Location: Bemidji Normal School Dorms
Date: 1920s
Jacob Bale’s shortcoming in life, he had decided, was that his prodigious knowledge was not in any meaningful way counterbalanced by ability. From childhood, he had a marked tendency to pick up a subject – say, cooking – and simply absorb the facts surrounding it. Then, laden with wisdom, he would venture forward and nothing would materialize. He knew the secret béarnaise recipe of the most snobbish French chefs (1/2 tsp of Russian “dragon’s herb” mixed with the finer-grain French tarragon), yet he ate the same meal nearly every day of his life: whatever was cheap, easy, and nearby.
And now, he reflected bitterly, this abortive tendency had stained every important facet of his life. Three years ago, when asked what he wanted to do, he had shrugged and asked if there were any more skill tests he might take to find an answer. There were not. On paper, Jacob would be an excellent politician, lumberjack, attorney, horse breeder, FBI agent, or accountant; each of which was more impossible than the next due to his paralyzing inability to speak in public, paralyzing tendency to get demoralizing slivers, paralyzing dislike of actual living animals, etc. etc. His mother had used the money they’d gotten from the government to make sure that Jacob had a first-hand view of a wide variety of possible careers; but outdoors he tended to find unusual allergies, when moving indoors he demonstrated a remarkable capacity for spraining his ankle and quitting, and when confined to a completely stationary position he became terribly listless within ten minutes.
And so, confounded by opportunity, he had not chosen a career. There seemed to be nothing left to do but further schooling until he developed some kind of aptitude, so his mother obtained application papers for ivory towers across the country. Filling out the application papers was difficult, however, so Jacob taught himself how to read palms until only one deadline remained unbroken. Then he decided that Minnesota was too cold a state to live in, and threw the last application away. Somehow, everything would have worked out -- except that his mother chose this time to check in on the application process and, long story short, ended up furiously holding Jacob down in a chair until the paperwork was complete.
And so he found himself in Bemidji, a worthlessly cold piece of nowhere, preparing to become a teacher, as that was the curriculum they happened to offer there. And that had defined the last three years of his life. That wasn’t what he was unhappily reflecting upon, however, nor the reason why he had turned his gaze briefly inwards to discover this pattern within himself. After all, he might not like Bemidji, but he might not like somewhere else, either: might as well be here as anywhere.
No, what was upsetting him today was women. Not any particular women, nor even any unknown women, just the vague general concept of “women.” He knew all about them, of course; at least, as much as any man can know. He was up-to-date on how to treat them, knew which rules of chivalry had survived to the 20th century and which ones had not, had heard nearly two dozen different theories from other students about how to demonstrate attentiveness, and was painfully aware of all the other salient details. And, just to be prepared, he had even ransacked the library for a little-used medical textbook -- which contained facts of its own.
Irritably, he slammed the book shut. He had, of course, checked it out so as not to be seen reading it in the library, and probably should have returned it a week ago. But why bother returning it? For all the good it was doing him, it clearly was worthless and might as well be removed from circulation. As the resident expert on women, it simply wasn’t right that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually spoken to one. It was infuriating. All it would take would be for one girl to notice his superiority, and the rest would be by-the-book. “By-the-book” being a general sort of phrase, meaning routine or planned; not, you know, the medical book in front of him. Not that it would be, I mean, when men and women are together, it’s the natural thing, but that’s not really the type of, well, not at first anyway, unless she wanted to, of course. That he would be good at; he’d listened both to the whispered stories and to the obnoxious bragging and felt he knew just what to do. Stupid book.
In a rare fit of inspiration, he decided it was worth returning the book. Or, if not “worth” returning the book; at least he might as well do that as anything. Graduation wasn’t all that far away, and he knew he was going to leave this place as alone as when he’d entered it. “Accomplishment” was overrated – his father had been a tremendous doer of deeds but, for all that, wound up simply disappearing in the “Great War” anyways – but a lady friend still seemed like an accomplishment worth having. But it didn’t matter. Girls didn’t recognize his knowledge, so nothing would come of it. Just like carpentry. It was really the fault of all those birds that the birdhouse kept killing them. He had followed the instructions perfectly. Maybe if that hammer had been more like the ones he’d learned about… well, what was past was passed.
Wrapped in dark thoughts, and surrounded by an even darker night, Jacob walked right past the library and continued going beyond the limits of campus and into town. When he realized his mistake, he probably would have begun thinking about how the map of campus had inadequately prepared him for actual navigation, but he never had the chance. A path had been cleared in the road for Bemidji’s few dozen cars, and horses had long-since packed the snow down into ice. The rising temperatures of the last few days had left the top of the ice sleek and treacherous. Before he had grasped what was happening, he had fallen onto his back and lay dazedly staring at the infinite black of the night sky.
