Cold Ghosts

A search for a client's long-lost uncle leads Tom Jurgen to a mysterious—and haunted—asylum.

Cold Ghosts, Part One

I'm in a dark hallway. Dirty water trickles under my bare feet. 

            Blood drips from my arm.

            I lean against a gray cinderblock wall, trying to catch my breath. Fluorescent tubes blink overhead.

            Is this a dream? Or a nightmare?

            I look right, then left, then right again, searching for the way out. Shivering. Where's my jacket? Wait— 

            I look down. I'm in a long hospital gown, my feet bare and cold. Where are my clothes?

            I stagger forward, determined to get out of here. Somehow. Bare feet and all. Or at least wake up. I close my eyes. Wake up, wake up, wake up—

            “No." A whispered voice. A cold hand on my shoulder. "Not yet."

            I swing around. What the—

            A tall man with a ragged beard raises a finger. “Quiet."

            Behind him stand more people, in shadows. Men and women, young and old, standing outside the heavy doors that had once locked them in. A cold breeze chills my scalp and shoulders. 

            "Help me." An old man kneels on the floor. A long bloody bandage twists around his skull. "Please?"

            A naked woman stares at me. "You have to help us."

            I rub my eyes. “Uh—who are you?”

            “I’m . . .”  The bearded man hesitates, as if searching his memory. “Martin.”

            Wait, what? “Martin Greer?”

            “Yes. I think so.”

            “But—” How do I say this? “You’re . . . you’re dead.”

            “Yes.” He nods. “For a long time. Help us. Please."

* * *

Cari Sheppard opened her laptop, barely avoiding a coffee spill on the table between us. “Oops. Sorry.” She rearranged things, tapped some keys, then carefully swung her computer around. “Okay, here’s this.”

            We sat in a coffeeshop. I don’t have an office, so I tend to meet clients at coffeeshops and diners and bars. Every once in a while someone says, “I thought all private detectives have offices and secretaries?” I explain that they’re expensive, and we go from there.

            Cari Sheppard was in her thirties, blond with blue eyes, in a bright white blouse, sleeves curled up on her arms. “Okay. I did one of those DNA tests to find your relatives? I found a cousin I didn’t know I had, and we connected, and that’s all fine.” She moved a finger on the trackpad. “But then I found an uncle. Actually a, uh, a great-uncle? My grandmother’s brother, that I never knew about before.”

            I leaned forward and ran my eyes across the screen. I’d seen these kind of reports before—some people were hoping to find lost money, others wanted to prove that someone had cheated, adopted children wanted to find their parents. It didn’t always turn out well.

            “Right there.” Cari Sheppard pointed to a line. “Martin Greer. Born 1947. Clarke, Illinois. I found a birth certificate. But there’s no death certificate anywhere. I’m just—curious?”

            “Sure. Is there anything in particular you’re hoping to find out?”

            “Just where he’s buried. So I can take flowers.” She gulped her coffee. “I know it sounds stupid. We used to take flowers to my dad’s grave every Sunday. And my grandfather, too. My mom has a thing, you know?”

            “Not stupid at all. Does your mother know anything about this uncle? Or your grandmother?”    

            “Mom? No. She's dead. Grandma?” She blushed. “I haven’t had the nerve to ask her.”

            “You might want to do that. I mean, I’m happy to help you, but she might be able to give you better answers without, you know, having to pay me for any work.”

            “Oh, I can pay you.” She yanked a checkbook from the back pocket of her designer jeans. “I’m sort of rich. Dad was an investment banker. I run his firm. What do you need to start?”

            “All of the data you have there. Plus $200 as a retainer.” She might be rich, but I didn't want to milk her. I only have to pay my bills.

“So what’s the case?” Rachel turned in her chair as I walked into the office we share in our apartment. 

            Rachel’s my girlfriend. We live together. She’s got short red hair, hazelnut eyes, and sort of psychic powers. Plus, she’s hot. Especially in red gym shorts and a loose pink T-shirt, even on a chilly January day outside. Good thing we keep the heat pumped up.

            “Looking for a dead uncle. Via DNA research.” I dropped my phone on my desk. “You?”

            “Two landing pages, a conference agenda, and a whole website redesign. Fortunately, I’m getting paid big money if I can finish everything by the end of the week. Uh, what are you looking at?”

            Her legs. “Nothing. I’ve got work to do.”

            She smirked. “Me too, stud.”

            So I got to work. 

            Martin Greer. Born March 3, 1947, Clarke County, Illinois. I found a few government records—started school at age six, but no indication that he’d ever graduated high school.

            I found an Army record. He’d gone to Vietnam, then come home and dropped out of sight. I found a photo—a young man with thin cheeks in a uniform, looking embarrassed as a medal hunt on his chest. 

            Then I got one more hit.

            COMMITTED TO LEWISTON INSTITUTION: Martin Greer, June 14, 1981.

            What the hell? It came from a database of Illinois mental institutions, licensed by the state, but there wasn’t a lot of other information, aside from names and dates. Dates of incarceration, dates of release . . . for some of them. Not everyone. Not Martin Greer.

