The Devil's Music

By Stephen R Drage

In the winter of 1980, Mike Ratner is conducting a procedural review of Farfield Psychiatric Facility, an unpleasant assignment given his own history of mental problems. He soon peels away the hospital’s thin veneer, to discover that multiple murders have taken place – but who is the murderer? Ratner becomes increasingly isolated and unsure of what is or is not real until eventually he is forced to confront his own worst memories.

30 years later, an investigative writer, John Mars’, and his colleague “Brim” Brimage are conducting research into the unresolved deaths at the now abandoned Mental Hospital. But when sources close to them begin getting killed, our heroes realize there are still forces at work, willing to murder again to protect Farfield's forgotten secrets. And it looks like John and Brim are the next targets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen R Drage
• Release date: Aug 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780988920514

Stephen R Drage

Stephen R. Drage is a freelance author, entrepreneur and award winning public speaker.Stephen grew up in England but now lives in Atlanta, GA

Book preview

Chapter 1

John Mars sat on the newly painted wooden bench and watched the late summer breeze tease the top branches of a distant pine. The blistering Georgia heat had burned itself out and was now surrendering to the promise of the cooler, shorter days of autumn. Nature would begin a gradual slide into dormancy, as it prepared for winter.

As with nature's transition, John Mars was also feeling a calm stillness – his major writing project had concluded. One hundred and six thousand words of mystery, blood and heroism. The last chapter of the final book in the Danny Blade detective series Trilogy had been e-mailed to John's agent. In this concluding volume the intrepid detective had once again confronted the most notorious elements of society, only to prevail and dodge death in the final chapter, as the criminal inevitably faced the abrupt justice of Danny Blade's well used pistol.

John had enjoyed the writing process of his books. Not so much hammering out the clichéd pulp of Danny Blade's universe, but the research. Danny Blade used multiple high-tech gadgets and advanced technology to ensnare and capture the bad guys, and John had enjoyed learning about these cutting edge toys. Then there was the focus. Hour after of hour as his keyboard clicked and the words and pages formed, there was, in this mundane ritual, some sense of achievement and release. And that was the part he now missed. His life now had no structure or habit. He yearned for another project, not one where Danny Blade performed the impossible to save the world, but something new. Something different.

John cut his writing teeth in Florida where he worked free-lance as an investigative journalist for the Miami Herald. Back then Miami was a smorgasbord of vice, corruption and drugs. You could always find a story barely hidden under the the trash that littered Flagler Street or Little Havana. Three years ago, after deciding to try his hand at novel writing, John moved to Georgia and managed to write one book a year. His latest book had been written almost entirely in the office of his two story colonial styled house, nestled in a North Atlanta community, overlooking a steep bank populated with towering trees of oak, beech, and hickory. The house offered the perfect setting to write, and when he needed to get out, he'd head to one of the walking trails in Creekside Park.

The Park was a recent addition to the community. About a hundred and twenty acres where brush-filled meadows were crowded with old-growth forest. A previously unkempt area where the city had recently decided to create a community park. Its overgrown and wild scrub land had been trimmed, manicured and paved, resulting in a pristine parkland where affluent residents walked their pampered pets or jogged in fashionable sports attire. This sort of community re-engineering seemed to be happening all over Atlanta now, as the entire country crawled out of a decade of downsizing and austerity. The congested working class communities like Cabbage-Town and the old-Fourth-Ward were being strung together by the new belt-line trail as it snaked its way through the revitalized east-side neighborhoods. Sleek new electric trams shuffled tourists between Olympic Park and the Martin Luther King historic district. New construction, both residential and commercial was emerging out of a tired landscape.

A distant dog barked John out of his daydream. About twenty yards in front of him a black and white collie sprang into the warm morning air to catch a red Frisbee. The young woman who had thrown it clapped and shouted enthusiastically, as if her child had just taken its first steps.

It wasn't always like this, you know.

John was startled by a gritty sounding voice.

A man was standing behind him.

What's that? John asked, surprised and feeling as if he had been thrown into a conversation without a beginning.

This place, came the reply. The man appeared to be in his late seventies. The hazy blue eyes were unfocused and seemed to belong to a different time. The face was worn and weathered.

The man was tall, thin – almost bony – with skin like pale tanned leather, stretched over high cheek bones and clinging to the deep hollows of his eyes. His hair was thin and fine, more white than gray, and his clothes, looked rather shabby.

What do you mean? asked John.

This place. repeated the old man. It wasn’t always a park. Again John noticed the blue eyes that seemed to look right through him.