“Laws!” he heard someone exclaim, which was shortly followed by footsteps, then by a much more muted “oh.” His view of the stars was interrupted by the silhouette of a face above him. “I think this is yours, sir,” he heard, as the young lady handed him his textbook. “Are you hurt?”
The textbook, of course, had by ill fate opened to a page that some might consider incriminating. Of course, it was only facts. And it was too dark to see anything but the vaguest of shapes. Surely, no one who was not already familiar with the illustrations would be… “I take it you’re to be,” she hesitated, “a doctor, then?” Damnation.
“Well, yes,” he said, as he blushed and scrambled to his feet, “and that’s an important book. So.” He didn’t know where to go with this thought. “So, that is that. And there’s no need to mention anything about it…” Oops. This was the wrong track. “about me falling. To… other doctors… students. Doctor-students. I’ll thank you to remain discrete.”
Unexpectedly, she giggled. “You talk real funny! I’m Amanda, but Pa calls me Mandy.”
Mentally, he noted her obvious mistake: ‘Mandy’ would not be an appropriate form of address if he wished to show respect. She should know that. “I am Mr. Jacob Bale. I am a student. You are, Miss…?”
There was a silence from Mandy: puzzlement, perhaps, or hesitation. Just then, a break in the clouds lit the streets with a shaft of moonlight. She was prettier than he had imagined, with red cheeks even in the comparatively warm night. Her hat featured large dog-like ear flaps; he’d never cared for those hats before, but suddenly felt he may have not given them their due. The effect of the ridiculous flaps was simultaneously one of both bitter winter hardiness and child-like innocence. It was over for him: he was smitten.
“Miss Swenson,” she finally answered, “Pa and me work the big farm between the Jensons and the Yerbiches. I was just out here to pick up…”
“Miss Swenson,” he interrupted, “would you like to have dinner with me next week?” He felt his face stick in place while every other part of his body melted backwards towards an increasingly distant point and his mind closed in on a few closely-linked thoughts. What had he just done? He was doing it! What was he doing? Did he really just…?
Miss Swenson, on the other hand, underwent an entirely different kind of change. Her face lit up before splitting into a big grin that somehow made her eyes larger than they had just been previously. “Stars! I’ve never really spoken with a doctor before, uh, student doctor. I mean, I don’t really talk to anyone. On the farm I mostly just talk with Pa. But that’s, I mean, I’d love to! I don’t have anything to wear, but maybe I can make something real pretty.” She put her hands to her mouth, suddenly frightened. She did not wear gloves, and they were clearly the hands of someone born and raised on a farm – but also the hands of a real-live woman and that was more important. “But… you wouldn’t kid, would you?”
“Not a bit of it, my dear lady.” That sounded about right. “I’ll pick you up Friday, at four o’clock sharp.”
“Oh, such the gentleman!” Backing up slowly, she began dragging the heel of her right foot, leaving a broken rut in the hard-packed snow of the road. As Jacob watched, confused, she made three sharp kicks, gouging the ground with her heel. “This here is Movil, and this is Little Turtle, and you’ll find me and Pa at the farm right here!”
“Then, Miss Swenson, I eagerly await the honor.”
She cast her eyes down bashfully. “Mr. Bale.” The clouds, now tired of their adopted obliging nature, suddenly covered up the moon and thrust them both into darkness. Jacob stood a moment in darkness, wondering if he should say anything else. When his eyes began to adjust, he could no longer make out her shape in the night. He couldn’t remember what he’d learned about ending conversations of this sort, and he wasn’t about to start talking to someone who might not even be there anymore; the best course was simply to disappear silently, himself, and he stepped lightly back towards campus, away from the silent, possibly-empty street.
Jacob felt ill. Some was a curiously pleasant nausea – he couldn’t believe what had just happened, and was pleased at how well he’d followed the patterns. Some of his expertise must have been lost on the girl, she was clearly country stock and fundamentally uncivilized. Still, no master of the art could have found fault with his adherence to the form. Which, tragically, led to the other type of queasiness threatening to overwhelm him: “I’ll pick you up?” What was he thinking? He was a student, and neither had horses nor knew anyone who would be likely to put their team on loan to an inexperienced driver. And to show up with someone else holding the reins? Unless it were clearly a servant, it simply couldn’t be done.
Still, he’d done the best anyone could ask. It was a relief to finally have a chance to exercise his research. Stubbornly forbidding himself to think about what he was doing or why, he hurried past the library without returning the book.
