Asylum VIII

The  ghosts of its halls
They have stories to tell
Listen to them
As their screams loop
Each night
The terror of their last night
Echoing across time
Through dimensions

Tragedy befell this place
Horrors you couldn’t imagine
Cruelty only the insane
Could remember
Bloody deaths
Electric torture
Straps to hold down
The unwilling

This skeleton before you
Lives in the night
It breathes
Eats
Kills
When dusk falls
This place
Has a heartbeat

Take caution
Heed the warnings
The ghosts here
They’re alone
Starving
Waiting
For some like you
To join them

Your Beloved Author,
Sandra Easter

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Ophelia: Asylum VII

Years had passed since Christina had thought of her doll.  Her mother helped make it from scratch when she was only eight.  They gave her curly bond hair,  blue eyes, and a pretty pink dress.  It was just as Christina wished she herself looked like. Instead Christina was born with nearly black hair that always frizzed, so she looked more like a poodle than a little girl with ringlets. Her tan skin looked pale against the dark color of her hair and eyes. She never looked cute in little pink dresses.  Not like Ophelia. Not like the doll she and her mother made together.

As Christina grew, so did the appearance of her doll. In middle school she changed her hair to a brown color, still with perfect curls. She no longer dressed the doll in pink dresses but in blue jeans and t-shirts she’d made on her sewing machine. A tomboy, just like Christina.  Her eyes however were now different.  One blue, one green.  A genetic trait of Christina’s best friend.  Something she envied.

In high school, Christina went through a dark phase.  She removed everything from the doll one evening that she considered the worst day of her life, the divorce of her parents.

Christina replaced the tomboy clothes with a gothic dress that had a dark red bow on it.  The short sleeves showed the cracking skin of the doll’s arms. Her hair was now straight and ink black that ran nearly the length of the doll.  Her green eye was now black so that Ophelia now had one black and one blue.  She painted her lips a deep red. In a fit of painful emotions, Christina stabbed Ophelia  through the heart with the sewing needle and threw the doll into a shoe box.  The last place Christina remembered seeing the doll.

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Until now. Sitting in this small room with her. Staring at her.  The needle still plunged through her heart and out the back. She sits innocently in the sterile metal chair; seemingly watching Christina as she fights the meds forced down her throat. Blinking rapidly, she tried to make the vision disappear. The doll remained. It didn’t move, didn’t talk, didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Other than be there that is.

Christina’s heart began to race. What had her cousin gotten her into? She was the reason they were in here. Always with her wild imagination. Christina should have known the end of the road would have led to the asylum. People always joked about being crazy, but to actually be committed; it was not fun and games.  She wasn’t crazy. She knew that. But she might be heading there rather quickly. How else would she be seeing a doll that couldn’t possibly be?

Christina took a few cautious steps toward the doll. Her eyes watching it warily. Two sharp banging noises made her jump and nearly pee her pants. A yelp made it’s way out as her cousin called her name from the other side of the wall behind her.

“Christina.” A pause followed by two more quick raps against the wall. “Christina.”

“What?” she asked growing irritated. Sandra already caused her to receive the double dosage of medicine today. Any more and they might roll her down the hall, strapped to a gurney, to shock treatment.

“I’m sorry.” Christina heard foot steps echoing down the hall and didn’t dare test their ears.

Scratching following, nearly begging for the acknowledgement that she’d accepted the apology. It was times like these that Christina wondered if Sandra really was crazy. She did have an unusual imagination for writing. That stuff had to come from somewhere.

Shaking her head from the distraction of her troublesome cousin, and making the room spin at the same time, she returned to look at Ophelia. She was gone. The chair hadn’t moved. No one had entered. Obviously. Fear caused her breathing to hitch before coming in near quick gasps. Another panic attack. Just what she needed.

“Ophelia?” Was she really talking to a doll? Christina pulled on her hair in frustration. She walked to her bed as she thought of the strange hallucination. The drugs must be having the opposite of the intended effects. Putting aside the strange event she began to take a seat to take off her shoes and ready for bed.

A scream ripped from her chest as she turned toward her bed. Her attention stuck on the impossible doll. The frightening, Chucky  mimicking doll. Ophelia lay against her pillow. Just as Christina always set her up when she was younger. Just so Ophelia could see her when she got home from school.