Yes, replied John. I was just thinking that. This is a nice place just to come and sit. John was very aware that he was simply making polite conversation.

Not always a nice place. said the gritty voice.

The old man was staring out into the meadow toward the woman and the Frisbee catching collie dog, but his gaze went somewhere beyond them, as if seeing something that resided only in his past. John could see now that the man was not as old as he had first thought, an estimate that had missed the mark by perhaps a decade.

It wasn’t? John asked. He couldn’t tell if the man wanted to talk or not, but after an uncomfortable silence the stranger finally broke his gaze and answered.

Used to be a hospital. All through these woods. He waved his hand in a sweeping motion.

Really? John said, surprised at the lack of any evidence of such a building.

Yep, insisted the man nodding his head vigorously.

When was that? John asked.

Oh, twenty or thirty years ago, said the man earnestly. And then, without warning, he suddenly leaned his head so close that John could feel the heat of the man's breath. Stale and old. It was a hospital for the cra-zy people, he whispered loudly, tapping on the side of his white hair with his crooked index finger so hard that John could hear the impact on his skull.

John thought this was becoming quite an odd conversation – and it was beginning to get in the way of a reasonable exchange with this peculiar old man whose odd recollections seemed, at the same time, both sincere and unlikely. He thought that what he probably needed to do was make a polite excuse, bid the man farewell, and leave.

John instinctively looked at his left wrist, despite having no watch.

Well, I should...er...

Yep. continued the man. Horrible place. he began the frantic head-nodding once more, and then came the loud gritty whisper. A lot of people died here. Bad place. Bad place. His nodding was replaced with a similarly violent head shake.

John looked away again. The woman and her dog were walking toward the raised boardwalk that meandered through a stand of pines. The strange man was also walking away, back in the direction of the parking lot.

John sat on the bench in silence for a few moments, then decided to return home. Realizing that the path to the exit was in the same direction that the old man had walked, and wishing to avoid any further encounter with him, he decided to walk in the other direction, where the woman and her dog had gone.

The boardwalk's pine-sheltered promenade reduced the bright afternoon sun to dappled splashes of light. John's measured tread sounded heavy and dull in the still forest. Soon, the decking gave way to a mulch path, and despite the uneven surface of the shredded bark, a subtle feeling underfoot alerted John to his untied shoelace. John crouched to re-lace it, as he caught a brief glimpse of a squirrel foraging in the dead leaves and broken branches off to his left. But wait, there was something else there. Squinting, he strained his eyes for a better view and could just make out a pattern of horizontal lines in the dense tangle of branches and shrubs.

Climbing the wooden guard rail of the boardwalk he jumped down into the soft earth. He slowly picked his way forward, ducking under the greenery and avoiding rotting tree-stumps. He could make it out more clearly now. It was a low section of crumbling brickwork.

Most of the concrete slab that had once been the building’s foundation was broken and cracked, clear evidence of an attempt to demolish it. About five feet of brickwork varying between two and three feet high were all that remained of the building, now covered with dark tendrils of English ivy and bright green moss.

Could this be the remnants of the mental hospital that the old man had talked about? Suddenly the forest seemed very quiet and for the first time John sensed a solitude and loneliness that was quite unnerving. Probably just his imagination, he reasoned as he made his way back to the boardwalk.

* * * *

John entered his house, threw his keys on the kitchen counter and immediately bounded up the stairs to his office. The unusual encounter in the park made him wonder; What if there had, in fact, once been a mental hospital in the park, and what if there had been some unusual or mysterious deaths there. What could have been the cause? Who might have been responsible? John immediately opened his laptop and began a search on Creekside Park. The first few pages returned only public records from the city council members as they debated and voted on walkways and tree plantings, but nothing to indicate what went on before. He could find no city plans or aerial photographs online, and nothing in the local newspaper archives. The online records for the Atlanta Journal Constitution only went back to 2005, but he knew there was microfilm available on the top floor of the downtown public library – where he might find relevant articles. He did leave messages on discussion boards for the local preservation society and historical groups indicating his desire to investigate Creekside, and he also posted questions on a Facebook page dealing with local history. He searched through budgetary requests and funding issues, and then in one lengthy but obscure city report there was a mention of a land transfer from The Georgia Department of Human Services.

