Chapter 12 - St. Jude's Sanitarium
The wrought-iron gates of St. Jude’s Sanitarium loomed out of the thick mountain fog like the ribs of a rotting prehistoric beast. The sprawling brick asylum was abandoned and derelict, its windows smashed, ivy choking the crumbling masonry. Detective Miller’s sedan crunched over broken glass and gravel as it pulled up to the darkened main entrance.
Maya pushed her car door open, stepping out into the damp, freezing mountain air. She pulled her green sweater tightly around herself, shivering as she looked up at the towering, foreboding structure.
Drew stepped out behind her, holding a heavy-duty industrial flashlight. "This place gives me the absolute chills. Are you sure this is where she hid him?"
"Look at the security camera mounted above the door," Detective Miller said, pointing upward with his flashlight beam. The red recording light on the lens was blinking steadily. "That camera is wired to a satellite uplink. Someone is still maintaining power to this wing."
They moved toward the heavy oak doors, which had been reinforced with a modern electronic keypad lock. Detective Miller pulled a small digital diagnostic tool from his tactical vest, plugging it into a hidden maintenance port beneath the keypad. Within seconds, the screen flashed green, and a heavy magnetic click signaled the door unlocking.
They stepped inside into a pitch-black corridor that smelled heavily of antiseptic, rust, and damp earth. Their flashlights cut through the darkness, illuminating peeling institutional-green paint and long rows of empty patient rooms with rusted iron bed frames.
As they walked deeper into the subterranean sub-level, a faint, rhythmic sound echoed from down the hall.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It sounded like knuckles rapping against hollow wood.
Maya froze, grabbing Detective Miller’s sleeve. "Did you hear that?"
The detective held up a hand for silence, drawing his firearm once more and leading the way down the corridor toward a heavy steel-reinforced door labeled Ward 7-B.
The tapping sound grew louder, accompanied by ragged, shallow breathing from behind the reinforced glass window of the door.
Drew stepped forward, shining his flashlight through the grimy glass panel. Inside the small, sterile room sat an elderly man with thinning gray hair and a worn flannel shirt, frantically tapping his fingernails against the wooden table.
Maya gasped, dropping her flashlight as it clattered loudly against the concrete floor.
Through the glass, the man looked up, blinking against the blinding light. His face was weathered and aged beyond his years, but his green eyes were unmistakable.
May you like
It was Arthur Carson. He was alive.
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