Christina looked from the empty chair to the occupied bed. The doll didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Nothing. Impossible, Christina thought. The medicine was messing with her. Scrubbing her eyes she tried to rub away the sight. Ophelia remained.

More knocks vibrated the wall.

“She told me she missed you. I told her where you were. You missed her didn’t you? I miss you.” Sandra said with the voice of a child she wasn’t.

Christina shook her head. The meds must be on full lock down in her mind. Nothing was real. She was just swimming in chemicals.

“She told me she missed you. I told her where you were. You missed her didn’t you? I miss you.” again with the child’s voice from her past.

Christina; growing angry, confused, and frightened; picked up the doll to throw it against the wall her cousin was talking through. The doll moved. Talked.

“You hurt me Christina. You broke my heart.” Ophelia’s tiny hand removed the needle from it’s chest and plunged it deep into Christina’s chest where it barely pierced her heart. The pain immobilized her. She was having a heart attack. The meds were killing her.

The doll smiled, stopped moving, and fell limp. Christina looked down, the needle’s eye glinted in the light.

“She told me she missed you. I told her where you were. You missed her didn’t you? You shouldn’t have broken her heart. Now she’s broken yours.” The words echoed in that voice again and again until the world turned black.

 

For my loving cousin Christina. I love you.

Your Beloved Author,
Sandra Easter

Asylum VI

A century later, everything fell to ruin. Rot covered the structure and spread to the nearby town. A place now only children visited for a good scare. The object of dares and double dares on late night weekends. Fear coats the misty air, mingling with a vile sense of danger. Voices are rumored to echo in the night. Ghosts of a tortured past still looking for a way out.

Stories of tragedy often times attract the weird and demented as they hunt ghosts of the past for a thrill. Visits often times result in false findings. That is until the night of the incident. The ‘tragedy’ often whispered in cities within walking distance.

This night, a night of death, a group of kids think it fun to test their grit. Together, laughing and jeering they approach the edge of the abandoned town. This is their story.

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Asylum V

She was prefect.  The perfect specimen. Gullible to top it.  I couldn’t find a better subject if I tried. A glowing beacon to my trapped souls. Keeping them quiet has never been difficult, but I’ll have to keep an eye on her at all times. She’ll make a wonderful addition of my collection. I’ll keep her close. Keep her in my sights. Give her the hope she’s never had. Give her the peace she’s always wanted. Slowly I’ll study her. Savor her unique taste. Dine on her fear with exquisite patience. She may have come voluntarily but she’ll never be allowed to leave. I’ll never let her go. She’ll be the trophy of my works. A testament to my abilities. I might even have her put on display when I’m finished with her. A piece of anatomy to go with the videos I’ll have. A statue of flesh preserved for my recurring memory. Something to remind me of the great things I will achieve. Her soul will echo the halls with beautiful screams. A bight beacon dulled by the breaking I will give her.

The perfect specimen. The perfect patient. I’ll do her in. I’ll break her. She’ll be the best I’ve ever had.

Your Beloved Author,
Sandra Easter

Photo found at: http://jimsturgessonline.com/?tag=ben-kingsley&paged=2

Asylum IV

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This used to be my home. Home to all of us. We walked these halls. We ate, slept, and screamed here. Me and my own fill these halls, invisible to those who reside here now. Their screams echoed with our own. Their bouts of hysterical laughter adds to our symphony of tortured, and angry souls. It is here we live, or not live. It is here we haunt, we scare, we beg to be let loose.
But they won’t let us go. They won’t allow us to leave. They have a hold on us, and we can’t seem to do anything other than continue to go crazy. The patient’s torture radiates into our own. At night we talk to them. We enter their nightmares, begging them to help us. But that doesn’t last long, their awakening screams keep us from telling them, warning them. They’ll soon join us, and we’ll start over again.

One patient sees us. Only one. A light in the darkness. A hope for escape. If she would only listen. If the doctor wouldn’t silence us. She’s in danger too, but he keeps her close. He keeps us quiet. He keeps us away. So far away, we only see a glimmer of her light. A glimmer of the hope, just out of our reach.

