Author: Laurie Faria Stolarz
Category: Suspense
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/laurie-faria-stolarz/page,8,45783-project_17.html
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was the last time you were in an asylum? Let's be crazy!"
I flip another page in the folder. "I'm busy."
"Well, unbusy yourself. Because I have to take a leak, and you have to come with me."
"Not a chance," I say, making a face.
"Come on," he begs, dropping to his knees. "You need to protect me from the evils that lurk."
The boy makes me laugh. I want to despise him, but I'm too busy laughing at his lame-o jokes. After squabbling over it for a few more moments, Chet finally agrees to go wee-wee by himself. Still, he assures me that he'll be just down the hallway, by the cafeteria, and that if I need anything I should call him on the walkie-talkie.
Meanwhile, I continue to page through the folders, reading some pretty intense stuff: several people who thought they were Jesus, a woman who liked to eat toilet paper, a guy who thought he was a chicken, a bunch of people with multiple personality disorders, and a handful with schizophrenia.
I pause at this one lady's chart. It seems she had people inside her ranging in age from 1 to 101. I try to make out what the doctor scribbled on her treatment page, but then I hear something--a creaking sound behind me, like someone is moving across the floorboards.
I turn to look, but there's no one there--just a bunch of windows that are all boarded up.
"Chet?" I say, looking around. I pick up one of the
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candles for added light. But I don't see anyone.
And so maybe I'm just hearing things.
I turn back to my reading, and reach for the journal. Even though it was kept in wax paper, it's still yellow with age. The corners are frayed and the back cover's almost completely torn off. Someone's decorated the front with decoupage--magazine cutouts of laughing children. Dozens of them. Little girls with open-mouth smiles and boys with huge, happy grins. But now there's an orangey-golden glaze that stains their faces, making them look almost sick.
I flip the journal open, noticing the name inscribed on the inside cover. It's written in pretty cursive, a vine of roses outlining the letters, and thorns digging in from all four sides--Christine Belle.
My skin tingles just seeing her name, knowing for sure now that the watercolor picture was indeed hers. I flip through a few pages, eager to read more about her.
But that's when I'm stopped.
"Mimi?" a voice whispers from somewhere out in the hallway.
My heart jumps. "Chet?"
But no one answers. And it's pitch black out there. My headlight only shines about eight feet, barely reaching the doorway.
"Chet, is that you?" I wait a couple seconds and then pick up my walkie-talkie. I press the talk button. "Chet?" But it doesn't seem to be working. I don't hear that
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familiar static sound like before when we were in the woods.
My heart beating fast, I let out a breath, trying to get a grip, wondering if this is just my imagination. Or if maybe Chet is trying to get me back for not taking a walk with him.
I decide to ignore his lame attempt at scaring me, and focus on the journal:
June 10, 1981
It's a full moon tonight. And everyone here-all the patients-are wailing at the top of their lungs. It's the most chilling thing I've ever heard. You can probably hear the wailing for miles.
I look around as everyone does it. It's like a big game-who can sound the loudest. And yet the nurses don't even seem to care. Some of them think it's funny. Others ignore it, acting like they can't hear anything at all.
It makes me wonder if everybody's gone crazy.
I pull my blanket over my head, but it doesn't help. Jessica is right outside the covers, hovering over my bed, wailing as loud as she can to try and scare me. and it's working.
My insides are shaking. My skin is cold. I want to be sick.
I take a deep breath, tempted to gauge my ear with this pen, to push it into the canal as far as it will go and draw a little blood. I bet it would win me a trip
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To the doctor. At leas then I could be with someone sane.
Because this place is making me crazy.
More tomorrow.
I go to turn another page, but that's when I hear something else. The sound of water running.
"Chet?" I call out again, my voice sharper, more pissed off. I head out into the hallway, toward where the cafeteria is, my headlight shining the way. "You've got my attention now, asshole," I say, moving through the cafeteria doors, startled by the creaking sound of the hinges.
There's a giant oven right in front of me, and what appears to be a loading dock to the left. I move across the linoleum flooring, still trying to get my walkie-talkie to work.
But it's definitely dead.
"This isn't funny," I say, peering around the cafeteria. There are doors and windows along all four walls, making it look more like a hallway. The only real tip-off that this is a place where food was prepared are the giant mixing bowls--twelve of them--practically up to my waist. And the lingering smell of boiled cabbage.
"Come out now!" I call again. My voice echoes.
I move to the center of the cafeteria, noticing two separate dining areas--for the males and females, maybe. And then I notice the American flag. It looks like it's torn, like someone ripped the thing in two. But when I strain my
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eyes, I see that it isn't an actual flag at all. It's just a picture of one. Someone's painted it on a door glass. But now there's a hole it in--a big chunk missing--like someone threw a rock.
I take a deep breath and continue to look around, watching for a flashlight beaming or a shadow moving. But it appears that I'm alone.
Even though I feel like I'm being followed.
I feel like there's someone standing somewhere behind me, watching my every move. The skin at the nape of my neck itches, like ants crawling down my back.
Breathing hard, I turn around--to head back to our meeting place--but I smack into a table, whacking my leg. Making a huge echoing bang.
