Kristin Ashe: Disorderly Attachments Part 26

"It's in Ma.s.sachusetts, about twenty miles north of Boston."

"How did you get inside?" I asked.

Ca.s.s released a sneaky smile. "Which time?"

"You went more than once?" Fran said with unmistakable disdain.

"Too many to count. Asylums were my father's hobby, especially those that followed the mental health plan of the prominent psychiatrist Dr. Edward Wainright. Known as Wainrights, there are ten of these state hospitals on the East Coast, enormous castles, built on hills, with six or eight wings jutting out from the center. Wainright professed that the best cure for the mentally ill was rest and air in beautiful, private surroundings. He used a special design that ensured every room had fresh-air ventilation, ample sunlight and un.o.bstructed views, and he had pleasure gardens planted around the property, places for rest and meditation."

"Sounds more like a spa than a loony bin," Fran observed.

"That was Wainright's plan. He meant for them to be like country retreats, a place for patients to recover their mental faculties, to rebalance their senses."

"Prozac what put 'em out of business in the 'nineties?"

"That and cost-cutting movements to release mentally ill people from inst.i.tutions, which led to great numbers of them becoming homeless. Leaving the Dover, though, probably was a good thing, because in the hundred-plus years of operation, times weren't always serene. Many former patients and employees at the Dover have recounted horrid tales of neglect and abuse, most caused by overcrowding and understaffing."

"How many Wainrights have you visited?" I asked.

"Six. My father likes to sketch them. He's fascinated by the sharp angles, the turrets and spires, the high-pitched roofs, the elaborate eaves and the intricate Gothic design. He loves the blend of red brick, granite stone and copper sheeting, with ivy crawling up to the sky. He veers from accuracy on only one count. He never draws the bars on the windows. He doesn't believe they were installed in Wainright's time."

"It sounds beautiful," I said.

"And foreboding," Fran added.

"The Dover is both. My father fell in love with the structure, but I was interested in the stories. I wanted to know more about the lives of the people who spent time there. I'd go with him and traipse around the grounds with my dowsing sticks. Sometimes, a caretaker or security guard would let us inside."

"What are dowsing sticks?" Flax asked.

"They're metal L-shaped rods. When you hold two loosely, they act as psychic antennas and cross or part with every connection. They've been used for centuries, but no one knows exactly how they work."

"It sounds similar to the process used to find water for wells," I said.

"Exactly. I have a set of rods in the car. I'll go down later and get it," Ca.s.s offered.

"Can we use them tonight? Will you show me how?" Flax said, his eyes bright with antic.i.p.ation.

"I'd love to."

"You visited the Dover in March, didn't you?" Fran said. "On that trip to Boston?"

"I did. You have a good memory. I went because for the first time in years they opened the grounds to the public. Prior to that, people had been sneaking in and vandalizing the property. The building is slated for demolition, and the local historic society is sponsoring tours once a month."

"They're going to tear it down?" Flax blurted, clearly offended.

"Most of it. A builder has signed a contract to spend almost a hundred million to redevelop the property into apartments and commercial s.p.a.ce."

"Why can't they save it?" I asked.

"The brick exterior walls are mostly sodden, and the timber floors inside have fallen on top of one another, in a pancake-type collapse."

"Couldn't the developer gut it?" I suggested.

"That's what they plan to do with about one-third of the three hundred thousand square feet. They'll gut the interior of the main entrance and two adjoining wings and construct a new building within the outer sh.e.l.l. But the rest, the other four wings, are unworkable, thanks to Wainright's innovation. It's a web of narrow wings, with small rooms and corridors defined by bearing walls. He intentionally used a linear design, with each ward enough out of line so that it had fresh air from four sides and couldn't be seen from the other wards."

"Were you afraid, when you walked around in it?" Flax asked.

"Never. I always felt spirits were guiding me."

"When will they start demolition?" I asked.

"Not for several years."

"Good," Flax broke in. "I'm going to see the Dover next summer."

I looked at him skeptically. "How?"

"It's my turn to choose a vacation, and my sister will hate it," Flax said happily. "Everything scares her."

"Your dad must be heartbroken about the Dover," I said to Ca.s.s.

"You have no idea! He bought a digital camera and is taking thousands of shots, from every angle, in every type of light and weather, so he can sketch them the rest of his life. Until you see this castle, you can't believe the complexity of its design. The entire length of the foundation is almost a mile long, and there are two hundred and forty angles on the building."

"That'll keep your pop busy," Fran said, stifling a yawn. "Toggles the mind."

"Boggles," I corrected reflexively.

"No, toggles. I caught a memory strand there. Had an aunt who spent most of her life in mental inst.i.tutions. Schizophrenia. Thought she was the Joan of Arc of Russia. Too bad Auntie never met Wainright. Things might have worked out differently."