More Asylum short stories to come. Have an idea you want me to run away with? Comment and let me know.

Your Beloved Author,
Sandra Easter

Asylum III

For years I heard voices in my head. I ignored them as best I could when I figured out no one else could hear them. At first,  that was okay. But then they began to get louder. Demanding. Bordering on homicidal. I tried prescription drugs I bought off junkies. Mind altering drugs. They only made things worse.  The voices stared to take control.  Making me say things I’d never say.
I couldn’t take it anymore.  I didn’t care about my pride any longer. I checked into the nearest asylum. I told them about the voices.  The nurses put me up for the night and told me the doctor would be in in the morning. While screams echoed the hall and my cott smelled of duty people and I didn’t want to know what,  I lay in wait for the first rays of light. 
The night was long. The voices got louder than the screams down the hall.  My head bounced hard against the concrete wall of the room until I’m sure it started to bleed.
The sun was a welcome sight as the voices faded with the night. I was escorted to breakfast by a burley nurse in black scrubs. The cafeteria tables brought my memory back to high school. I found one abandoned. The top apparently used as a carving post. Words and images covered nearly the entire surface.  I sat and looked around the now silent room. 
Weariness settled in me.  Everyone peered at me with they’re own crazy eyes.  Whispers echoed softly but no one moved their eyes from me or turned their head to speak to anyone else. 
Choosing to ignore them despite my screaming instincts and voices I nibbled on a piece of bread as I concentrated rather hard on my tray. ‘Show no weakness’ the voices urged.
A heavy thump and the violent vibration of the table alerted me to a rather large presence to my right. I could feel eyes burning through my right temple,  but I refused to acknowledge it.  I shut down a shutter that wanted to rip through me, causing me to bite down on my lip. Salty iron bloomed in my mouth where the roll I was still chewing absorbed. I forced down the disgusting food while avoiding the gag reflex needing a release.
Wet, foul breath met my cheek before a large inhaling breath sounded in my ear.  They were smelling me? The voices went quiet.  Almost as if this thing could hear them too and they feared it.
A wood chopping preceeded another vibrating of the table.  Our of the corner of my eye a beefy hand used a carving tool to scar the wood more.  Curious, I shifted my head to watch. His head snapped back to me,  his cold eyes freezing my thoughts. The voices ran.  I could hear their frightened screams fade.
His large, dirty hand slammed onto my tray making me flinch.  With his eyes still holding mine I didn’t see the roll he took until he pressed it to my bloody lip briefly then,  with my blood visible to me, he shoved it into his mouth. He chewed briefly and swallowed.
No amount of will power could keep the nausea at bay. My hand instantly covered my mouth in attempt to avoid projectile vomit. I rushed to the nearest trash can and let loose everything I had.
A nurse gave me a napkin and proceeded to escort me out of the room. Looking back briefly, the man was now seated in front of my tray. Food in one hand and carving tool in the other.
The walk was a blur as my mind tried to make sense of the crazy man. “Have a seat.  The doctor will only be a moment.”
Dazed, I looked around the room. I wasn’t sure I was seeing things right. I rubbed my eyes, hoping the shock from breakfast was making me delusional. While the furniture n albeit a bit dirty, looked normal; the decor wasn’t. Where one would typically see models of body parts for teaching purposes, there were real body parts. Skulls, rib cage, hearts in glass jars that I could swear beat on occasion. Stuffed crows were placed on the end of a shelf as if to balance the death out. I reached out my hand to touch one without realising I had gotten out of the seat. It snapped at my hands and squawked at me. That’s when the voices came back. But not only voices, faces too. All around me I could see who the voices belonged to. Their cries a caphony of ear splitting noise. In a failed attempt to down them out I pressed my hands tightly to my ears. The only thing I silenced was the sound of the doctor walking in. His hand on my shoulder made me jump in fear that the voices could now touch me. I swung my hands out, hitting the doctor in the shoulder. He grasped my hands in his own until my senses returned and the voices stopped. The faces remained, expressions of fear so clear on their murky faces.
“Please, have a seat.” He said kindly, letting go of my hands. I did as told and took him in for the first time. His hair hung in dark soft waves just below his eye brows and his eyes shone a light, almost white blue. His full lips curved into a polite smile, undoubtedly perfected over the years to make others feel at ease. He was tall, but not too tall. Fit. Athletic build. Perfect. Too perfect. Even his voice lured you in. I was the fish, and he the unbaited hook. I didn’t want to see that hook baited. I’d lose all my self control.
Wary of this far too pristine doctor I sat in silence waiting for him to speak. What he said frightened me.

