
…except for the worst hotel in the world.
Down the hallway, two figures were approaching. The one in back was tall and wore a white lab coat; the one in front was short and wore a white top over a calico print dress. As the two people drew closer, Peter could see that the taller person was one of the doctors in the lobby photographs, an older man with a bald head and a pointy, well-trimmed beard.
The other was a little girl about Peter’s height.
But the white top wasn’t regular clothing.
It was a straight jacket. Her arms were tied tight across her chest.
And her face…her face was horrible.
She was bald like the doctor, except for a few wisps of long, black hair that sprouted from patches on the top of her skull. Most of her face and neck was covered with scar tissue, a dull, unnatural brown. Peter could see that it wasn’t her regular color, because as she got close, one eyelid was a soft pink, while the other was thick and brown. She had no lips to speak of, just a slit where the flesh of her mouth stopped. One ear was crumpled down to a tiny bud, the other was completely gone. Also, when she walked, she hobbled along in a jerky manner, as though one leg were a couple inches shorter than the other.
The way she moved reminded Peter disturbingly of the mummy in the Charterton Museum…the thing that had almost killed him and his friends, and which had started the chain of events that had brought him here.
He shivered.
“Dr. Prescott,” the bald, bearded man said as he and the girl approached.
“Dr. Unnington,” Prescott said in return.
As she limped by, the burned girl turned her head to watch Peter and the others pass, and they watched her as well. Peter wanted to be friendly, but he couldn’t bring himself to smile or wave – partly because he was scared of her appearance, but also because she watched them with eyes deader than those of a fish: unblinking, uncaring, just barely curious at these new visitors to her fluorescent-lit world.
She was still gazing at them long after they had passed in the hallway.
And all around them, the shrieks and moans of the inmates buzzed through the air.
“I don’t wanna see anymore crazy people if they look like that,” Dill whined to Dr. Prescott.
“Shut up, Dill,” Gwen said.
“Yeah,” Peter said, jumping on the bandwagon. He felt bad that he was frightened by the little girl’s appearance, so scolding Dill made him feel better – even if his friend was just saying out loud what Peter felt inside.
But what he felt inside wasn’t polite.
“It’s probably not even her fault she’s here,” Peter added.
“Well, one might quibble over the meaning of ‘fault,’ especially as it relates to psychiatric disorders, but she did burn down her family’s house while they slept, killing them all,” Dr. Prescott said, as casually as if he were talking about the weather. “Then she set herself on fire. So you might want to revise your statement.”
Peter looked up at Dr. Prescott in horror, then back down the hall.
The little girl was still watching them as she waited for the bald doctor to unlock one of the rooms.
The song from the jump-roping girls echoed in his memory.
“Is that…Janey?” Peter asked.
“No, Janey liked to play with knives, if you’ll recall the song. Fleur is a pyromaniac with catatonic tendencies who suffers from occasional psychotic episodes.”
All three kids stared up at Dr. Prescott, who finally realized they were all waiting for him to speak English.
He sighed in an exaggerated manner, like You really should know all this without me telling you. “She likes to set fires, she rarely speaks to other people, and she occasionally has violent outbursts where she loses touch with reality.”
Peter looked down the hall again with dread.
The little girl was still staring at him as the doctor ushered her into her room.
“You know the song?” Gwen asked Dr. Prescott.
“Of course. If you grew up anywhere within a hundred miles of Shadow Hills, you know that nursery rhyme.”
“Was she…real?”
“Oh yes. I’ve seen the admittance records. Jane Milledge. Committed to Shadow Hills in 1922 at the age of 15 for the murder of her father with a meat cleaver – ‘knives’ and ‘parents,’ plural, was a bit of artistic license in the song. Diagnosed with hysteria, though I believe she suffered from bipolar disorder, as she cycled constantly between mania and deep depression.” Dr. Prescott sniffed disdainfully. “The doctors in attendance could have made a similar diagnosis, since Kraepelin had effectively introduced the basics by the date of her admittance…but the staff here has been rather mediocre until the last ten years.”
Peter barely understood what Prescott said, but he latched onto the final sentence. “What happened in the last ten years?”
Dr. Prescott looked down at him with an air of surprise, but without an ounce of humor. “Why, that’s when I started here,” he said simply.
Peter was beginning to believe that ‘butthole’ was not quite strong enough a word to describe Dr. Prescott.
<< previous page | next page >>
4 comments:
Oh my, that last sentence made me laugh out loud! Your writing has only gotten better! I recommend your stories to anyone who will listen to me long enough :D
My theory (which I may or may not have brought up before, the posting system hasn't been kind) is that it's the spirit of Janey possessing Prescott and making him do the psycho stuff. So I can't decide if this chapter makes it more or less likely...
More, because Prescott is obviously aware of Janey, and also the bipolar aspect explains the Hyde effect. Less, because if I were a mystery writer (though I'm no expert like yourself, Darren) I'd keep that particular lead very quiet.
Ramernep = A slightly insane Egyptian doctor and scholar, noted for being the first man to blow up a mummy...twice.
Typo: The sentence, "It’s probably even not her fault she’s here" has even and not transposed.
Manizip: An ingenious new transportation from the creators of Shamwoozie, the Manizip is actually a system of short shuttles underground. The shuttle is made of smaller, detachable compartments so that you don't have to leave your seat. Since the shuttle dictates the stops, it can better schedule where and when to pick you up and drop you off.
AnakMoon -
Thank you so much!
And please please please, recommend them when the ebooks come out this week!
Rubberduck -
Sounds like Janey is possessing the posting system when you get on.
Hahaha! Thanks for calling me a mystery expert, but I don't know if I really qualify...
Um the Muse -
Thanks!
Post a Comment