He began a new search on Georgia DHS, and after numerous false leads he found a reference to Farfield Hospital in North Fulton County, Georgia, but was this the place? Next he searched on Farfield, Georgia and hit the mother lode. He began following links and slowly the shape of a mid-century, multi-building complex for the treatment of incurable mental disorders, arose from the peaceful walkways and playing fields of Creekside Park. A treatment center with three-hundred beds and a staff of thirty-seven, that opened in 1952 and closed in 1982 because of a lack of funding.

Oddly, the records, press cuttings and Court transcripts often showed a conflicting picture of Farfield. The complaints were abundant, allegations of brutality and cruelty, lawsuits against the state for abuse, and mistreatment of patients appearing alongside letters of commendations to the doctors and staff, and state reviews of exemplary conduct. Then he noticed a search engine result that read Charges of widespread abuse at Farfield mental institution, Norcross, Georgia. At first he thought it was just one more sensational headline that probably re-hashed what he had already discovered, but he clicked on it anyway.

The screen filled with a scan of the Rome Gazette newspaper, where an article on page seven reported the center's superintendent, Peter Gregson, addressing the allegations. It wasn’t at all surprising that Dr. Gregson claimed there was no basis for the complaints, that was politics. What was surprising to John was the horrific extent of the details which Dr. Gregson so vehemently denied. A tragic story of pain and desperation, torment and abuse, and a state investigation concerning multiple suspicious deaths in the winter of 1980.

* * * *

Chapter 2

Ghosts of Madness – by John Mars

North Georgia. 1980

Mike Ratner increased his grip on the steering wheel of the 1974 Buick and leaned forward a little, straining to see through the rain-soaked windshield. He realized that the department was understaffed, but was it really necessary for him to drive at night, and in a blizzard? The rain was freezing into a wintry mix, shining in the headlights of oncoming vehicles like gems in the black coldness of the night sky. Through his windshield where the wiper blades had carved out an arc of visibility on the ice crusted glass, he saw a signpost and braked a little too quickly, causing the car to momentarily slide on the frozen back-roads east of Roswell. He reversed a few feet to read the signpost, which said Norcross, and then made the sharp left turn onto the narrow road that he had almost missed.

Mike was no stranger to this weather. He had grown up in the North Carolina Smoky Mountains before moving to Georgia, where he found employment as a research analyst for the State Department of Human Services in Dawsonville – otherwise known as DHS Satellite office number 19. Dawsonville was a small town situated in the North Georgia mountains a little more than an hour from Atlanta, and a hundred years ago it had been home to the moonshiners, living outside the law with their hopped up, barely legal race cars and their illicit stills, hidden away beneath woodland canopy near cascading crystal pure waters washing their way down the Appalachian foothills. Satellite 19 was a small office with only four employees. It dealt with mostly clerical issues and case file review. So when the call from the Atlanta office came through requesting someone to help with what they called a Procedural Audit, he had been given the job. He didn't want it, but had he known that it would mean driving for nearly three hours in an ice blizzard, he would have been even less enthusiastic.

Mike was at that age that might be called mid-life. The type of temporal paragraph that is usually associated with some form of crisis. He was midway through a life that Mike felt had never really begun.

Mike had a troubled existence. His father left when he was six years old. He had only the vaguest recollections of a big, cheerful man who would bounce Mike on his knee and tell him stories of travel and adventure. Much later Mike would come to understand that his father's good cheer was delivered one bottle at a time, a personal failing that created a deep and irreparable fracture in his parent's marriage. His overly religious mother was only partially successful at raising a boy alone. His early years were spent resenting the world and everything in it, including himself. Behavior that eventually led to his examination and treatment. An unpleasant memory that Mike had pushed deep into the darkest recesses of his mind. But as he grew into manhood his outlook had improved. He had adjusted to the mundane existence of a nine to five government job and entertainment provided by television and often a little too much alcohol. But as the years rolled by, he never forgot the thrill of listening to the adventurous stories his father told, nor did he completely eliminate the envy he felt for his father, running, escaping, getting away.

Over the last half decade, his mother had become sick, and much of his energy had been spent as her caregiver. A task not made easier because some part of him blamed her for his father leaving, as well as the darkest, most painful, episode of his youth. But his mother was gone now, and he was left alone. Alone with the despondency of a life not yet begun. A need to live his father's stories of travel and adventure. A need to escape his small rented apartment and his crappy job with no future. And so, Mike Ratner, in his mid-life, continued each day's ritual and waited for something to happen.

At the bottom of a long descent, where the two lane highway crossed the Chattahoochee River, flashing lights cutting through the relentless sleet told him something was wrong. He slowed to a halt behind three other cars and opened the driver's window to see what was happening. Two cars had tried to occupy the same piece of road at the same time and were now tangled together blocking both lanes on the bridge.