I take another deep breath and try to calm the thumping of my heart. Maybe I should head downstairs and see if I can find Derik and them--tell Derik what an absolute jackass Chet is being.
My leg throbbing, I move out into the hallway, back toward the reception room, the smell of stale water--of mildew mixed in mustiness--all around me.
"Mimi," a voice whispers again--a female voice. It's followed by the sound of running water--even louder than before.
"Who's there?" I call. "Liza? Greta?" Is it possible that this is someone's stupid idea for a plot? That Derik has agreed to let Greta and Tony take over with their stupid scripts?
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I clench my teeth, getting more pissed off by the moment. I mean, what the hell? This isn't what I signed up for--a bunch of high school adolescents playing haunted house in an abandoned asylum.
I peek into the reception room--still empty--and then head down toward the female wings, following the sound of the running water. It's getting louder with each step, leading me to a room at the end of the hallway.
"This isn't funny!" I shout, trying to remind myself that this is a joke, that there's some logical explanation.
"I'm not laughing," a voice breathes. I let out a gasp, but then realize the voice is coming from my walkie-talkie. I press the talk button. "Chet?"
But the piece of crap goes dead again.
I reach into my pocket for my cell phone and try to dial. But it's not getting a signal.
My heart pumping hard, I move closer to the room. It's pitch black inside. "Chet?" I call out. "If you're in here, I'm going to kill you." I take a couple steps inside, wishing I had an extra flashlight or that I had brought along a candle. The narrow beam of my headlight shines over a bathtub. But it isn't running.
And there is no water.
But I can still hear the faucet; it sounds like the tub is filling up.
For hydrotherapy.
I step back, dropping my walkie-
talkie. It makes a cracking sound against the tile floor.
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Above the tub is a mural--a happy swan bathing in a pond with a fiery orange sun behind it--like that's supposed to make the hydrotherapy bearable. But even more twisted are the words splotched just above the scene, causing my skin to ice up, my heart to beat even faster. Written in dark red letters, the words "I've been waiting for you" puncture right into my heart.
And make me scream.
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TONY
I LOVE MAKING GRETA jealous. She gets so mad. It's super hot on her.
Mostly because it makes her super hot for me.
Not initially. Initially she gets all pissy about it, but then she starts to come around--starts to realize that she can't always treat me like some second-rate actor. I'm an ace. And aces tend to have wandering eyes.
Before we came down here to the tunnel, I pretended to gawk at Liza. I mean, not that I wasn't gawking-- I was --but I totally hammed it up. That's what we actor types do. We ham. I know it wasn't the nicest thing to do, but sometimes playing things up totally helps keep the spice in our already sizzling relationship. And honestly, who couldn't use a little added spice?
It's already paid off. Even though she's sulking, she's got her head resting on my shoulder as I shoot a scene between Derik and Liza.
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INT. UNDERGROUND TUNNEL,
DANVERS STATE HOSPITAL - NIGHT
DERIK and LIZA, two attractive high school seniors, stand at the end of the tunnel, holding a candle "between them. ANGLE ON the shadow of the candle flame as it lights up the walls, creating tall, conelike shapes.
It isn't just my supposed lust for Liza that's got Greta all hot and bothered. She's also sulking because she wants to be the star of everything (including this scene), and, let's face it, there's really no reason she shouldn't be. The girl's got some killer talent, not to mention the most dazzling golden-brown eyes, the fullest pale pink lips, and the sexiest little rush I've ever seen.
PULL BACK to reveal GRETA, 17, pouting those pale pink lips right now.
ME
Are you okay, babycakes?
Greta lets out a growl, still pouting.
Sometimes-- most of the time--Greta hams it up, too. She has a hard time knowing where her character stops and
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reality begins. But I suppose all great talents have their flaws.
Plus, it's not like I didn't owe her a little suffering after how secretive she was about that phone call she got in the tunnel earlier. She still has yet to tell me who that was-- though I can't say I was able to refuse her makeup nookie offering anyway.
I just hope she comes around soon--that she doesn't end up sulking for the rest of the night. The girl has a lot to be grateful for, after all. I mean, did I not score her a stellar monologue just as soon as we got down here? That's right; I talked Derik into filming her as she walked the length of the tunnel describing everything she saw. He didn't even object when she got totally into the role, acting like she was a patient trying to escape and chattering on about hearing voices and needing to feel the sun again.
CLOSER ON Derik and Liza, only inches apart now, talking and smiling. Derik leans in like he's about to go in for some lip action.
I pull back slightly, making sure the volume is turned up all the way on the shotgun mic, wishing I could hear them better, but knowing that we'll get all the juice during playback time.
Derik and Liza really do make a pretty good-looking
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couple--tall, lanky, athletic. Except, what is it with Derik's hair? Doesn't he know that nobody does that messy gel thing with their ends anymore? I run my palm over my well-groomed mane, grateful that it has body and texture all its own, wondering if Derik would be offended if I yelled out cut and offered him a pointer or two.