The next few days followed a set pattern. In the morning, he woke from a restless sleep and skipped classes to continue his list of people who might have horses he could access. After lunch, he would contact the one or two or zero people he’d thought of, and would be sent away empty-handed. On the worst day, he walked all the way to the Stone farm – relatives of a former roommate – and wasn’t able to get back home until well after nightfall, and all for nothing. The evening, on the days time remained, was spent reading cookbooks. He simply hadn’t the money to take her anywhere, but a demonstration of culinary skill was an acceptable gambit in and of itself, so the loss wasn’t too great. He had nowhere to serve food but his dorm room, but a few trips to the library allowed him to decorate in such a way that it actually appeared he might be bound for the medical field. It would have to do.
Getting access to the kitchens would be a problem, so he carefully chose foods that were served cold and planned to break in Thursday night after the cooks had gone home. It was foolproof, and excuses could be made for the lack of transportation. She clearly was used to making the long trip on foot already; while a shame, walking would not be an insupportable burden.
Thursday night came and Jacob was as ready as he could be. He had a few recipes memorized and covertly learned the layout of the kitchens from a former employee. The real gem was going to be the vegetables. A few pounds of fresh produce were brought in once a month for the higher-ups and for honorary ceremonies. By this point in the winter, there was already no price that could be put on a taste that didn’t come from a can. For most people, and certainly for countryfolk, everything was preserved – or freshly slaughtered. A taste of fresh would elevate his status in ways no other trick could.
Slipping out of his room, he was immediately struck by the difficulty in appearing innocent. He was planning on breaking into the kitchens, yes, but for now he was simply walking across campus. No harm in that. Not a common activity for anyone during winter, true, but neither discouraged nor incriminating. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that unseen eyes were following his every step; it was painfully difficult to keep from glancing over his shoulder every few steps. The pools of light spilled by the lamps made him feel exposed, on display; but the darkness in-between was filled with invisible watchers which made him hurry to the next lamppost as quickly as he dared. He felt himself oozing a sinister glow that would proclaim his guilt to anyone whose eye he caught; soon it became as difficult to keep from wiping himself clean as it was to keep from continually looking back over his shoulder. And he’d done nothing wrong yet.
Just as it threatened to become overwhelming, he found himself already at the icy stone steps that led to the underground entrance of the kitchens. He couldn’t remember crossing most of the distance between his room and these steps, but at least he had arrived. It was time to commit the crime he was already paying for, and sinking into the ground was a perverse relief.
The lock, a simple in-door springbolt number, was child’s play to pick. It was one of the few things learned from books that wasn’t too difficult to apply, not that it suggested any reputable careers for Jacob. The door was doubly-thick and pulled back with the weight and momentousness of a freezer door. It was almost surprising that the air was warmer once he’d slipped inside and let it settle behind him, sealing the kitchens off from the outside world.
Jacob licked his lips, briefly overwhelmed by the reality of his situation. It was frighteningly easy: he had made choices and was having something like an adventure. Would it always have been that easy? An unfamiliar urge to reflect hovered on the edge of his mind, but it was hardly the time for self-evaluation. He licked his lips again, wicking the cold from them. Speed would be his only virtue tonight.
The kitchens were not totally dark, which was a blessing. Had they been completely lightless, he had no backup plan. He had entered in next to the monstrous machine that somehow cleaned dishes, and needed to move in deeper to get to the food. He knew that the kitchens were laid out something like a honeycomb, with a large series of interconnecting cells, all white tiled and carefully organized. The map in his mind told him to exit the room via the entryway to the right, but the smell of fresh bread from the left lured him away from the dishes and into a room lined with wire racks and perhaps a hundred delicious-looking loaves. This wasn’t part of his plan, but it certainly was best not to look a gift horse in the loaf, such as it was. He grabbed one and slipped it into his bag, finding something curiously satisfying in the heavy, crusty sound it made landing in the bottom.
It was marginally lighter ahead, and that more than anything compelled Jacob to continue moving forward instead of going back to follow his original plan and raid the vegetables. The next room was filled with serving and mixing bowls, and several bins with spatulas, graters, and other miscellaneous tools. One thing didn’t fit, however: in the corner by one of the far doors was a wooden barrel. He told himself it was likely only for seating, but curiosity compelled him to cross the room and pull up the lid. Perhaps only Aladdin in the deepest caves could explain the feeling that drove him, but Aladdin was never so richly rewarded with treasure. The barrel was full of apples. Real apples, delivered fresh from heaven-only-knew what sunny land far, far from this winterlocked town. He quickly grabbed two, then another two, before a sound made him freeze: something was terribly wrong.
After a breathless moment, he lowered the lid and looked directly into the next room. He hadn’t noticed it in his haste, but that room was even lighter: there was a lantern burning very low on the immaculately cleaned countertop. The floor was a jumble of drawers and tangled utensils: various sizes of forks and spoons lay scattered, and the gaping holes in the counter screamed that violence had been done as their drawers were ripped free. There were no knives on the ground, however: those were lined up on top of the countertop. Butter knives, steak knives, filleting knives, butcher knives: every kind of knife gathered from throughout the kitchens lay neatly arranged, each a precisely-measured distance from each of its neighbors, carefully spaced with a mathematician’s rigor by the Dean of the school -- who was standing next to the lamp, staring at Jacob Bale with fury in his eyes.