"Wainright was a hero in his time," Ca.s.s said. "He had every detail covered. The best patients, the 'least excitable,' were to stay in upper rooms, closest to the central building. The noisiest would be the farthest away, and the feeble would reside on lower floors."

"Auntie would have been on the outer wing. Champion screamer, according to my mother."

"With an ideal occupancy of two hundred and fifty patients," Ca.s.s noted, "Wainright thought the system could cure up to eighty percent."

"Wasn't that optimistic?" I asked.

"Unheard of, but back then, society was willing to make a profound social commitment to mentally ill people. That was the best of times, around the turn of the century. By the nineteen fifties, two thousand people were warehoused at the Dover, and the mode of treatment had shifted significantly, from fresh air and rest to shock treatment and psychosurgery."

"Lobotomies?" I clarified.

When Ca.s.s nodded, Flax asked, "What's a lobotomy?"

"An operation that takes out the part of the brain that's diseased," Fran explained.

Even in the darkness, I could see the anxiety on the boy's face. "Sick! Do they still do that?"

"Only to twelve-year-old boys who misbehave," I said lightheartedly.

Flax threw a pillow at me, which I added to my stack.

"My father saw photographs from that era, with patients lying on stained concrete floors."

"Far cry from Wainright's vision," Fran said.

"By the 'seventies and 'eighties, powerful drugs had come to market, and there was a strong patient-advocacy movement to treat patients in communities, not separate them from society. In nineteen ninety-two, the Dover closed for good."

"Amen," Fran said, punctuating the thought with a long swig from her canteen.

"How many ghosts did you see there?" Flax asked after he'd wrestled his pillow from my grasp.

"Only one." Just one?

"I felt the presence of other spirits and heard snippets of conversations or screams, but only one vision."

"Of an old lady or man, all hunched over and wrinkled?" Flax asked.

"No, of an eight-year-old boy. Caleb."

Flax's eyes bulged. "He told you his name?"

"He never spoke, but I named him and later matched him to a story I heard from one of the local historians."

"Someone that young was insane?" I said, dismayed.

"Probably not, but he was placed at the Dover after he pulled three false fire alarms. He only lived there six months before he fell out of one of the upper windows."

"How many times did you see his ghost?" Flax pressed.

"Almost every time I went. He was very playful. I'd usually find him in the cemetery."

Fran grimaced. "Graveyard on the grounds?"

"Almost eight hundred patients were buried around the hospital, most in numbered graves."

I swallowed hard. "How much creepier can it get? A haunted asylum on a hill, with a graveyard surrounding it."

Ca.s.s flashed a sweet smile.

"Did you see Caleb in March?" Fran asked.

"No, probably because of the crowd on the tour. Next time, I'll sneak into the grounds after dark."

"How do you get in?" Flax said.

"Through a ventilation tunnel. To keep out intruders, they've poured concrete over most of them, but one is still open. At least it was in March. I don't think the groundskeepers are aware of it. It's hidden underneath tall gra.s.ses on the south side."

Flax said wistfully, "I wish I could go inside the Dover."

"You newbies need to work your way up," Fran cautioned.

"That's true," Ca.s.s said solemnly. "You're not ready for the inside of the Dover. No one without paranormal investigating experience is. People who've slid through the iron fence have reported trauma-broken bones, memory loss, ruined relationships. It's not safe, and I don't mean physically."

"Spiritually?" Fran asked.

Ca.s.s nodded, flushed. "It's definitely the most tormented building I've encountered." I shivered when she added longingly, "This house reminds me of it."

Chapter 23.

"May as well mult.i.task, while those two dowse," Fran said a short time later, inclining her head toward the parlor where Ca.s.s was giving Flax instruction. "I've done some digging on our friends Carolyn O'Keefe and Shirley Ba.s.sett. You in the mood?"

"If you insist," I said, my tone lifeless.

"You want the good news or the bad news?"

"Whatever."

"We'll start with good. I put in a call to a friend who runs a nonprofit."

I yawned.

"And vetted Ba.s.sett."

"Vetted?"

"Checked out her street creds."

"Creds?"

"Wake up, Kris! Credentials."

I stretched and m.u.f.fled a second yawn.

"Typical in the industry, used to screen donors. Organizations have to make sure the folks giving them big bucks don't have hidden agendas or embarra.s.sing ties. Shirl came up clean. Gives that amount routinely."

"A hundred thousand dollars? Every day?"

"Several times a year. Proceeds come from a family trust. Supports different causes with her largesse. Mostly women's issues."

"How generous," I said flippantly.

"Seems on the up-and-up."