Since he now planned to remain in the building, he figured he could manage four boxes without difficulty by squeezing two boxes in the backpack and carrying two with one arm, leaving his free hand for the flashlight. All he had to do was walk the length of the basement corridor and up one flight of stairs, hardly an impediment.
Five minutes later, he was ready to go, and he slung the now-full backpack over his shoulder and put his arms through the straps, cinching them snugly. He then picked up the last boxes and held them against his chest with one hand and the flashlight in the other. Moving to the door, he hesitantly leaned out into the hallway, shining the light first in one direction and then the other. Seeing nothing amiss, he listened intently. Hearing nothing, he was reassured. He then started out for the central circular staircase, leaving the storeroom door ajar. After only a few steps, he jumped in fright and sucked in a lungful of air when he detected sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. Quickly redirecting the flashlight beam, he caught sight of the source and relaxed. It was a rat, a real rat, which swiftly scampered out of sight into a side room. After taking a reassuringly deep breath and acknowledging how tense he was for obvious reasons, he continued on.
The moment Mitt reached the main basement corridor, he was able to see a bit of welcome daylight ahead, which was flooding down the circular staircase. Encouraged, he quickened his pace, and the closer he got, the brighter it became. When he finally entered the tiled, cabinet-lined area at the base of the stairway, he turned off his flashlight. Moving to the center of the space, he looked up and could see all the way up ten stories to a skylight that was bright enough with direct sunlight to make him squint. When he held his breath and listened, he could now hear a slight variable hum, which he interpreted as traffic out on First Avenue. Most important, there were no distant cries of anguish or distress. Nor was there any horrid, sickening smell. At that moment, the psychiatric hospital was just an empty, sad, derelict building with a long and involved history of troubled residents, nothing more.
Without the need for the flashlight, Mitt readjusted the two bankers boxes he was carrying and started up the stairs. He was feeling progressively at ease with ever-increasing confidence that the sizable Bellevue Hospital spirit population was taking the Fourth of July holiday off, for which he was decidedly thankful. When he reached the ground floor, he even stopped for a moment to appreciate the high-ceilinged, architecturally decorated lobby, all of which was significantly more impressive in daylight. He also noticed something he’d not seen on his previous visit, namely an information booth off to his left behind the reception desk. Within the booth he could make out a glass-fronted directory hanging on the wall, which he assumed listed the various professional and departmental office locations, as if the building were still in use.
Drawn to the building’s directory and wondering if he’d recognize any of the names, Mitt stepped over to it by skirting the reception desk. To his amazement, Dr. Clarence Fuller’s name was still on the board, listing his office as 303! At first it didn’t make any sense, since he knew the Psychiatric Department didn’t move completely into the high-rise until 1985 and his great-grandfather had retired in 1975. But then, giving the issue a bit more thought, Mitt assumed that during that decade, the staff knew they were moving and were probably doing so on a piecemeal basis because the high-rise was available beginning in the early 1970s. During that interim transition period, the building’s directory was probably just ignored and forgotten.
Mitt pondered the coincidence of discovering his great-grandfather’s office number and that thought led to another. Since he needed a place to look at the records, including Clarence’s records, what better spot than Clarence’s office? It seemed to him as if a bit of poetic justice was involved, especially considering the stress he was under. In fact, the surprising circumstances so moved him that he put the boxes of records he was holding on to the information booth counter along with his flashlight and took out his phone. He had a sudden urge to share the unexpected discovery with Andrea, if she was available.
As the call went through, he leaned against the information booth, letting his eyes take in more of the hospital lobby’s details, including gazing up the west corridor. As he did so, its unique yellow-and-tan coloration was an unpleasant reminder of his recurrent nightmare.
“What’s up?” Andrea answered with no preamble.
“Are you busy?” Mitt asked.
“Not at the moment,” she said. “I’m in the on-call lounge schmoozing with some of the other residents. Where are you?”
“Don’t tell anybody, but I’m in the old psychiatric hospital as we speak, standing in its lobby.”
She lowered her voice. “So, you made it in?”
“I did.”
“How did you manage it? Through the homeless shelter?”
“No, something better. Remember how we used the tunnels at Columbia on occasion in bad weather? They have the same tunnels here at Bellevue, and it brought me into the basement, no problem.”
“What are you doing up in the lobby? I thought the records were down in the basement.”
“They are, but I’ve had a change in plans. Instead of going back and forth between here and my apartment, I’m going to do my reading here.”
“I don’t like that. I think you should get the hell out of there. I’m worried about you.”
“Oh, come on! You don’t need to worry. I’ll be fine. It’s a perfect place to read old Bellevue records. For one thing, I can assure you that it is understandably quieter than any library.”
“Very funny,” Andrea said insincerely. “Excuse me for not laughing, and I suppose I should be pleased for you getting in and all, but I’m not. I don’t like you being in there, period. Don’t get caught!”
“I’m not going to get caught,” Mitt said with mild irritation. The conversation was starting to remind him of talking to his mother. “But listen! Let me tell you something rather amazing that I just learned.” He went on to describe how his ancestor’s office was still listed on the building’s directory and that he was planning on using it to read through the man’s records.
“That’s interesting,” Andrea said, but hardly with the surprise or excitement Mitt was expecting.
“I’m getting the impression you don’t think this coincidence is quite as interesting as I do.”
“That’s not the point. I don’t like you in that building for a host of reasons. I thought you were going to be taking the records home.”
“Going back and forth from here to my apartment would take too much time and effort,” Mitt said simply, since he couldn’t tell her about the surprising apparition situation.
“All right, get to it and then leave! But listen! Call me the moment you get out of that place. Okay?”
“Okay,” Mitt agreed. “I’ll call you when I leave, but don’t hold your breath. It might take me an hour or two. There’re a lot of records, although I’m guessing there’s going to be a lot of repetition.”
“Whatever,” Andrea said. “Just get your butt out of there ASAP, and I want to hear from you the minute you do.”
“You got it,” Mitt said, and he disconnected. He couldn’t believe that Andrea didn’t share his amazement about Clarence’s office. With a disappointed shake of his head, he readjusted his backpack and picked up the boxes and his flashlight. He then returned to the grand circular staircase and started up.
Mitt didn’t waste time. He took the stairs in twos all the way to the third floor. There, he quickly determined which direction was 303 and then found the office. In the process he was again reminded of his recurrent nightmare, since the main east — west corridor had the exact same unique coloration and architectural details as the main corridor on the first floor.