Asylum

By Erik Lynd

Andrew is different and he knows it, he always has. So when the voices in his head tell him to climb out on a window ledge he doesn't hesitate . . .
 
Andrew Harland has been a loner since being diagnosed with schizophrenia. He is shuffled around from juvenile detention centers to outpatient clinics with expensive doctors. Nothing seems to help. His parents, desperate to have him out of the house, send him off to a revolutionary new psychiatric hospital in the Pacific Northwest. 

 

Haunted by his own son's suicide, Dr. David Styles saves Andrew from the ledge and takes a personal interest in his case.What he uncovers sends him on a desperate journey to rescue Andrew. 

 

Because something is terribly wrong at the hospital. Treatments are conducted at odd hours. Patients disappear into the bowels of the massive, aged building, sometimes never to be seen again, and Andrew is plagued by visions stranger than any he's ever known.And the voices in Andrew's head are getting louder.

 

Asylum is a horror novel that takes you to the edge of supernatural terror.  If you enjoy Clive Barker, Stephen King, and Peter Straub, you will love this dark tale by Erik Lynd.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Broken Gods Press
• Release date: Jan 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393697947

Book preview

Prologue

Lyle Bransom (22 years ago)

---

Daddy!

The cry woke Karl Bransom from a deep sleep and even deeper dreams. For a moment he was not sure where he was, confused by the horrible nightmares. Something was not normal, something was wrong with this night. What had woken him?

Daddy!

The cry grabbed his attention instantly. It was Lyle.

Becky stirred at his side, but did not wake. From the timid mewing sounds and the sudden jerk of her leg she must have been lost in the same type of dreams the Karl had just escaped. He was about to wake her when the cry came again, this time louder.

Daddy!

It had a desperation to it that twisted his stomach with concern and fear. He swung his legs off his bed and sprang to the door, not bothering with robe or slippers. His foot slammed painfully into the bedpost.

Damn it! He ignored the pain and stumbled out of his bedroom. His son’s door was only five steps down the hallway. He reached out and switched on the hall light. The brightness momentarily blinded him and squinting, he pushed open Lyle’s door. The light spilled in, partially illuminating the room.

His son lay on the bed covers drawn up to his chin. His face was calm, but his eyes moved about nervously. There was no intruder, no fire, or any other cause for immediate concern. Karl glanced around as his eyes adjusted to confirm there was no danger looming in the room.

What’s wrong? he asked.

There is something in my closet. He spoke in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, as though surprised that his father had to ask.

Karl smiled and chuckled. All the fear and nervous anxiety evaporated. The adrenaline that had pushed him so quickly was gone and left only weak knees and a throbbing foot. There was a monster in his closet. It was cliché and it made him laugh even harder.

Something in your closet huh? Karl asked.

Yes, in the shadows.

He walked over and sat down on the bed with Lyle. Look buddy, there is nothing in the closet that is going to hurt you. Unless you count the skateboard you fell off of yesterday. That was a nasty bump.

His father’s humor did not lighten Lyle’s mood. He shook his head and the fear grew stronger in his eyes. It doesn’t want to hurt me. It likes me and needs me.

Then what did it want?

It wants to kill you.

The knot returned to his stomach. Kill me, huh? Why would you say something like that? That is not nice. He paused and looked down at his son, his voice softened. Why would you say that? Do you want me to go away?

There had been arguments lately, maybe more than there should be between him and his wife. They had tried to hide it from Lyle, but there was no way they could hide everything. Perhaps somewhere along the way he had picked up on some things said that should not have been.

Lyle said nothing as he looked past his father and into the shadows of the closet. He nodded, as if giving a signal or maybe permission. So intent was his son that Karl spun his head around. There was nothing but an open closet door and darkness beyond. Angered by his fear and foolishness, he stood up and went to the closet.

There is nothing here. No creatures, no boogey man, no goddamned monsters. What the hell is wrong with you . . .?

His back was to the closet as he yelled at his son and that had been a mistake. A hand, cold, slick and larger than any human hand grasped the base of his skull. Fingers with bony knuckles dug into his scalp and neck. A sound that was a grotesque mixture of the keening wail of a banshee and the desperate hunger cries of a newborn baby came from the creature that held him.