Despite the weather he got out of the car to investigate. He turned up the collar of his coat as he walked and tightened the scarf around his neck, blowing hot breath into his cupped hands as he approached the wreck. The freezing rain stung his face, and he regretted that he hadn't the foresight to wear thicker pants. A policeman was attending to the drivers, who both seemed unhurt, but until the cars were moved, it was clear that he wasn't going anywhere in a hurry.

Need any help? he asked the officer.

The cop drawled his response in slow, southern style, No, We just have to get these vehicles clear of the bridge. The tow-truck is working on it now. Best just to stay in your car.

Mike nodded and walked back to the Buick. Leaning over to the passenger seat he released the catches on his brown leather briefcase and opened it up. He removed that morning's Atlanta newspaper and leafed through it. The front page on February 10th, 1981 was dominated by the story of another murdered child. Although not an Atlanta resident Mike was as aware of the Atlanta child murders as everyone else in the country. Was this the ninth or tenth? And still no sign of catching the one who was doing it. The story contained comments from city officials claiming to be doing everything they could, and on the facing page, quotes from community advocates saying that if the kids were white, the crime would be solved by now. The murders had been going on for nearly a year, but it wasn't until last fall that the FBI became involved, and now there was talk of the new president, Ronald Reagan, who had bested Georgia native Jimmy Carter last November, pledging federal funds to help the investigation.

Mike threw the newspaper on the back seat, and removed a brown folder from the briefcase. The front of the folder was labeled Farfield Hospital in blue ball point, and inside was a collection of mismatched papers and notes that Mike had assembled to help with the procedural audit. He looked at the fiasco on the bridge again. He watched the flashing light from the police cruiser get splintered into a thousand red luminous dots by the rain, and with an almost imperceptible shift his memory spilled into the recent past, and he was back in Ron's office at Satellite 19.

Got a special assignment for you, Mike. Ron Katz was the local director and he had called Mike in shortly after receiving the call from Atlanta.

That was Rich Benson on the phone. Rich was Ron's boss in Atlanta, and had visited satellite 19 only twice during the three years Mike had worked there. He was a big imposing man with a shock of blond hair and a cheerful, almost boisterous personality. In a different life he could easily have been a college quarterback, but in this one Mike pegged him as more of a politician, possessing the overt friendliness and social manipulation skills that, no doubt, propelled his rise to the lofty authority where he now resided. Beyond that Mike really didn't know him very well.

And what did he have to say? asked Mike.

Well, apparently there is a DHS mental hospital just outside Atlanta called Farfield, and it's been having some... he hesitated, taking time to extinguish his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, and looking for the diplomatic words that would have come more easily to his boss. Eventually he concluded ...problems.

At the words mental hospital, Mike shivered as memories of his youth fought their way out of the gloom. He hoped it wasn't noticeable.

What kind of problems? Mike was already curious as to the reason he was being told this.

There have been some... he looked at the ashtray again. Another pause. ...complaints.

From who? About what? asked Mike. Ron seemed lost in thought. It was unlike him.

Well, the complaints are mostly from family members and relatives, but last month GBI got involved.

The Georgia Bureau of Investigation is investigating one of our hospitals? Mike was shocked. "I haven't heard anything of this, have you?

No, replied Ron, but this was back a couple of months ago when the country was lost in election-mania. Bad news tended to get pushed to the bottom of the stack.

Even so, said Mike. It seems we would have heard about it. What were the complaints about?

Oh, the usual stuff, replied his boss. Abuse, mistreatment. Nothing we haven’t heard before. Ron gazed out of the window, at a sky of threatening gray hugging the distant hills.

So, why did the GBI show up if all this is so typical?

Well, said Ron, It’ll probably turn out to be nothing, but three patients have died.

Now it was Mike's turn to pause. He thought this conversation was starting to generate more questions than answers. It was true that facilities like Farfield always had a complaints from people, mostly staff and family members, but usually they didn't amount to much. Not multiple deaths anyway, and certainly nothing that would attract the attention of the GBI. Is there any truth to the complaints? Three people dying is a little unusual – something's not adding up here.

Who knows? said Ron. That's what you're going to find out.

Me? Mike's voice was raised in surprise. There were those memories again. Wait, I have to go there? questioned Mike. Until now, he had assumed it was research work, It hadn't dawned on him that this was to be a site visit."

Yes, you. Ron nodded.

