Sub-Basement: A Ghost Story

By Carol McMahon

Catherine’s life is starting to come back together after a delusional breakdown landed her in a psych ward a year ago. Her boyfriend Ryan supported her through it all, and now she's started college and has a new job at a community clinic that resides in the ER of a creepy, abandoned hospital.

But Catherine dreads the end of her shift when she has to drag the day’s trash bags through the gloomy corridors of the old hospital. Dreads the yawning darkness of the stairs to the basement. Dreads the black void that awaits her further below ground. In the sub-basement.

When a photography opportunity beckons, she’s grateful for Ryan’s sweet, reassuring presence at her side as they explore the pitch-black rooms and corridors where it's said a serial killer spent the last years of his life. But somehow, once they leave the sub-basement, Ryan isn’t the same. Has the darkness followed them up, or–more frightening still–is Catherine losing her mind again?

Sub-basement: A Ghost Story is a novella of 30k words. If a trigger warning is something you need, you might want to consider skipping it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol McMahon
• Release date: Oct 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463485613

Carol McMahon

Carol McMahon has always been a bit of a scaredy cat. She’s spent her days trying to find the things that would scare her most, then her nights lying in bed in the dark being terrified. Now she writes about the things that have always scared her so she can share them with everyone. Let her know if her stories scare you too, by emailing her or leaving a review, so she doesn’t feel like such a weenie.

Book preview

1

Shadow of person looking into dark doorway

Isat in a rolling chair at a desk in an abandoned hospital and listened to one of my new co-workers talk about her husband, who had died a few years earlier.

We finally found out that there was not only a blockage in his large intestine due to the cancer, but also a fistula that sent everything back up into his stomach.

One of the women who worked in the community clinic, Margaret, had been talking for the last minute—in excruciating detail—about how her husband died. I listened and stared for the most part. I didn't have the vaguest idea what to say. This was my first day—my first hour—working at a clinic that made its home in the former ER of the towering, brick building.

It got so bad, she continued, "that nothing could go down. When she said the word down, she pointed at her thighs, indicating that nothing would come out of the terminal end of his intestinal tract. He couldn't poop. I wasn't sure why a woman who worked in a health clinic couldn't come up with any of the proper words for that act, instead choosing to whisper and point, but I quickly forgot about her somewhat immature way of expressing herself with the next thing that came out of her mouth. It all came back up. She punctuated the words with a sour face and an upward movement of her hand. And it was awful."

What do you mean? I asked slowly. I couldn't fathom what she was implying. He immediately vomited everything he ate? As much as I didn't want to hear any more of her story, a part of me was morbidly curious about exactly what it was that came back up.

Not exactly. He would keep his food down for quite a while, but eventually … Her face suddenly took on an almost broken look. It was clear that she'd watched the man she loved, and had children with, go through one of the most horrifying things a person could ever go through. I had just met Margaret, and I could tell right away that she was a tough woman. But seeing that fleeting look of utter helplessness in her eyes made me want to wrap my arms around her. Believe me, she finally said. You don't want to know what came up.

Okay, well, I think we've scared Catherine enough on her first day. She looks as white as a ghost.

I turned to see the woman I'd interviewed with walk out of her office. The front end of the clinic was made up of three rooms. The reception area and two smaller offices that were occupied by the two women who worked there full-time. The woman who'd just come out of her office, Angie, seemed to oversee the entire clinic. From what I gathered, Margaret did the bookkeeping and Angie was the office manager, and they split the days up for the most part. Angie would come in early and leave in the afternoon and Margaret would come in just after noon and stay until the clinic closed at nine p.m. How did we even get on that subject in the first place? 

Margaret shrugged from where she sat at her desk and turned back to her paperwork.

So basically we treat anyone who walks in the door and doesn't have insurance, Angie said. We do take a small fee, but it's a sliding scale and there are a lot of people who don't pay a thing. Our patients are mostly people who live in Barre or the surrounding villages who have colds and viruses, but we also get quite a few college students who need pap smears or want acupuncture. 

You do acupuncture here? I asked, intrigued by what this clinic had to offer. I hadn't lived in Vermont for very long and since I was a college student, I didn't have insurance. I had started college later than most people and wasn't covered by my parents' insurance anymore. I silently wondered how easy it would be for me to get an appointment. I'd always wanted to try acupuncture.

We have all kinds of practitioners who volunteer one or two nights a month, Angie said. We have massage therapists, practitioners of traditional Chinese medicine, homeopaths, midwives. Anyone who has time is welcome.

That sounds really great. More towns need a clinic like this, I said, genuinely impressed by what they had to offer, but also wanting to be as complimentary as possible. Ryan, my boyfriend, was always telling me that I was too worried about what people thought of me. I supposed it was true, but I didn't know how else to act. And I really wanted the women at my new job to like me.

 Margaret got up from her desk and came into the reception area. Why don't I give you a tour of the rest of the clinic? We have the work-study students answer phones, take appointments, and make reminder calls the day before. Then in the evening, you gather the garbage from all of the offices and exam rooms and take it down to the dumpster. 

Are you going to take her down through the basement? Angie asked.

Margaret didn't look too happy. I don't have much choice since it's raining out. Unless you want to escort her down there. 

No thanks, Angie said as she walked back into her office. I don't do the basement anymore.

That makes two of us, Margaret said, her lips pursed together in a frown.

The basement? I asked. The clinic is in the basement of the hospital too? 

No. Margaret walked toward a door that said Staff Only and gestured for me to walk with of her. The clinic is only in these rooms; the waiting area, offices, and exam rooms of the former ER. The exam rooms are back here, she said as she opened the door and went through. You have to go through the basement to take the garbage out at the end of the day.

Margaret led me down a carpeted hallway and through a series of rooms that had obviously not been updated in any way since the 1970s. There were posters of baby animals with uplifting sayings on the walls and one room—with a massage table in the center—even had a string of multicolored love beads strung across the doorway. They clacked together when we entered and exited the room.

The exam tables all looked ancient and the faucets and fixtures looked like they were from another era.

Wow, this all looks so old, I said as I ran my hand across a dark green linoleum countertop.

"This hospital was built in the second half of the 1800s. In the late sixties, another hospital was built that was bigger and more up-to-date. This building has been used for a number of things since it stopped functioning as a hospital. The Community Clinic has been leasing the emergency room entrance at a very reasonable rate from the city for the last five years.

As she gave me a brief history of the hospital, Margaret showed me where the garbage was in each exam room. This is the only time I'll do this for you, she said as she emptied each container into a large black garbage bag. 

Yeah, I said. You don't do the basement. I tried to make a joke, but Margaret didn't seem to hear me.

We don't mess with the sharps containers or biohazard waste at all, she said, pointing to two plastic boxes on the wall above one of the garbage cans. Someone comes in from the health department to empty those once a month. 

We made our way back to the clinic front office and Margaret had me grab the plastic bags out of the waste basket under each desk. She handed me the large bag and I tied it at the top. It's not very heavy at all, I said. 

No, there's really not a lot of garbage generated here. Sometimes, if there's just one or two pieces of paper or cotton in the bottom of one of the exam room cans, I'll leave it for the next day. 

So does anyone else use the rest of the hospital? I asked as Margaret walked me through the reception area and into the waiting area. It looks huge from the outside.

We passed rows of plastic chairs as we walked through the waiting area. Everything was so old and out of date that I hadn't noticed the entrance to the main part of the hospital when I came in to interview. Behind the chairs was a set of double doors, each with a window that took up the top half. The windows showed nothing but blackness, though. At first I thought they were tinted, but then realized as I got closer that I was looking into a dark hallway.

Margaret