“I hear them too.”

More to come! Follow me so you don’t miss it.
Your Beloved Author,
Sandra Easter

Asylum II

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They speak of a young girl that wonders the halls. Something terrifying they claim. With her dirty off white gown dropping to her translucent knees and her straight brown hair hiding most of her face flowing down her ribs. The echo of her cries fill the halls but she never says a word. They tell me that death follows her every step and the smell of rot would burn in my nose. I was told of horrific deaths that befell those in her presence and how their blood fed the asylum. It’s stories like these that assure me that they truly belong here. They are the crazy ones. Not I. No, I don’t believe in such horrific things. I don’t belong here in this high security asylum. My reality is sound, not full of things you might find in books. Fantasy has always been just that, fantasy. As I lay here in my used rusty bed that groans and protests with each creaking spring. My roommate is squatting in the corner on her bed mumbling nonsense as she glares at me then the door. I initially thought she was waiting for someone to enter, but that long past as she continued her subtle eye shift between myself and the door. I could still feel her eyes on me in the darkness. Maybe that’s what made me crazy. I could always feel people looking at me, or about to touch me.

I couldn’t sleep this way. Not with her muttering, and not with the heavily abused springs poking at my side. I couldn’t sleep with the dusty, musty pillow supporting my head. Nor could I ignore the faint odor of something foul slipping in from under the door. I tried to hide my nose under the covers, but the vague smell of urine mixed with cheap dryer sheet scent made me toss it to the floor in disgust. Now I just lay here rather uncomfortably, on my side with y right hand over my right ear and the other over my nose while my knees beg for space on the small bed near my chest.

My roommate continued to babble and not even my hand could block her out. I nearly passed out from exhaustion until I noticed the lack of mumbling behind me. Her breathing started coming in gasps but no frantic mumbling. I turned to look at her, forgetting the dark. They don’t give us switches in our room for lights. To make us sleep, they claim. My eyes won’t adjust, there just isn’t a single ray of illumination to allow for even poor vision. Her breathing stops, but starts again in heavy gasping. I feared she might be having adverse reactions too the meds they forced down her throat earlier. There is no telling what they gave her. They told me mine will be here tomorrow but wouldn’t tell me what it was.

The smell from the hall grew in its intensity nearly making me gag. Stomach acid made its way up my throat but I forced it back down. Crying echoed through the room in chilling waves. Pulling myself to my feet, I walked to the barren bathroom. If  it could even be considered a bathroom with just a toilet and no bathtub. Not even a mirror occupied the wall. I switched on the light. It was so far up, fixed to the ridiculously high ceiling that the dim light only illuminated enough to see shadows in the room. So many shadows were shifting around that I’d swear the light was swinging to and fro.

“Are you okay?” I asked tentatively to my crazy roommate. Cries continued to echo through the room and the putrid stench of rot grew stronger. The air was thick with the horrid smell making it exceedingly difficult to draw a breath. The air became frigid and my gagging turned into full on vomiting. I slammed the door shut and hugged the grimy toilet. The filth made me vomit harder until I cold only dry heave a minute amount of stomach acid.

I awoke, not realizing I’d fallen asleep on the dirty floor with my face near the urine coated toilet base. Scrambling to my feet clumsily, I fight my way out the room trying three times before I could turn the knob. What greeted me on the other side made me wish that I’d stayed in the bathroom. The light shinning through the only barred window showed a most horrendous sight. My roommate lay on the floor, face deep in her own blood. Her bowls were stretched out as if they’d been played with by a child. A scream locked in my throat, building pressure. When at last I was able to let loose, the sound pierced my ears, scratched my throat raw, and caused my lungs to burn in protest of their lost oxygen.

The slamming of feet across tile and voices shouting found little purchase in my ears. A flurry of movement entered the room and the last thing I felt was the pinch of a needle then a burn race up my arm before darkness consumed me.