Butcher's Den (Part I)
You know, I'm not from around here, but I've heard quite a few stories that make me glad of that fact. I've been traveling the states, trying to see the world in all its glory. I spent some years up in Washington State; they say the Bigfoot lives up there. 'course, there's also folks up in Maine claiming to have seen a Bigfoot. I call it balderdash. Bigfoot's just a legend, just like those Dakota jackrabbits with them antlers. Jackalopes, that's what they called 'em. Everywhere I go, everyone's got their stories, their fantastical creatures they're just too damned excited to show off to visitors. Things're just the same here in Bemidji, hell, this one traces everywhere across the map. They've got Paul Bunyan in Akeley, in Brainerd, in Michigan, Wisconsin, hell, they've even got him up in Maine. I bet him 'nd Bigfoot are the best of friends.
Most stories you hear of that giant come off as mere folklore. As another tourist attraction set up to keep the money flowing. I know the difference; but Paul's a different story for some other story teller. Bemidji's got the giant with no axe, but they'll never tell you why. But that's not all that this city's got. Like I'd been saying; I've traveled a fair few miles, but rare are the occasions that I land upon such a city as this.
Many believe that it began solely as a logging town, but this is only partially true. There are those amongst the town's population, and those outside as well, that tell tales of quite a different beginning for this young town. Not many take their words for fact. Alcohol sure is a nice quick way to take and break one's reputation amongst their fellow neighbors. Most blame their families or swindling wives on their misery, others raise their glass to failed business, but there are some that take a drink to save their sanity.
Bemidji used to be a lumberjack's town. Felling trees and hauling cut timber about had been the everyman's method to earning a buck for flapjacks and candlewax. That's what we've been told at least. Back then there used to be a small band of no good crooked cops holding on to the Western ideal of Justice. Hell, y'couldn't even consider 'em cops back then, too civilized of a word for those folks.
These guys had it in their minds to blame troubles on nearby indians. They figured it'd be a good way to relieve the stress of never getting any tale in these godforsaken woods. At first it had just began as scare tactics. Any time they'd have time away from work a band of 'em would get together and go out 'n hunt some indian; all too similar to western films we have today, yet all the more malicious, malevolent and down right disturbing.
Early into their so-called 'expressive' activities, a native would show up to the post-office or what was in a poor attempt to be an infirm beaten and bruised. Bones would be broken and blood covered their chests, and those around the town began to catch on. The men would become hassled, they had thought others may have had the same sentiments towards the indians. They were forced underground by the town. Quite literally an underground series of rooms slowly took shape north of the river on the lakeside. An old beaver's den became the place of torture. The inside was gutted and reinforced. No one noticed from the town, no signs showed above the ground.One man began to live within those walls. Those men began to bring back their captives, to force them underneath and bring about their personal forms of punishment.
The man living below was known simply as Jon. To those brought below he was the hellbringer, the devil on earth. His eyes had gone to adjust to the swallowing dark beneath the earth. Those that looked into his eyes had seen a being soul-less. He was blind, but knew the body well. The earth deadened the screams coming from below. The town and its people had very little connections with those natives that surrounded them. Hardly any had grown to discover what lay under their very feet.
For years it went on. Those victims still fit to walk would be released back to their tribes; a sign to show that they were not wanted. The town had slowly begun to forget those men who had shown up bruised and beaten, believing it only to have been a small blip within their history. Yet underneath it thrived. Men and women would enter, and for days they would be starved; held in captivity. Jon would pick a victim, pick his tools, and pick away at the flesh that held in what should only come loose in war or accident. Skulls would be scalped and salted. Screams would bring joyous laughter to Jon and those with enough stomach to watch. Bones would break and heal to be broken once more. Blood stained the ground and would be washed away through the entrance to the lake. Reeds and weeds flourished outside the old beaver's den and few knew why. The town continued to expand across the lakeshore, and soon the school was under construction.
Many of those who previously hunted for the indians began to give up. They'd grown old with age and had lost what thrill had come from taking another's life; in making them suffer. No one has yet to discover the entrance to the den, so few even know of its existence, even fewer go out in search. Those that have heard believe the spirits of those who's lives had been taken still linger beneath. Jon the Butcher has a stone in the graveyard, dying the day the he lived underground. To this day, those near the shore may still hear a faint scream, or even still, some may hear that faint laughter that pierces further than the coldest of nights.