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DERIK
I'M STANDING WITH Liza at the end of the tunnel, our headlights off, just a candle between us. Since I've already gotten a good amount of footage down here, including a scene of Greta doing a monologue (to get her and Tony off my back), Tony's agreed to film this bit for me, saying that all great directors make a cameo appearance in their movies.
Not that I'll even use this clip. I mean, it doesn't get any cheesier than this: me and Liza are standing just inches apart, facing one another, like at any moment I might slip her some tongue or my breath mint of choice. I'm only doing this scene to get close to her--I mean, obviously. But who knows? Maybe if I stretch my imagination far enough, I'll find my own personal use for the footage.
I stare right into her, watching the reflection of the candle flame waver against her bottom lip. "Thanks for staying," I say. "I mean, for a little while there, I really thought you were gonna back out on me."
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"Yeah, well, my guidance counselor told me I need to be a team player."
"Seriously? And that's what made you decide to stick around?"
Liza shrugs and looks away. "To be honest, I don't know why I'm here. I mean, normally I would have left."
"But you didn't; that's just it. It's really cool of you to hang around."
She shrugs again. "Maybe part of it was that thing you said before, when we first broke in--how this is really important to you ... how screwing up isn't really an option. I know about pressure."
"You're really cool, you know that?"
"Don't be so sure." She shivers from a chill and pulls my sweatshirt tighter around her, a tiny smile curling up her cheek. "I'm apt to freak out at any moment. I mean, I don't know; this is all just a little too intense for me."
"Which part? The fact that we're standing in the tunnel of an asylum? Or the fact that you're doing it with me?"
She doesn't say anything at first, and so I'm thinking, Holy shit, this girl absolutely despises me, but then she finally answers: "The first one."
"Good answer," I say, venturing even closer to her, wondering if it's her that smells like vanilla, or the candle. "So what made you want to be a part of this, then?"
"Would you believe me if I said I thought it'd look good on my college application?"
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"No way."
"Seriously," she says. "It's sort of a long story."
"Well, let's hear it."
"Maybe another time."
"Definitely," I say, wondering what she's all about, wanting to hear the rest of her story. And aching to kiss her.
But then Tony yells out "Cut!" Just when we were getting somewhere.
"Thanks a lot," I say, a bit of snap to my voice.
"No problem," Tony says, clueless to the snap.
He mumbles something about needing to fix my hair, but I ignore him, fastening my headlight back on and folding up the dolly. "We should really get back upstairs."
But before we can even start to backtrack, a scream rips through my walkie-talkie speaker. Making Liza scream out as well.
"That's Mimi!" Greta shouts.
I press the talk button down. "Mimi, are you all right?"
But it doesn't seem like it's working now--there's just a weird buzzing sound coming from the other end. "Let's go!" I say, booting it down the tunnel. I reach for my cell phone and go to search for her number, bur my cell is dead, too. "Shit!" I yell out.
We hurry down the tunnel, through all the rusted doors that line it, until we reach the steel door that leads upstairs. It's shut.
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"Why's it closed?" Tony asks. "We didn't close it."
I try the knob, but it won't turn--like it's locked. "What the fuck?" I shout out.
Another scream rips through the walkie-talkie.
"Maybe the talkie's working now," Greta says, pressing the talk button down. "Mimi? Are you there?"
Liza makes the sign of the cross.
Meanwhile, I set the camera down on the ground, angled toward us, and pound against the door with everything I've got. "Who the hell locked this thing?"
Tony tries
to help me, but his ninety-pound frame only gets in my way.
I tell him to move and then take a couple steps back. I run and body-shove the door. But the thing won't budge. "We gotta go another way!" I shout.
"I think it's working now," Greta says, handing me her walkie-talkie. "I can hear voices on the other end."
I press it up against my ear. "It's Chet!" I can hear his voice. "Chet!" I shout into the thing.
But he obviously can't hear me, because I don't get a response.
"Piece of shit!" I yell, resisting the urge to chuck the thing against the wall. I try the door again. Still locked. "Let's go!" I say, grabbing the camera and moving in the opposite direction, hoping to find an alternate route upstairs.
"Let's check the map," Tony squeals.
I toss it at him and hurry down the tunnel. The
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walkie-talkie still pressed against my ear, I no longer hear any voices--just Liza's right behind me, whispering the Lord's Prayer.
I take a couple turns but end up at a dead end--the freakin' tunnel just ends--and we have to turn back.
"This place is a maze," Greta says.
"Wait, what's that noise?" Tony says.
We stop a second to listen. It sounds like a bunch of people talking--their voices whispering and whimpering together.
"Somebody's there," Tony says.
"It's pipes," I argue, noticing the water leaking through the cracks along the ceiling.
"That is not pipes," Greta shouts. "Someone's up there."
I strain to listen. It's like a constant whispering sound. "Just pipes," I insist, knowing that must be the truth. "Let's go!" Liza insists.
"This way!" Tony shouts, using the map. He leads us to an open doorway. Beyond it is a stairwell that leads us upstairs. Someone's drawn a row of pissed-off angels, seventeen of them--their backs are numbered--climbing up the wall, heading for their doom. There's a picture of a devil at the very top. We sprint down a corridor and backtrack to the reception room.