            I searched deeper. Lewiston had been shut down in 1991, after complaints from family members and an investigation by the state. Abuse, malnutrition, lack of sanitary conditions—the place was a snake pit, and lots of lawsuits had been filed. Millions of dollars got paid out.

I found a list of payouts and scrolled down. No sign of anything close to the family of Martin Greer, or anyone named Sheppard. But there could be other names.

I called my client. “It looks like Martin Greer was committed to a mental institution in, uh, Beacon, Illinois in 1981. It’s near Joliet. There were lawsuits about the place. You might want to look into the list of payouts. See if you recognize any relatives who might have filed. I’ll send you the link.”

“I’ll look at it. Is there anything else? Why was he there?”

“I’m trying to find out. I’ve sent emails to the state regulatory bodies that cover places like this. And there’s a historical society. It apparently gives tours of the site, at least part of it. I’ll call them next.”

“All right. Thanks.”

The Lewiston Memorial Society had a website. It featured old pictures of the facility—three buildings, a hospital, an infirmary, and a sanatorium. The structures were crumbling, with loose bricks and broken windows. Those images came from the mid-1990s, after the place was closed. Photos before that showed tall, solid walls and bars across dark glass. 

Named for a doctor named Walter John Lewiston, the place was built in 1921 as a poor house and farm, later converted into a hospital and asylum in the 1930s. At its height, it housed up to 200 patients and had a staff of 75 doctors, nurses, and clerical and maintenance workers. 

Patients tended to be poor people who were locked up against their will because their behavior was "inappropriate"—women who were probably too promiscuous, men who were suspected of being homosexual. Some possible pedophiles. There wasn’t a lot of information about their treatment, although the website noted that doctors performed lobotomies, and many "patients" remained at Lewiston for the rest of their lives.

Over time the facilities were modernized. Then, in the late 1980s, some families started complaining about the treatment of their relatives, and the state investigated. Lewiston was shut down in 1991, but a lot of the records were still sealed. However, at least two doctors working there went to jail, and some fled the country before they could be tried.

I called the society’s number, got voice mail, and left a message. Then I sent an email. And then I spent an hour trying to track down any of the families that had been paid in the lawsuit. I left some messages, sent some more emails, then went on to other work.

Two hours later my phone buzzed. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

“Mr. Jurgen?” The voice was young and female. “I’m Patty Jerelle, from the Lewiston Memorial Society? Returning your call.”

“Thanks for calling me back.” I’d explained the situation in my voice message. “Like I said, I’m looking for any information you have about Martin Greer? He’s apparently a long-lost uncle of my client who looked like he was there at your institution.”

“We have access to lots of records, but obviously—you understand—we have to know we’re dealing with a family member.”

“Of course. I’ll talk to her, and we can set something up.”

“Why don’t you come down for a tour? We hold them at 10:30 and 3 p.m. Then we can talk.”

“Sounds good. Thanks.”

We hung up. I turned to Rachel. “So, you want to take a tour of an insane asylum tomorrow?”

“Only if they don’t try to keep you there.” She rubbed her eyes and sipped some coffee. “What’s for dinner?” It was 3 p.m., and it was my day to cook.

“Leftover lasagna.” I hunted for Cari Sheppard’s number on my phone.

“That’s cheating. It’s only left over because I made it last night.”

“Then tomorrow I’ll make split pea soup in the slow cooker and we can have that for two nights.”

“Mmm . . .” Rachel licked her lips.

I called my client, and we arranged to meet up at Lewiston for the 3 p.m. tour tomorrow. 

Rachel stood up and stretched. In her red shorts and loose T-shirt. “You ready to take a break?”

I looked her up and down, and quickly saved my work. “I think I could manage that.”

My phone buzzed in the middle of dinner. Unknown number. Rachel glared, but in my job you can’t ignore calls just because they come at inconvenient times. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? I’m Noah Trammel. You called me about the Lewiston place?”

            “Yes, thanks for calling me back. Can we talk?”

            “I’d like to talk to you, but not over the phone. Could we meet later tonight?”

            “Of course.” We agreed on a bar midway between my apartment and his. Eight p.m. “Sorry.” I hung up. “Work.”

            “Fine. I’ll just watch Poldark without you.” But she winked. “Good lasagna.”

Cold Ghosts, Part Two

Noah Trammel was in his seventies, with more gray hair than me and broader shoulders, too. He ordered a scotch. I sipped my beer.

            I repeated what I’d told him in my message, without naming my client. “So we’re just interested in what happened at Lewiston. My client’s just curious about her uncle.”

            “I don’t know about anyone else, but . . .” He looked at the floor. “Maybe I do. I just know—that place was haunted.”

Uh-oh. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.” He swallowed some scotch.

I’ve heard a lot of crazy things in my life. And seen them, too—vampires, demons, aliens, ghosts. I seem to attract them. "I won’t laugh.”