Most stories you hear of that giant come off as mere folklore. As another tourist attraction set up to keep the money flowing. I know the difference; but Paul's a different story for some other story teller. Bemidji's got the giant with no axe, but they'll never tell you why. But that's not all that this city's got. Like I'd been saying; I've traveled a fair few miles, but rare are the occasions that I land upon such a city as this.
Many believe that it began solely as a logging town, but this is only partially true. There are those amongst the town's population, and those outside as well, that tell tales of quite a different beginning for this young town. Not many take their words for fact. Alcohol sure is a nice quick way to take and break one's reputation amongst their fellow neighbors. Most blame their families or swindling wives on their misery, others raise their glass to failed business, but there are some that take a drink to save their sanity.
Bemidji used to be a lumberjack's town. Felling trees and hauling cut timber about had been the everyman's method to earning a buck for flapjacks and candlewax. That's what we've been told at least. Back then there used to be a small band of no good crooked cops holding on to the Western ideal of Justice. Hell, y'couldn't even consider 'em cops back then, too civilized of a word for those folks.
These guys had it in their minds to blame troubles on nearby indians. They figured it'd be a good way to relieve the stress of never getting any tale in these godforsaken woods. At first it had just began as scare tactics. Any time they'd have time away from work a band of 'em would get together and go out 'n hunt some indian; all too similar to western films we have today, yet all the more malicious, malevolent and down right disturbing.
Early into their so-called 'expressive' activities, a native would show up to the post-office or what was in a poor attempt to be an infirm beaten and bruised. Bones would be broken and blood covered their chests, and those around the town began to catch on. The men would become hassled, they had thought others may have had the same sentiments towards the indians. They were forced underground by the town. Quite literally an underground series of rooms slowly took shape north of the river on the lakeside. An old beaver's den became the place of torture. The inside was gutted and reinforced. No one noticed from the town, no signs showed above the ground.One man began to live within those walls. Those men began to bring back their captives, to force them underneath and bring about their personal forms of punishment.
The man living below was known simply as Jon. To those brought below he was the hellbringer, the devil on earth. His eyes had gone to adjust to the swallowing dark beneath the earth. Those that looked into his eyes had seen a being soul-less. He was blind, but knew the body well. The earth deadened the screams coming from below. The town and its people had very little connections with those natives that surrounded them. Hardly any had grown to discover what lay under their very feet.
For years it went on. Those victims still fit to walk would be released back to their tribes; a sign to show that they were not wanted. The town had slowly begun to forget those men who had shown up bruised and beaten, believing it only to have been a small blip within their history. Yet underneath it thrived. Men and women would enter, and for days they would be starved; held in captivity. Jon would pick a victim, pick his tools, and pick away at the flesh that held in what should only come loose in war or accident. Skulls would be scalped and salted. Screams would bring joyous laughter to Jon and those with enough stomach to watch. Bones would break and heal to be broken once more. Blood stained the ground and would be washed away through the entrance to the lake. Reeds and weeds flourished outside the old beaver's den and few knew why. The town continued to expand across the lakeshore, and soon the school was under construction.
Many of those who previously hunted for the indians began to give up. They'd grown old with age and had lost what thrill had come from taking another's life; in making them suffer. No one has yet to discover the entrance to the den, so few even know of its existence, even fewer go out in search. Those that have heard believe the spirits of those who's lives had been taken still linger beneath. Jon the Butcher has a stone in the graveyard, dying the day the he lived underground. To this day, those near the shore may still hear a faint scream, or even still, some may hear that faint laughter that pierces further than the coldest of nights.
Those Damn Kids
Jack stared at the piece of paper. He had been staring at it since the lady behind the counter took his picture and handed him the yellow carbon-copy. Seven minutes had now passed, and the other people at the DMV were getting annoyed with him. This was the most important thing to happen in Jack’s life and he wanted to savor it. Although this piece of paper didn’t explicitly grant his freedom, it may as well have. He could do whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted, so long as he called his mother and she said it was okay––or she didn’t know about it.
Jack pulled out his cellphone and called his girlfriend. “Want to head out to the old Lake Julia TB Sanitarium tonight? I just got my driver’s license.” Jack was hoping he could finish the conversation before he got to the minivan where his mother had been waiting. He didn’t want her to know what he was up to.
“Congrats on passing the test. What time will you be at my house?” Gina replied.
“My parents go to bed at eleven, so I’ll be in the alley at 11:30,” Jack said, hanging the cell up as he approached the minivan. “I had to tell Gina the good news,” he told his mother as he got into the passenger’s seat – not what he wanted, but his mother wasn’t quite ready to let go.
He waited until his parents were asleep, climbed out of his window, put the car into neutral and started pushing it down the block. He waited until he was four houses away to start the car. He pulled up to the alley behind Gina’s house at 11:30 and flashed his lights. Gina flicked her bedroom lights on and off. He went over to the garage and carefully moved the ladder out from behind it and stood it up against her window. He took off of his mittens and climbed up the ladder. He took his Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and picked the lock that her parents had placed on the outside of her window. Once it was open, they climbed down the ladder and got into the car.