The grip was strong and he could not turn to look at his attacker. If he could have he would have seen the slick and shiny black face, he would have seen the mouth surrounded by sharp needle thin teeth distending toward him, and a long, thick tongue stretching out before it. Claws from the creature's hand cut through flesh and ground against bone as it pulled him like a child’s doll to its mouth. Another hand clamped down on his face. A warm, viscous organic substance coating the creature's skin filled his mouth and he choked on the screams that had formed on his lips. No sound came from him now, only a sickening gagging noise.

Karl struggled feebly against the creature's grip, clawing at its fingers. The thing's tongue invaded him. Like some weird parody of an intimate lover's kiss, the tongue plunged into Karl’s ear. Karl began to heave fluids up from his stomach as he felt the slick caress on his flesh. The tongue was not content with a mere taste however, and began to tear through flesh, burrowing deeper into his head. The creature’s teeth clamped down on the back of his head. Then, in one quick crunch, it crushed brain and skull with its powerful jaws and Karl mercifully knew no more.

The room was dark, the sounds of struggle replaced with the satisfied munching sound of eating: wet sounds as flesh was pulled away from bone. Something warm and moist splattered on Lyle’s face as he sat shivering on the bed in a cooling puddle of urine.

Daddy?

Part I

The Hospital

1

It is time to jump .

A small bird—Andrew thought it might be a sparrow—landed safely at his feet. It stood calmly and confidently on the ledge Andrew balanced on precariously.

What did you say? What did you say, little bird? Andrew asked. But he did not expect an answer, for the voice was telling him what time it was in his head. He heard it, though not clearly. Many voices in his head vied for his attention, but this one’s suggestion seemed the most rational. He looked over the ledge and the voice grew louder.

It is time . . . time to fall.

A strong breeze blew against Andrew, carrying the sweet, dirty scent of a city summer across the dark blue sky. A few feet below him the scattered treetops shifted and flowed like a green sea,

Time for a swim?

He was afraid. He was only fifteen. Such momentous decisions should not be made by one so young. Tears crept down his cheeks. They were sad tears, but he wore them as a facial expression—like a smile or a frown, common and involuntary. One of the voices might have said no at that moment, but most of them said yes to jumping, spoke of other things, or spoke in gibberish. It did not matter. Andrew knew he was crazy.

Wacko, loony, mental. Oh, they didn’t call him that. They had much more complicated and technical words for him. Words like schizophrenia, mentally disturbed, even autistic were used by the doctors and psychiatrists who had seen him. But they all meant the same thing: crazy.

Andrew had known for a while that nobody else was like him. Nobody else heard the voices and saw the things he saw. The things he had done were not normal. The kids in school and in juvenile detention had known it. They had been normal, but not Wacky Andy. He would hear voices. He would curl up in a ball and scream for hours on end. Wacky Andy was scary and could not be trusted. He knew he was sick, but it had never been official until this morning. Dr. Hamurob had declared it in a private meeting with Andrew’s parents, unaware the loony in question listened at the door.

I am sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Harland, that we have come to an impasse, Dr. Hamurob said. Your son is a unique case. He has many of the symptoms of a schizophrenic, but they vary in severity. Most of the time they are so mild as to be nonexistent; then the next day he’ll be in the throes of delusions that rival our most extreme cases.

So what are you saying? We should just give up? Andrew’s mother asked.

Good riddance. Lock him up somewhere and throw away the key, his father interjected.

No, no, Dr. Hamurob said. I am saying no such thing. But I do want to get him to a specialist. A doctor in Seattle runs a hospital and has agreed to take him on.

You’re talking about committing him, aren’t you, Doctor? To an insane asylum? his mother asked. Andrew heard the catch in her voice.

Committing yes, but not to an asylum. We don’t have those anymore. It’s just a hospital. You have to admit it would be better than the juvenile detention centers Andrew frequents now. The doctor pulled a brochure from his desk. I do have to warn you, though. The hospital does have a few patients who are criminally mentally ill.

