Asylum Series Books 1 - 3: Horror Bundle Series

509 pages

Chapter 4

In his dream, Paul was walking along the hallway outside Apartment 212, heading toward the elevators. The lift doors both bore OUT OF ORDER signs. Paul knew he had to get away, go down to the main entrance, leave Rookwood. He looked up at the stained-glass window, and with dream-logic, implored Saint Dymphna to help him.

The white-robed woman turned her perfect face to his. Her expression held infinite sadness, pity, an understanding of suffering from the inside. The saint, he suddenly realized, was also his mother. He seemed to float, pass through the window, and found himself in a familiar room, a room he hated. It was white-walled, with a pale green carpet, a window looking out onto a snow-bound copse of trees. There was a table, riveted to the floor, and two chairs, also fixed down. Paul sat in one, his mother sat opposite.

His mother was rocking back and forth, slowly, as she always did. She wore a white robe, but it was stained, frayed, nothing like the raiment of a saint in a stained glass. Her hair was disheveled, brownish strands flecked with gray falling over her face. Her eyes peered anxiously at something Paul could not see. He looked down, saw familiar sneakers, a pair he had worn for a couple of summers back in high school. His mother had been in and out of institutions during that time, her body awash with prescription meds, her mind wandering. He had hated visiting her, hated himself for not wanting to go, felt anger and despair at the whole grown-up world for what had happened to her.

Depression.

The word had been woven into the fabric of his life. When they had studied The Great Depression in history class, he had tried hard not to think of his mother staring at the TV, slumped in her robe, not moving or speaking for hours or days. Paul’s sisters, older and tougher than he, had held things together for as long as they could. But eventually, Mom had had to ‘go away’. They never named the place, never said ‘committed’. It was always ‘gone away to be looked after properly’.

“Mom?” Paul said. “Mom, it’s me.”

She looked up because it was a dream. In reality, she had never looked at him, not really. Her face had been turned toward him, but she was seeing some terrible inner world, a private hell he had not understood, not at the time. But now her eyes were focused on him, and she smiled. It was a puzzled, hesitant smile, but Paul still felt immense relief. She had recognized him, she knew him. Then her expression changed to concern, anxiety. Her eyes flickered toward the door. Paul noticed that the door was not as he remembered it. It was metal-framed and padded, covered in worn, studded leather.

“Get out,” she said. “Get out, quick.”

“Mom?” Paul said.

He felt hurt, rejected. This was as bad as her indifference. He reached out for her hand, but she snatched it away, held it up to the side of her head. And now he saw something new, a patch of redness on her temple, near her left eye. She almost touched it, then let her hand fall.

“Get out before he does this to you,” his mother warned. “Get out before the doctor—”

She stopped, her head jerked around, listening. Paul heard the clang of a door opening. A metallic sound like in a prison movie. Then came footsteps, echoing in the corridor outside.

“It’s too late,” his mother said, shaking her head in despair. “Oh, it’s too late. The doctor knows you’re here. He knows you’re like me. Ready for treatment. Ready for the experiment.”

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