The drive north passed in silence. They had been planning this trip since their first date when they snuck in to watch Friday the 13th at the Amigo last month. It had been a cold March and they were both glad. During the warmer months, the owner of the property had guard dogs that would chase anyone that hopped the fence. In the winter, it was too cold for them and he kept them inside, leaving the place unprotected for anyone that wanted to go exploring.
They pulled up to where Gina’s older brother had directed them, killed the engine and hopped the fence. Their feet crunched on the snow as they waded up to the abandoned building, a little louder than what Jack expected, but he figured that the recent cold snap could have caused it. “After you, dear lady,” Jack said as he opened the door for Gina, hoping his humor would be able to hide how scared he truly was.
Gina’s older brother had been telling her stories about this place for years. She loved horror movies and scary things. Jack, on the other hand, couldn’t stand anything of that nature and made sure he spent as much time as possible in the bathroom whenever they went to the movies.
“Mike told me that they used to take the people up to the top floor to get a view of the lake before they died. He said that over 200 people died in that room. We need to get up there.” Jack shined his flashlight around and pointed at the stairs in the far corner of the room, regretting it as he did so; but he didn’t want to seem like a sissy in front of his girlfriend.
The building was creepy, but not scary. They made their way up the floors until they reached the base of the last staircase. The hairs on Jack’s neck pressed hard against his coat. “Wait,” Jack said, “I don’t think I can go up these stairs.”
“You aren’t scared, are you?” said Gina, elbowing him in the ribs.
“I’m serious,” Jack said, his voice shaking and his color going.
“It’s okay if you are afraid; we don’t have to go to the top floor,” said Gina as she took his hand in hers. “We only have to do what you are comfortable with. I was just giving you a hard time before.”
With her hand in his, Jack felt that he could walk to the bottom of Hell. He told himself that it was just an old building that people had died in. Just like the hospital, only without all of the bright lights. Jack swallowed hard as he started up the stairs. Gina followed him up the stairs not knowing what to think.
They walked to the edge of the building up to where they used to take the dying people for their last sight of beauty before death. The window had been sold off by the owner years ago, and they could feel the cold wind against their faces. It was beautiful. They could see the entire lake by the light of the almost full moon. They stood there for nearly ten minutes, just looking at the scenery. Suddenly, Gina bent over and began to shake violently, bumping Jack in the progress. He stumbled backward as he caught himself and fell backwards against the rotting boards, hitting his head. Gina stopped her convulsions after a moment, and began to stand back up, twitching slightly as she did it. “Are you alright?” Gina asked, as she rushed over and bent down beside him.
“I think so, but we should probably go home now,” Jack said, rubbing the back of his head.
“Not quite yet,” Gina said, standing up. “There is something else I need to show you.” She put her put her fingers inside of her mouth as if to whistle, and tore her jaw away from the rest of her body. Jack screamed as he was showered in the spray of her warm blood. He jumped to his feet and started making his way to the stairs. He needed to get somewhere where he got reception so he could call an ambulance.
“What is wrong with you?” he yelled at her from across the room. Without her jaw impeding it, her tongue seemed to grow to enormous proportions and flailed in all directions. Gina lunged at him. Perhaps the police should be the ones he should be calling, Jack thought. He dodged and got out his pocketknife. Not the best weapon he could hope for, but it was better than nothing. She went for him again, her blood spraying everywhere. He chanced a quick motion with his blade and left her right nostril hanging from a flap. She let out a hideous moan and retreated, planning her next attack, flailing her arms and tongue, spitting blood everywhere.
Jack thought he saw a light come on in the woods some distance away. Hopefully the owner was coming and could help him with whatever had happened to Gina. He didn’t want to kill her but thought that he might be left with no choice. He was going to try to knock her out and drive her to the hospital, calling an ambulance if he needed to. “I am not going to be able to carry her down these stairs, so I guess I will have to lure her nearer to the car.” Jack said to himself.
As though she could hear his thoughts, Gina dove across the room and stood in front of the staircase, deliberately blocking the only exit. She bent down and took out an old rusty knife from her right boot. She raised the knife to her nose and cut the left nostril to match the right. She then drove the knife into her chest, tracing the lines between her ribs. Jack bent over and began to vomit blood onto the staircase. While Jack was bent over, Gina charged at him and jammed her knife into his shoulder. Jack collapsed to the ground in pain and she delivered a hard kick to the back of his head.