Bingo! Right on the money, Doc, Andrew’s father blurted out. Where do we sign him up?

Andrew had stepped back from the door then and stopped listening. He had known his father had no more love for him, not anymore, but he had never heard him speak with such venom and anger. Shaking, he had retreated from the door to the lobby, and there he had cried. Nobody had noticed.

Now here he was on the ledge outside his doctor’s office.

It seemed like too nice of a day to die. He supposed it should be dark or overcast, maybe even a light rain. That seemed more appropriate than this beautiful weather. Andrew used to love days like these—barbecue days are what his father had called them. They’d always had grilled feasts outside . . . that is, until his brother had been killed. Then everything had fallen apart. Everything had gone to hell. Now, on a beautiful barbecue day in June, Andrew found himself on a ledge.

His parents were down there, he guessed, speaking with the police or fire department as they inflated a giant airbag. It looked just like the ones they used for movie stunts, and Andrew would have loved to jump into it for the sheer thrill . . . if it would not have defeated the purpose. Perhaps even now his father was telling them not to bother, telling them to just clear a spot and let him jump. Maybe his father’s anger went that far. Either way, the airbag would be easy to avoid on the way down.

Chickens can’t fly.

Yes, he probably was being a coward, he admitted. He knew he would jump. He just hoped that, whatever afterlife might be on the other side, he would not see his brother. That single thought was what scared him the most. Just don’t let my brother be there.

The police at the window were trying to talk to him, but they didn’t come out on the ledge. Their voices simply blended with the insistent voices in his head, which were much, much louder.

David Styles was going to quit. He had, in fact, been on the way to quit when the call came through. He was too young to retire, some thought, namely his wife. He had seen too much death and tragedy and wanted to retire now at fifty five while he still had time to live, really live. Money was not an issue, although again his wife might disagree.

His practice had been successful and enjoyable from the beginning. He had helped many as a family psychologist. He had brought families back together when nothing else could.

Then he learned he’d been deluding himself. His eyes had been opened when he volunteered with the New York Police Department.

He had thought those few clients who could afford his services were the greatest challenges, but there were worse tragedies. Unthinkable tragedies he’d read about throughout school but never sank in until he had seen them firsthand.

In the beginning it had seemed like a good idea. He could help those with the most need and perhaps challenge his talent. He thought he had known what to expect from those cases. But he was wrong. He’d been sheltered with his suburban family cases. The cases went from bad to worse, and the emotional stress had taken its toll before he had hardened to it. More and more these volunteer cases had consumed him until only a few of his paying clients were left. It had been five years; now it was time to quit. He had helped a few, but mostly he had failed.

He was in his car on the way to give the lieutenant his resignation when his cell phone rang.

Dave? It’s Steve, the lieutenant said.

I was just on my way to see you.

We need your help.

That actually was what I was coming to talk to you about. I wanted to do this in person, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to offer my services anymore, David said.

What? Well, uh, we can talk about that, but I really need your help right now. We got a jumper.

A jumper? Can’t Cynthia take care of that?

Cynthia was on the NYPD payroll and was specifically trained for this kind of situation.

She’s out of town this week. We got no one else; we need you.

I don’t know. I’m not trained for talking down jumpers. That takes specialized training. I’d probably screw it up.

The jumper is a kid, Dave. A fifteen-year-old boy. The lieutenant said it quietly.

David winced. He and the lieutenant had become good friends over the years, and Steve certainly knew what buttons to push when he had to. David’s own son, Josh, had only been fifteen when he’d committed suicide. It had been the biggest catalyst for David in volunteering with the NYPD, and it was the biggest reason he was quitting now.

Give me directions. I’ll go straight there.

David was glad he had come, he decided, as he stared out of the window at the boy on the ledge. This boy Andrew looked nothing like David’s son. Andrew’s casual mop of brown hair blew wildly in the wind. He was tall and gangly and wore jeans with a T-shirt emblazoned with The Beatles. Well, at least the kid had taste.

