“Come on in, that’s fine.” Charles Crichton stood. He was a tall man, at least six-four, and probably in his seventies, but he looked like he was in good shape, and he had a gracious demeanor about him that seemed completely genuine. His hair was short and smoothed back in what I thought of the “older businessman’s wave,” and he was wearing a pair of brown trousers and a pale green sweater vest over a tan shirt.
“How do you do?” I shook his hand and then sat down when he motioned to the chair nearest his desk. “Thank you for taking time to talk to me today.”
“I understand you’re doing some research on the old asylum?” He sorted through some folders on his desk and pulled out one, setting it on top of the stack.
“Yes, actually. First, should I assume you know about the rumor regarding Psy Schooner’s ghost? And the mysterious deaths that have occurred on the asylum’s grounds over the years?” I pulled out a digital recorder. “Do you mind if I record our interview so I don’t make any mistakes later on?”
He stared at the recorder for a second, then nodded. “Go ahead.”
I flipped it on and spoke into the mic, “Interview with Charles Crichton, December 9, three p.m.” Then, setting it on the desk between us, I asked, “So, you are familiar with the history of the Stellarview Institution for the Criminally Insane?”
“I am,” he said. “I actually researched it for an article I wrote some years back for a magazine investigating outdated modes of therapy. I did a great deal of research into the background of the asylum—because that’s what it was. It wasn’t meant for rehabilitation, it was a place to conveniently house people whom nobody wanted to deal with.”
“I take it you don’t have a high opinion of how they ran the place?”
He shook his head, frowning. “Not only were their techniques detrimental, but the company who opened it was in it for the money. All they wanted was that check every month from the government. They also took—and this was proven in a lawsuit—kickbacks from a number of shysters huckstering patently useless therapies. Some of those therapies were benign, but others were downright dangerous and led to the death of more than one inmate.”
I settled back in my chair. “You make it sound like it was the turn of the century, not the 1950s.”
“Oh, there were plenty of illegitimate therapies and ‘cures’ being pushed back then, and this was back when lobotomies were still frequently performed. Also, primitive electro-shock therapy hadn’t been refined, and it was often detrimental on the subjects. Now, of course, most lobotomies are banned, although I believe there are still some states that allow them under certain conditions. And electro-shock therapy has come a long way, though I can tell you, I still wouldn’t want to go through it.” He frowned, leaning forward. “But you have to understand something. Stellarview—or SICI, as it was called—wasn’t interested in inmates getting better. If you could rehabilitate someone, they might be released or transferred back to a mainstream prison. When your primary focus is to make money by taking in fees for hospitalization and food and care, you don’t release patients.”
“So they didn’t attempt to help the inmates?”
“Right. In fact, from what research I have uncovered over the years, they did their best to make things worse. There was dark magic worked in those wards, and you—I know you’re descended from one of the founding magical families of this town—know as well as I do that no one with a mental illness should perform magic or be around intense magical practice. It can disturb the balance of their mental health even more.”
“So if they worked dark magic here, it would have served to destabilize the inmates even more.”
“Yes, you understand.” He sat back, nodding. “Spells were performed that invited chaos. And the men who were there—most of the inmates except three were men—were far too open to that kind of manipulation, given their mental states. It made things worse, and given some of the men had magical backgrounds, it not only increased the psychosis, but it increased their ability to manifest. You said the place is haunted?”
I nodded. “I got slammed against the wall by an invisible something this morning.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I went there on a walk-through one time, and one time only,” Charles said. “The energy was writhing like a mass of snakes, and I could feel it waiting to strike. You don’t just have one ghost out there, January. You have several, and I’m convinced that they’ve all blended together into one entity, which has been fueled by the magic that George Leeland and his staff invoked.”
“I’m getting this vision of a hydra, a multi-headed creature like out of The Thing,” I said. “Is there one dominant personality, do you think? Or have they all been submerged into something different?”
Charles was quiet for a moment, then he motioned to the recorder. “Can we take a moment?”
I nodded, flipping the off switch. “What is it?”
“I am not going to go on record because this is speculation, and I don’t want rumors to fly, but I believe that Leeland and two of his nurses belonged to a death cult.”
“Well, that’s a sobering thought.”
“I think…there’s a powerful entity out there that absorbed the souls of the men and took over their bodies. When the asylum closed, they were trapped there somehow. Over the years, they’ve merged into one powerful being, and that creature’s tied to the land.”
I slumped back, grimacing. “That’s a nasty thought. Do you think that Psy is coming to the forefront each year?”
He shrugged. “It could well be. That was a trigger point for him. But turn your recorder back on. There’s more.”
I flipped the recorder back on.
“I’m sorry, I’m remiss in my hospitality.” Charles pointed toward a mini-fridge. “Would you like a bottle of sparkling water?”
“Thanks, I would.” I accepted the cold green bottle and opened it, swigging down a mouthful of the bubbling water. He followed suit, then sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
“I delved into the background of the land. Before Leeland bought it for the asylum, it belonged to a developer who had purchased it for a housing complex. But the development never got off the ground. Every time the contractor took his men out there, something happened and someone got hurt. Once or twice? Coincidence. But five hospitalizations in five attempts? The developer decided to sell. He was a firm believer in omens and, when I asked him why he sold without breaking ground, he said that he wasn’t one to ignore the signs.”
“So the land had a history of problems before SICI was built?”
“Yes. I dug deeper into the history of the land. Even though the area was heavily forested with virgin forest, before the town was founded a family of settlers had built a house there. They had only cleared enough land for the house. In fact, the remains of that house are probably still hidden deep in the woods. The family had barely set up housekeeping when the father was killed by a mountain lion.”
I grimaced. “Ouch. What a painful way to go.”
“Yes. Well, the mother and her children had no choice. She had to sell and use the money to start over. The next person to own the land came out from back east. He had plans for creating a spa, but the moment he set foot on the land, he had a heart attack. His family decided to let it sit until somebody made them a fair price, and that’s when the developer bought it. The developer sold to Leeland.”