While Jack was unconscious, Gina took a matchbook out of her pocket and lit it, and tossed it across the room. She bent down and licked Jack’s face with her gruesome tongue. The far wall was now ablaze. She used the knife as a prybar to break Jack’s ribcage open. She cut the connections with the trachea and removed his lungs. Now that she had collected her prize, she began walking down the stairs, the flames spreading across the floor.
Amanda came over and nosed him in the leg. She let out a whine and looked expectantly at the window. “What girl? You can’t go on a walk now,” said Enos, following her to the window and seeing the old sanitarium. “No one is ever in there anymore. I’m just going to the bathroom. After that, we both can go back to bed and enjoy the rest of the night, unless I need to get up again.” Amanda whined again and pawed at the window before jumping out of it. Enos had no time for the bathroom anymore. Instead he moved to the door, put on his coat and boots, and headed out of the door towards the lake, relieving himself as he went.
By the time Enos got out of the front door and around to the back of the house, he could see flames licking the roof of the sanitarium. There was a small shape pacing in front of the flames. “Those damn kids,” Enos said to himself as he walked to his pickup.
He parked next to Jack’s mom’s minivan and walked towards the building. The old structure collapsed when he was about 15 feet away, causing him to stumble backwards into a snowbank. Amanda was unfazed by the collapse and remained at the base of the structure, growling, her teeth bared. “Easy girl,” Enos said, pulling out his cellphone. “Cursed technology,” Enos mumbled as he fumbled with the locking feature and began dialing 911. He was so busy with the phone that he didn’t see a burning body rise up out of the building’s remains. It grabbed Amanda by the neck and snapped it, leaving the dog limp and motionless on the ground.
Then, the figure turned, looked at Enos, and paused before using her skeletal hands to pull the remaining skin off of her bones. The creature bent down and picked up two lumps of meat from the ground and carried them into the woods. The phone call finally went through, but all the person on the other end heard was the sound of Enos collapsing in the snow.
Jack pulled out his cellphone and called his girlfriend. “Want to head out to the old Lake Julia TB Sanitarium tonight? I just got my driver’s license.” Jack was hoping he could finish the conversation before he got to the minivan where his mother had been waiting. He didn’t want her to know what he was up to.
“Congrats on passing the test. What time will you be at my house?” Gina replied.
“My parents go to bed at eleven, so I’ll be in the alley at 11:30,” Jack said, hanging the cell up as he approached the minivan. “I had to tell Gina the good news,” he told his mother as he got into the passenger’s seat – not what he wanted, but his mother wasn’t quite ready to let go.
He waited until his parents were asleep, climbed out of his window, put the car into neutral and started pushing it down the block. He waited until he was four houses away to start the car. He pulled up to the alley behind Gina’s house at 11:30 and flashed his lights. Gina flicked her bedroom lights on and off. He went over to the garage and carefully moved the ladder out from behind it and stood it up against her window. He took off of his mittens and climbed up the ladder. He took his Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and picked the lock that her parents had placed on the outside of her window. Once it was open, they climbed down the ladder and got into the car.
The drive north passed in silence. They had been planning this trip since their first date when they snuck in to watch Friday the 13th at the Amigo last month. It had been a cold March and they were both glad. During the warmer months, the owner of the property had guard dogs that would chase anyone that hopped the fence. In the winter, it was too cold for them and he kept them inside, leaving the place unprotected for anyone that wanted to go exploring.
They pulled up to where Gina’s older brother had directed them, killed the engine and hopped the fence. Their feet crunched on the snow as they waded up to the abandoned building, a little louder than what Jack expected, but he figured that the recent cold snap could have caused it. “After you, dear lady,” Jack said as he opened the door for Gina, hoping his humor would be able to hide how scared he truly was.
Gina’s older brother had been telling her stories about this place for years. She loved horror movies and scary things. Jack, on the other hand, couldn’t stand anything of that nature and made sure he spent as much time as possible in the bathroom whenever they went to the movies.
“Mike told me that they used to take the people up to the top floor to get a view of the lake before they died. He said that over 200 people died in that room. We need to get up there.” Jack shined his flashlight around and pointed at the stairs in the far corner of the room, regretting it as he did so; but he didn’t want to seem like a sissy in front of his girlfriend.
The building was creepy, but not scary. They made their way up the floors until they reached the base of the last staircase. The hairs on Jack’s neck pressed hard against his coat. “Wait,” Jack said, “I don’t think I can go up these stairs.”
“You aren’t scared, are you?” said Gina, elbowing him in the ribs.
“I’m serious,” Jack said, his voice shaking and his color going.
“It’s okay if you are afraid; we don’t have to go to the top floor,” said Gina as she took his hand in hers. “We only have to do what you are comfortable with. I was just giving you a hard time before.”