Steve walked toward where David stood by the door. Twelve other officers filled the room and the kid’s doctor, Dr. Hamurob, sat in the corner. If this was a cry for attention, it had worked.

Thanks for coming, Dave, the lieutenant said.

You knew I would. David meant it not as an accusation, but it came out sounding like one.

Yes, I suppose I did, but I really needed you. Steve took David’s arm gently and pulled him toward the far wall, away from the other officers. It’s bad enough to have a kid out there on the ledge, but his father’s also a lawyer and knows lots of people at city hall. If the boy jumps, he’ll cause quite a shit storm. Nobody needs that right now.

Jesus, Steve. When did politics and career become more important than a kid’s life?

Steve had always been the moral rock, one of the few in charge who gave a damn. To hear him talk like this was a letdown.

Come on, Dave, it’s not like that. I don’t want the kid to jump any more than you do, but I sure as hell don’t want to get screwed by the mess afterward, Steve said.

I’m going to try and help the kid because he needs help, not because you need a boost to your career. David pushed past the lieutenant and walked over to the window, ignoring any protests. When had Steve become so jaded?

Dr. Hamurob appeared next to David at the window. Dressed in a tweed jacket, with small, round glasses perched on his nose, the doctor had the air of a researcher—a pompous one at that. No wonder the boy was out on a ledge, with this guy for a doctor. David knew it was unfair to judge the man on such a limited first impression, but he couldn’t help it. He himself had been the same way. Besides, he was almost always right. It was his gift.

Dr. Styles, I’m Dr. Hamurob, Andrew’s doctor. Hamurob did not offer to shake David’s hand. He merely turned and gestured toward the window. Andrew’s schizophrenic, and I have been treating him for over two years now. I’ve tried to talk to him, but he won’t even acknowledge me. The lieutenant said you might be able to get through to him.

From the doctor’s tone it was obvious he didn’t think David would have much luck.

How severe is the schizophrenia? David asked.

Schizophrenia usually began to manifest itself during adolescence, so David figured Andrew was probably in the early stages of the disease.

That’s the confusion in his case. Usually it’s very mild, unnoticeable by most people, but then he’ll have a severe episode where he will be lost in the hallucinations for hours, sometimes days. The doctor reached over to a nearby table and grabbed a file. His symptoms are inconsistent and run the whole gamut.

Medications?

Hamurob shook his head. Most medications seem to have no effect; some cause him to be even more confused and depressed.

Dr. Hamurob held out the file to David, but he ignored the offer. There was no time to review the file. He had to talk to the boy.

Where are his parents? David asked.

His father is down on the ground helping the police, and his mother is in my office. Dr. Hamurob paused briefly, and then added, Having a nervous breakdown.

David stepped closer to the window. Bring her out. I might need her help. He glanced out the window and, for a brief moment, could see the boy’s eyes and their hard, distant expression. David knew, the same way he had known Dr. Hamurob was a pompous ass, that this was not just a cry for attention. This boy was going to jump. He would die if David couldn’t stop him.

Still, David hesitated. He hadn’t stopped his own son. He hadn’t been able to keep him from slitting his wrists in a warm bath. He hadn’t seen it coming, distracted as he was by his other cases. He hadn’t even seen what his son had become or guessed what he would do. What made him think he could stop it now? David’s years of training had failed those he held most dear, so how could it help now? He had no idea.

But then he saw Andrew crouch to jump. Pushing all doubts aside, David stepped out onto the ledge.

David knew Andrew must have heard him step out onto the ledge, because the boy halted his leap to turn and look behind him. In jeans and a button-down shirt, David didn’t look like one of the cops on the deathwatch in the room behind him. Andrew would probably guess he was in his fifties, because the gray in his hair made him look older than he was. Everything about him practically screamed doctor, so David tried to affect an easygoing, Hey, I’m cool manner that he knew looked ridiculous, standing sixty feet in the air, on the edge of a building.

So, David said calmly, kind of cold out here. My name is David.

Did they send you out? Andrew asked.

Them? David hooked his thumb toward the window. Yeah, they asked me to come out and talk to you. They seem to think I can get you to come in.

