“So far so good,” Mitt announced, although he was tempted to mention the similarities of the unique wall color and his disturbing dream.
“Do you hear what sounds like low-pitched distant cries of people in anguish?” Lashonda questioned.
“I haven’t,” Mitt said, as he had yet to stop and listen, making him momentarily forget about his nightmare. The moment he did, he could just barely make out a distant wailing. It was of a very low but gradually increasing amplitude as if the wailers were slowly approaching. “I hear them now. I suppose you do, too?”
“Obviously,” Lashonda said. “Since it’s getting louder, you’d best brace yourself.”
Before Mitt could respond, the terrible cacosmia that he’d experienced in the high-rise hit as a powerful olfactory assault, making them both involuntarily slap their hands to their faces to squeeze their noses against the foul smell. At the same time, the cacophony increased dramatically, and in the distance down the west-facing corridor a mob of people began to emerge out of the darkness, heading in their direction. Similar to the grisly, surgerized people Mitt had seen in his apparitions in the high-rise, these individuals were all partially clothed in historical garb. Many of them were also covered in what appeared to be filth. Perhaps worst of all, many of their faces and portions of their bodies had been dissected away as if they were living, anatomical specimens meant to show interior muscles or organs.
“Come on!” Lashonda said, suddenly grabbing Mitt’s arm and attempting to pull him forcibly down the stairway. “Ignore them!”
Horrified yet intrigued, Mitt initially resisted being pulled away from the oncoming group. He was totally mystified by what they represented, but his curiosity was quickly overwhelmed. The closer they got, the worse the cacosmia became, and now he recognized the odor’s character was a little different. On the previous occasions, he’d thought of the smell as being mostly of excrement, but now it was more of putrefaction and even more repulsive.
Finally, Mitt allowed himself to be pulled onto the stairway. To his utter relief, as soon as they started down, the odor inexplicably vanished. Halfway down, Mitt hazarded a quick look back up over his shoulder toward the first floor, expecting to see the ghoulish mob massing at the top of the stairs or, worse yet, starting down. But he didn’t see them at all.
“Don’t look for them!” Lashonda commanded. “I’m telling you, you’ll encourage them if you do.”
“What are they?” Mitt questioned. “They’re different than the people I’ve seen before, who looked post-surgical.”
“I believe you are right,” Lashonda said as she reached the basement level and turned around to face Mitt as he continued to descend. “I was mystified when I saw that group for the first time. With a bit more reading about the history, I’ve come to believe they’re the spirits of the thousands of dead bodies dug up by Bellevue physicians and physicians in training to be used for anatomical dissection. Apparently your ancestor Dr. Homer Fuller had been an avid grave robber. Before the Bone Bill was passed in the mid-nineteenth century, no grave in New York was considered off-limits.”
“What was the Bone Bill?” he asked, reaching the basement level. He vaguely recalled reading something about the legislation back in June, but in the pressure of the moment he couldn’t remember.
“It was a law passed in the 1850s which expanded the cadavers that could be used for dissection. Previously it had only been executed criminals but after it included unclaimed bodies from prisons and almshouses. The Bone Bill dramatically increased the supply to meet the demand and decreased the need for grave robbing.”
“No wonder they appear so hideous,” Mitt said. By reflex he glanced back up the stairs over his shoulder, but Lashonda reached out and forcibly tugged on his arm.
“Control yourself!” she loudly warned. “As I said, paying them attention encourages them. Please!”
“Okay, okay,” Mitt repeated. He had to consciously restrain himself. With his fleeting glance, he hadn’t seen the dissected corpses, but he did see something else. He’d caught sight of a more familiar apparition coming down the stairs, the blond girl. And now, knowing she was behind them presented Mitt with an almost irresistible temptation to defy Lashonda’s warning. “I didn’t see the corpses,” he quickly admitted, “but I did catch a glimpse of Charlene Wagner!”
“I’m not surprised,” Lashonda said. “I see her every time I come in here. But ignore her, too! Come on! Follow me! We have a bit of a walk ahead of us.” With a wave over her shoulder, Lashonda set out across the rather large space lined with cabinetry and shelving at the foot of the stairs. She headed toward an archway that led into the main corridor heading west.
Mitt followed but with his skin crawling, particularly along the back of his neck, from knowing they were not alone. To keep from turning around to glance at Charlene, he had to utilize every ounce of restraint he could muster. The one good thing, since they were now in the basement where there were no windows, was that they didn’t have to concern themselves at all with the light from their flashlights. Mitt could use his flashlight however he saw fit as Lashonda was clearly doing. Ahead, her beam was dancing around in front of her as she passed under the archway and entered the central corridor. Trying to catch up, he increased his walking speed.
From Mitt’s perspective, the basement appeared pretty much as he imagined it would. Upstairs had been a surprise with the embellished architectural details and coloration, totally unexpected for a psychiatric hospital. None of that existed in the basement. Also, the upstairs had appeared surprisingly normal for a hospital building deserted for some forty years, meaning more organized and even cleaner than expected, albeit dusty on horizontal surfaces like the reception desk or the handrail of the circular stairway. In contrast, the basement, although whitewashed in the distant past, was obviously dirty and the hallway was lined with debris of all sorts — rags, broken tools, old paint cans, empty boxes. Along the ceiling was a tangle of piping, some areas with rotting insulation hanging down, as well as masses of exposed, aged electric wiring. Strung through the tangle was a fair number of cobwebs. The hallway was also lined with doors, most of which were closed. The few that were ajar revealed stacks of stored junk, even old, disused furniture.
“This is a different world down here,” Mitt called ahead to Lashonda. He was nervous and just wanted to maintain contact. From the moment they’d entered the building, the place gave him the creeps and that was even without apparitions.
“It always was,” she said without stopping or even slowing.
Although Mitt was still sorely tempted to turn around because he assumed they were being followed by at least Charlene, he resisted, willing to follow Lashonda’s advice. As nervous as he was in the environment, he tried to make light of it by mentally noting that every reasonably intelligent person knew that the last place you were supposed to go in a haunted house was the basement, yet here he was.
Presently they came to an intersection, and without a second’s hesitation, Lashonda turned right. After about twenty-five feet she turned left, with Mitt close behind. He sensed they were now in the northwest wing of the building, parallel with 30th Street and approaching First Avenue, near where he had stopped to gaze at the building early Monday morning. Once again, he was glad he’d not tried to come on his own to look for the records. He never would have found them.
“Okay, here we are,” Lashonda finally said, stopping at a door with an actual label in contrast to most of the others. The sign was small and at eye level. It read simply: Housekeeping Supply. Then she turned to the door immediately opposite and felt along the top rail until she found a key. Facing back around, she brandished it. “We always had to keep the supply door locked. Ever since I’ve worked here at Bellevue, employee thievery has been a problem. It’s amazing. We even have to keep the toilet paper locked up.” She unlocked the door, put the key back, and then entered the supply room, leaving its door ajar.