***
I’d never been the Finch in the group before, but it was exhausting. Basically I’d become the Mom of the bunch, and it wasn’t much fun. Gil was more easily distracted than a six-year-old cranked up on Mountain Dew.
The in-patient processing room led the way to six parallel waiting rooms connected to six examination rooms. Each was fully furnished and stocked with sixty-year-old medical supplies that Gil proceeded to play with. The only other recent visitor seemed to be the dust fairy.
“What kind of place is this?” Gil asked, squeezing a cracked rubber blood pressure pump idly. “And it’s so friggin’ big. The volume of patients that they must have had, or at least expected.”
“Well, it opened in ’45,” I said.
“So the war.” He nodded, dropping the old pump. “Makes sense. There would have been a lot of people in need of physical rehab. Psychological, too.”
“Business here must’ve slowed down a lot in the years following.”
He ran a finger along a dusty tabletop and frowned at it. “I’d say.”
We walked through an exam room, coming out the other side into what looked like a big lounge. Small circular tables were spread around the room, as well as long couches and a few matching chairs. On the north wall of the room, wide windows overlooked an overgrown courtyard. Lightning flashed again, illuminating a muddy, lily pad-filled pond in the center. I turned away from the window, surveying the room. It was the first that showed signs of a real disturbance.
A few of the chairs were overturned and at least one table was broken. What was disconcerting was the fact that it was wrought iron. It lay in a twisted knot on the floor like a discarded clump of black licorice.
Then there was the blood.
In a wide, explosive splatter on the east wall of the room, a Rorschach test of gore was sprayed across a wide stretch of plain white wall between a pair of doorways. There was definitely an impact mark in the center–a place where the plaster drywall had cracked and been crushed inward–and a wide swatch of blood pooled on the floor beneath. Everything was dry, as I imagine it’d happened very long ago. You know, circa 1957.
“How did this place close again?” Gil asked in a whisper.
“I didn’t read that far,” I admitted. “But I don’t think it was amicably.”
From the dried pool of blood led a trail, like something had been dragged away. The trail curved into the right hand doorway, disappearing into darkness. My flashlight beam followed it for a few feet until the beam dispersed in shadow. Beyond that, the trail was lost.
“Hey, you got like, a whole bunch of weapons, big man?” Gil asked.
“Hold on, you didn’t bring any weapons either? You didn’t do any research, and you didn’t even bring any weapons, but you brought your gameboy? Why would you–”
The urgent rattling of chains interrupted me. Instinctively, I turned to look behind me, swinging the narrow beam of light over my shoulder.
“Whoa holy smokes, did you hear that?” Gil asked, stepping behind me.
“Was it behind us?”
“No, no it was over there,” he pointed to the doorway to the left of the blood splatter.
“Are you sure?”
“Unfortunately,” he said. “I think I’d prefer if it came from downstairs. Or, you know, Alaska.”
The left-hand door was blocked by a drop cloth like the paintings that hung on the walls downstairs. I leveled my flashlight on it. The two of us held our breath as the sounds of chains stopped as quickly as they’d started. The circle of light hung on the pale cotton sheet, shaking gently in my unsteady hand.
Nothing happened. The only things I could hear were Gil’s heavy breathing–he sounded like a fat guy who had just run the 50 yard dash–and the thunder rumbling outside.
Gil nudged me. “Go check it. Look behind that curtain.”
“Hey screw you man, you go check it.”
The cloth fluttered. Only slightly at first, as if there was a faint draft, then more so. It lifted off the door frame like a gentle breeze was blowing, revealing the same accordion elevator gate as we’d seen in Callowleigh’s entryway.
“Shit, another elevator shaft. How many elevators are in this place?” I asked.
“I dunno. At least it’s handicap accessible,” Gil said.
The sheet lifted again, higher this time, revealing the same wrapped chains we’d seen downstairs, holding the gate closed.
“Why are the elevator shafts all locked and sealed?” I asked.
“Better question: where are all of the elevator cars?”
Another gust of air blew the drop cloth back, the sheet rising until it was almost parallel to the floor. Gil was right. Behind the gate, the shaft was empty. No car. No nothing. The draft carrying the sheet was strong enough to reach us this time. The air was hot and sickly wet, like a blast of rank morning breath.
“Is this typical for a haunted house?” I asked.
“Remember when I said I think this is more complicated than that? Yeah, I think it’s more complicated than that.” He pointed. “Look.”
I lowered the flashlight, illuminating footprints in dust on the hardwood floor. They led into the right-hand doorway, following the bloody trail.
“You think it’s Dawkins?”
Gil gulped. “I don’t really wanna think about the alternative. Also, I was pointing at that.” He gestured with an unsteady hand.
I moved the light. About ten inches or so to the right of the footprints was another marking. It was a narrow line, like something being dragged, like a rope or, well, or a chain. It mirrored the footprints perfectly. If those tracks were Dawkins’ then he had been followed. By something that didn’t walk on two feet.
“Maybe it’s like a Jacob Marley ghost, or something.” I said, my voice shaking. “You know, he drags chains and doesn’t walk because he’s a ghost? Is that a real thing?”
“I dunno. I’m still going with the caretaker. Yeah, it’s just the caretaker.”
“Don’t you mean crazy kids?”
He gulped. “Yeah, of course. The crazy kids.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Slowly, we started down the hallway, following the dusty footprints and the bloody trail. A few feet down the hall, my light landed on the form of an overturned wheelchair. One wheel spun lazily. More blood was pooled on the floor. This blood looked wet. Fresh.
“Oh, damn,” I muttered.
Somewhere ahead, a door slammed.