I won’t. I’m going to jump. Andrew’s voice was unemotional and honest.

I know, David said. Nothing I can say will stop you from jumping. I knew that the first time I looked out that window.

David leaned over slightly to inspect the ground below. A crowd had gathered and was being held back by the police. The airbag was almost fully inflated, but it was a futile attempt as there were many places Andrew could jump to avoid its safety. Vertigo threatened to tumble David over the edge, so he looked back up at Andrew to save his balance.

I killed my brother. Did they tell you that? Andrew said.

No, they didn’t tell me much, really. I’m kind of winging it.

Andrew smiled. Well, I haven’t jumped yet, so you got that going for you.

David once again peered over the ledge. He noted where the airbag was and made some quick calculations. It could work, but it was insane and, therefore, ironic.

It’s odd, David said.

What is?

They said you’re schizophrenic, but I don’t see any symptoms. You seem pretty coherent and lucid, yet here you are about to jump.

Well, I’m hearing voices right now.

What are they saying?

They are telling me to jump, mostly, Andrew said.

Mostly?

Sometimes I think they are dead people trying to talk to me or people from another place, but I know it’s just because I’m crazy.

Well, hearing voices is weird. David kept talking, stalling as long as he could. But you hardly seem crazy, and it’s sort of my job to spot crazies.

This won another smile from Andrew. David smiled back, but Andrew’s quickly faded. I am going to jump now, Doctor. What are you going to do?

Well, I’m going to jump at the same time and try to force you in the direction of the airbag. It sounded even more insane when David said it out loud.

This surprised Andrew, and he seemed to reevaluate David, maybe raising him a few notches above the standard doctor. Really? I’m impressed. Are you ready?

Ready as I can be. David crouched. His heart was pounding. What the hell was he doing? Why was he suddenly risking his life for this kid? He was the crazy one out on the ledge.

OK, here we go.

And Andrew and David stepped into nowhere together.

2

The drive from the airport to Evergreen Hospital outside Seattle was a long but pretty one. It was east of downtown, past Lake Washington, and surrounded on all sides by beautiful wooded foothills. Sunlight speckled the two-lane highway, casting shadows and pools of light on a forest floor littered in fall colors. Red and orange leaves covered the side of the road and kicked up in small clouds as the car passed through them. Clouds threatened to take away the sun, but it was not going without a fight.

Andrew saw all of this without comment or emotion from the backseat of the limo. He and his father never talked now. All pretense of family was abandoned. His father did not love him. Any emotion his father showed was to keep up appearances.

A few days after his jump, after the hospital had released him and he was back home, his father had drunk his courage and came to Andrew’s room. He’d pushed open the door and stood in the doorway swaying slightly, the ice clinking gently in his glass like a wind chime. The odor of Scotch hung about him. Andrew hated the smell.

He had hoped his father would say something, anything that at least hinted at love. He longed for his father to come and hold him. For his father to tell him that he forgave him, that he knew Andrew had no choice in killing Simon.

But his father had said only one thing. I wish you had missed the bag. Then his father had stepped back, stumbled, and careened down the hall.

Andrew had curled up and cried: loud, racking sobs that only the mixture of anger, hurt, and love can create. He had fallen asleep crying, and when he woke, the sun was out. It was a beautiful day, and nothing had changed. After that night, he and his father had only spoken when they had to. So it was, on this final drive, neither had spoken to the other. Andrew wished David were here with him. He was afraid.

The hospital itself would better be described as a compound. As they approached the gated entrance, Andrew saw an imposing ten-foot brick wall, topped with a wire mesh that had no barbs but he guessed was electrified.

The walls around the gatehouse were old. Ivy clung to the brick, draping most of it in green. It made Andrew think of old New England buildings with their aloofness—the kind that said they had stood for a hundred years and had no doubt they would stand for a thousand more.

A camera was mounted like a baleful eye on the wall, focusing on the front gate. The brand-new gatehouse was most likely state-of-the-art. The gate itself looked strong enough to withstand a small tank assault. As their car pulled up, Andrew risked a glance inside the booth from his window. The gatehouse was loaded with electronic