With her hand in his, Jack felt that he could walk to the bottom of Hell. He told himself that it was just an old building that people had died in. Just like the hospital, only without all of the bright lights. Jack swallowed hard as he started up the stairs. Gina followed him up the stairs not knowing what to think.
They walked to the edge of the building up to where they used to take the dying people for their last sight of beauty before death. The window had been sold off by the owner years ago, and they could feel the cold wind against their faces. It was beautiful. They could see the entire lake by the light of the almost full moon. They stood there for nearly ten minutes, just looking at the scenery. Suddenly, Gina bent over and began to shake violently, bumping Jack in the progress. He stumbled backward as he caught himself and fell backwards against the rotting boards, hitting his head. Gina stopped her convulsions after a moment, and began to stand back up, twitching slightly as she did it. “Are you alright?” Gina asked, as she rushed over and bent down beside him.
“I think so, but we should probably go home now,” Jack said, rubbing the back of his head.
“Not quite yet,” Gina said, standing up. “There is something else I need to show you.” She put her put her fingers inside of her mouth as if to whistle, and tore her jaw away from the rest of her body. Jack screamed as he was showered in the spray of her warm blood. He jumped to his feet and started making his way to the stairs. He needed to get somewhere where he got reception so he could call an ambulance.
“What is wrong with you?” he yelled at her from across the room. Without her jaw impeding it, her tongue seemed to grow to enormous proportions and flailed in all directions. Gina lunged at him. Perhaps the police should be the ones he should be calling, Jack thought. He dodged and got out his pocketknife. Not the best weapon he could hope for, but it was better than nothing. She went for him again, her blood spraying everywhere. He chanced a quick motion with his blade and left her right nostril hanging from a flap. She let out a hideous moan and retreated, planning her next attack, flailing her arms and tongue, spitting blood everywhere.
Jack thought he saw a light come on in the woods some distance away. Hopefully the owner was coming and could help him with whatever had happened to Gina. He didn’t want to kill her but thought that he might be left with no choice. He was going to try to knock her out and drive her to the hospital, calling an ambulance if he needed to. “I am not going to be able to carry her down these stairs, so I guess I will have to lure her nearer to the car.” Jack said to himself.
As though she could hear his thoughts, Gina dove across the room and stood in front of the staircase, deliberately blocking the only exit. She bent down and took out an old rusty knife from her right boot. She raised the knife to her nose and cut the left nostril to match the right. She then drove the knife into her chest, tracing the lines between her ribs. Jack bent over and began to vomit blood onto the staircase. While Jack was bent over, Gina charged at him and jammed her knife into his shoulder. Jack collapsed to the ground in pain and she delivered a hard kick to the back of his head.
While Jack was unconscious, Gina took a matchbook out of her pocket and lit it, and tossed it across the room. She bent down and licked Jack’s face with her gruesome tongue. The far wall was now ablaze. She used the knife as a prybar to break Jack’s ribcage open. She cut the connections with the trachea and removed his lungs. Now that she had collected her prize, she began walking down the stairs, the flames spreading across the floor.
* * *
Enos looked at the clock. It was 3:30 AM, again. This was the ninth morning in a row he had not slept the night through. On his trek to the bathroom, he thought about calling Dr. Peterson in the morning and scheduling an appointment to have him check his prostate. These early morning rises were starting to get to him.Amanda came over and nosed him in the leg. She let out a whine and looked expectantly at the window. “What girl? You can’t go on a walk now,” said Enos, following her to the window and seeing the old sanitarium. “No one is ever in there anymore. I’m just going to the bathroom. After that, we both can go back to bed and enjoy the rest of the night, unless I need to get up again.” Amanda whined again and pawed at the window before jumping out of it. Enos had no time for the bathroom anymore. Instead he moved to the door, put on his coat and boots, and headed out of the door towards the lake, relieving himself as he went.
By the time Enos got out of the front door and around to the back of the house, he could see flames licking the roof of the sanitarium. There was a small shape pacing in front of the flames. “Those damn kids,” Enos said to himself as he walked to his pickup.
He parked next to Jack’s mom’s minivan and walked towards the building. The old structure collapsed when he was about 15 feet away, causing him to stumble backwards into a snowbank. Amanda was unfazed by the collapse and remained at the base of the structure, growling, her teeth bared. “Easy girl,” Enos said, pulling out his cellphone. “Cursed technology,” Enos mumbled as he fumbled with the locking feature and began dialing 911. He was so busy with the phone that he didn’t see a burning body rise up out of the building’s remains. It grabbed Amanda by the neck and snapped it, leaving the dog limp and motionless on the ground.
Then, the figure turned, looked at Enos, and paused before using her skeletal hands to pull the remaining skin off of her bones. The creature bent down and picked up two lumps of meat from the ground and carried them into the woods. The phone call finally went through, but all the person on the other end heard was the sound of Enos collapsing in the snow.
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