My dear grandchildren I know you have asked me may times how I received the scars on my face and why your mother and I forbid you from going to the old mental hospital. Many times I have put you off by saying I would tell you later. As I am now old and in feeble health, and you are older and at risk of falling into the same fate, I feel the time has come to tell you the story of the dare. I was a young girl then, about the age you are now. This was long before I met your grandfather and I am grateful that with my face as it is he would still have the decency to show me affection and marry me. Of course that has nothing to do with my story.
The asylum (as they called it in my day) was there long before I was born. As a child I had heard the stories of all the horrible things that had happened there, such as inmates being chained to the walls and starved for days. Other stories of inmate revolts resulting in the deaths of numerous guards were also reported. By the time I was old enough to remember, most of the patients had been moved to less restrictive institutions, because of protests from families. Only a few of the most severe and most frightening people remained in one wing of the asylum. All of the wise townspeople stayed far away from there and the cemetery outside of it, where they buried the casualties. The very bravest people in town were employed to guard over the patients.
The brave souls who dared to enter the dark halls of the nearly empty asylum to care for and watch over those few hopeless creatures who remained there returned with stories that would send chills down the spines of even the most hardened skeptics. The patients were often kept heavily medicated and slept much of the time, which left the workers to roam the empty halls in what should have been silence, but their stories indicated that the halls were far from silent or empty. The workers brought back reports of tortured souls roaming the halls looking for the guards who had caused or contributed to their untimely deaths. Although the workers never told about any actual murders that had happened in the facility, it was well known in town that the trouble causing or hard to control patients would simply disappear.
Foolishly my young friends and I at the time had more curiosity than we did fear. The oldest of us, my cousin Jane, dared me and two other girls my age (Myrna and Virginia) to spend the night at the asylum and report back to the others the next morning what we had seen. I was not sure it was a good idea, but I was never one to back down from a challenge. The very next Friday the three of us each told our parents we were spending the night with one of the others, packed bedding, and headed off for our grand adventure. We were excited and terrified at the same time, but all claimed we neither believed in ghosts nor feared the living residents of the asylum. The truth was we feared both as it turned out we should have.
The doors were kept locked, but we hid in the bushes until the shift changed for the workers. Myrna grabbed the door as the last one left and held it opened for the rest of us. The workers were in such a hurry to leave none of them looked back to see three young girls sneaking into the ancient building. Once the door locked behind us, only people with keys could get into or out of the building. Since this was long before the time of cell phones, we knew we were there for twelve hours until the morning shift returned.
We decided the first thing we needed to do was find a good place to make our beds, where we could be sure the staff would not find them. We walked cautiously down one long hall, following the dim dancing light of the candle Virginia had thought to bring along. We tried each door as we walked the corridor and all of them appeared to be locked, until we reached the very last one. I reached out my hand for the knob and could have sworn it turned even before my hand touched it. It bravely brushed it away as my imagination and pushed the massive iron door open. As we walked in, we could see old tables with wrist and hand restraints attached to them and chains hanging from the walls.
What was this room?” I gasped, and ducked back outside the door to see a sign that read “Behavior Modification Unit”. At that moment the silence was broken by the most horrific scream I had ever heard. Virginia jumped and dropped the candle which went out as it hit the floor. As she fumbled on the ground to find it, I tried my best to reassure all of us that the sound came from one of the asylum’s current residents. Suddenly Virginia screamed and raised her hand from the floor.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s wet” she said holding out her hand. I took the candle from her and the match she held out to relight the candle. With the flame flickering again we could see a dark red sticky substance all over her hand and the candle.
“Is that blood?” Myrna asked.
I being the rational one of the group insisted that there had not been fresh blood in that room for years, but I could not provide a reasonable alternative for the sticky substance. Both Myrna and Virginia said they wanted to leave, but we all knew that was not possible unless we found the wing that was still in use and asked the workers to let us out. We had completely abandoned the idea of spending the night and sought only to find help to get out, as we had discovered we were much less brave than we had thought. I handed the candle back to Virginia and reached for the door that had somehow swung closed during the confusion. I pulled on it and it would not move. I tried turning the knob and nothing; it seemed to have locked behind us, even though it required a key to lock it. The other two girls were starting to cry and scream for me to hurry, but the door would not budge. I turned to tell them I could not open the door, and saw a group of shadowy creatures forming in the shadow of the candle light behind them. As I watched in astonishment the shadows formed faces and bodies with scars and obvious disfigurements from broken bones or being chained. The girls started to ask me what was wrong, but did not have time, before the angry mob attacked. There was a flurry of activity and screams; I felt a sharp slap across the face and then nothing.
When I awoke, there was a ray of sunshine creeping through the boarded over, dust covered window and I knew it was morning. I could feel blood on my face, and sat up to survey the damage. I put my hand to my face and could feel several gashes across it, but did not feel any pain anywhere else on my body. When I looked around to find my friends, they were gone. I stood up, gathered my belongings that were strewn on the floor, and began calling for them. They were no where to be found in the room. I glanced over towards the door and through the dim light and blood; I could tell the door was standing wide open.
Thinking my friends had abandoned me, I lunged for the door to be sure to get through it before it closed again. Once outside the room, I ran back the way we had come in, screaming loudly. As I neared the entrance of the building, I ran into Myrna and a woman I assumed was a staff member. They gasped as they saw my face and assured me help was coming. Myrna was bleeding from cuts and scratches to her arms and legs and side and her clothing was slashed in numerous places. The staff lady told us to wait by the door as she would look for Virginia. She scolded us for sneaking in and said that no one should ever go down that hall.
Once the police and ambulance arrived, Myrna and I took turns telling our stories. A search took place of the entire building, cemetery and countryside for Virginia, but no sign of her was ever found. Myrna and I never spoke of the incident again, and the asylum was closed permanently shortly after that.