Can't someone else do it? Richard is a good man. I'm really not qualified.

I've got no one else available. You'll be just fine.

Mike was unhappy with the assignment, but didn't feel like explaining why – his painful past was not public knowledge. He had hoped that he would never again have to visit any place like Farfield. Although he didn't really understand his own fear of it, he did realize there was no way to avoid the job. He quietly nodded.

But what about the deaths? Mike asked, trying to hide his nervousness.

Accidents happen. Ron said. Patients get into fights, they hurt each other, some hurt themselves. Like I said, it's probably nothing.

Mike nodded. Do we have any reports or notes, maybe the GBI report?

No. It's all at the hospital – which is why you're going there to do a procedural audit.

Why doesn't the Atlanta office deal with it. It's their mess.

Ron held up his hands. Hey, don't blame me – I'm just the messenger here. It's head office that wants us involved, maybe they think a report looks more impartial if it comes from another office.

How soon do I have to leave? Mike asked.

As soon as you can, Ron replied.

Mike rose from the chair. Another wave of panic hit him, feelings he didn't understand. He didn't want to do this. He wished someone else had the assignment. But it was done. Decided

As Mike left the office, Ron had called after him, Remember, we need to cross all the i's and dot all the t's on this one.

The extended blast from a car horn expressed the frustration of a driver further back in the line and brought Mike back to the cold darkness of the present. It looked like the cop was towing one of the cars off the bridge. The traffic should be moving again soon.

* * * *

Farfield Hospital lay hidden behind a military style checkpoint that now had a faint dusting of white snow on the roof. An overhead spotlight illuminated the rolling steel-mesh gate, a dozen feet high. It seemed more typical of a prison than a hospital. Mike slowed the Buick to a halt beside the fogged up window of the guard shack. A heavy-set uniformed man leaned forward slightly.

Can I help you? he asked politely.

Mike cranked down the driver's side window. The wintry night assaulted his senses.

My name is Mike Ratner, I'm here from satellite 19. He removed a letter from his still open briefcase and handed it to the guard.

The guard held the introductory letter under a desk lamp and squinted at it.

Could I see some ID, please. he said.

Mike handed over his DHS ID card, to which which the guard gave equal scrutiny, and after a moment the official handed back the documents and the steel gate began to slowly open. In the spotlight, Mike could now see that a coil of razor wire adorned the top of the gate.

Proceed down this road until you see the administration building on the left, the guard said, pointing down a frosty road. Winter has stripped most of the leaves, leaving the twisted skeleton branches to claw at the night sky. Mike drove forward slowly, and the clanking sound of the gate closed behind him. Mike felt his options evaporate and apprehension crawled at his skin.

The road followed a slow curve to the right and down a slight hill. At the bottom, situated in a clearing off to the left, was the administration building. The brick exterior of the two story building was wrapped in shadow, the only lights coming from three adjacent windows on the ground floor, and another of the yellow spots over the porch that shrouded a glass front door.

Mike parked the car close to the door, with only three other cars, each adorned with a dusting of sparkling frost. Buttoning up his coat again, Mike grabbed his briefcase and headed briskly to the door. He now noticed that the glass was criss-crossed with embedded wire – security glass. Someone was already crossing the room to meet him. The man in khaki dockers and a bulky green polo-necked sweater opened the door.

You must be Mr. Ratner, the man stranger said, smiling.

Mike, he corrected, placing his briefcase on the floor to accept the outstretched hand.

My name is Jim Blake, I'm the deputy supervisor here. Welcome to Farfield.

Pleasure to meet you, said Mike, unbuttoning the heavy coat and peeling off his scarf.

And this is Barry Spires, our head of security. Jim said, half turning to introduce a stocky man in his mid-30's.

Mike shook Barry's hand, a firm grip, a curt nod, a steady eye. Barry had the look of an ex-cop or retired-military.

Probably not a very good trip in this weather? said the deputy.

A lot worse than I expected, and a wreck on the bridge didn't help.

Yes. said the security officer. We heard on the radio that southbound 400 was shut down. Seems like people just can't drive in this weather. We were expecting you over an hour ago.

Yeah, sorry about that, Mike said.

Oh, it's not problem, really. Jim said – motioning for him to follow. We usually lock the place down at nine. Kept the gate open specially for you. Come and have a cup of coffee or something. Warm yourself up.

The three crossed the cavernous foyer that served as a reception center. In a back corner, couches had been arranged in a formal square to serve as a waiting area, the glowing red