Trammel chuckled. “It was my older brother. Alec. He had—problems. High on the spectrum, much too much for my parents to handle. They put him into Lewiston because he started hurting himself. And, yeah, he punched me a few times, and I was just a kid.”

He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. “Sorry. Anyway, I didn’t see him for a long time. Except we drove down a couple of times a year. The staff didn’t seem to like visitors. They had him restrained most of the time. I hated . . . seeing him like that.”

Trammel finished his scotch and ordered another. “One time I went to the bathroom down the hall. I was 12 or 13. I heard screams through the doors. The bathroom was dark. I—anyway, I was washing my hands, and I looked up and there was this man standing behind me. In the mirror. But I never heard the door open, and all the stalls were empty. There were only three. I sort of jumped and turned around. But the guy wasn’t there.”

He sipped his next scotch. “When I looked back in the mirror, he was there. In a gray hospital gown, like my brother, and he was bleeding from one ear. He opened his mouth like he was trying to talk, but he couldn’t say anything. When I looked back again, he wasn't there."

Trammel shuddered. “I just ran. But I felt this, this cold draft all over my body when I moved through where he was standing. All over my arms and legs, and my face. My parents were leaving. I heard Alec moaning inside his room. It was more like a cell. The hallway was gray and dark. I didn’t say anything until we got in the car, and then I told them everything.”

“Did they believe you?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I sort of thought they wouldn’t. but they heard the screams and the moaning too. The next day they called someone from the state, and the day after that they went and took Alec out and put him into another hospital. He, uh—he died a few years later.”

We were silent for a minute. “I’m sorry to put you through this, sir.”

Trammel shook his head, “Thanks, but it’s—it’s okay. After we complained, and it turned out there was other stuff they were investigating. Anyway, the lawsuit took years, and in the end we got some money and I guess some guys got locked up. But I can’t stop thinking about that guy in the mirror. And the cold. And Alec, too, you know?” 

“Of course.” Damn it. Why did very case I get have to turn into something supernatural? Maybe I’d been cursed in a past life.

“Does that help?” He finished his second scotch with a gulp and ordered a third.

I wasn’t sure. “Will you be okay getting home?” The bartender set his glass on the table.

He chuckled again. “I’ll call an Uber.”

I nursed my beer until he finished, paid the tab and got a receipt, and walked him out to the street to wait for his car. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Trammel shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I haven’t thought about it much, or talked about. It’s . . . kind of good to remember him.”

The Uber pulled up. I watched it head down the street, and then I went for my car.

So the next day we drove out to Lewiston for the 3 p.m. tour.

            Joliet is an hour or so southwest of Chicago. Rachel sat next to me in the Prius, working on her laptop, occasionally shouting at me to get around a slow-moving truck. My GPS eventually led the car to Beacon, Illinois, and then up a gravel driveway to parking lot in front of the Lewiston Institute. 

            The landscape was barren and chilly on a gray January day. A hill rose next to the facility, grass dead in the winter. Dark branches on a lone tree swayed in a cold breeze.

            I stopped the car in front of the main building. Two other structures lay behind it. 

            Rachel saved her work and closed her laptop. “Okay. So I’m looking for—what? Ghosts?”

            “Or anything you can find.” I was nervous after my chat with Trammel last night. “I didn’t think this would turn into—”

            “Oh, come on.” She slugged my shoulder. “You live for this.”

            Maybe I do. Maybe one day it would kill me.

            A few other cars sat in the lot, plus a tour bus. Was an asylum tour a hot ticket for tourists? Rachel and I waited. Watching the front door.

            A big sign hung over the doorway of the big building: LEWISTON INSTITUTION MEMORIAL SOCIETY. WELCOME. Big black letters underneath—“Tours This Way.”

            Cari Sheppard pulled up in a black BMW a few minutes later. She slipped out and zipped up her leather jacket, slinging a briefcase over one shoulder. I’d called Cari last night, after talking to Trammel. She’d listened, slightly confused, but in the end she seemed to understand what I was telling her. 

            Rachel and I opened our doors. “Hi. This is Rachel. She works with me.”

            “Nice to meet you.” Rachel held a hand out. “Just so you know, I’m kind of psychic.”

            “Uh—okay.” They shook hands 

            Cari stepped next to us, her head down. “I talked to my grandmother last night. About Martin.”

            “Okay.” I leaned forward. “What did she say?”

            “Martin had some kind of brain injury in the war. He got worse. Drugs and—other things, I don’t know? I guess grandma couldn’t handle it. Grandpa was dead by then. So she sent Martin here. And then she couldn’t stand to see him. I don't think my mother knew anything about it. And grandma, she never came to visit him or anything. She only got a letter when he died.”

            A cold wind blew across our faces. Rachel took Cari’s hand. “You okay?”

            “I’m fine.” She straightened her shoulders. “I didn’t think it would matter this much. I never knew him. But now . . .” She looked at the door. “I have to know.”

“Hello! I’m Patty Jerelle, and I’ll be conducting your tour today.” She smiled.

She was young and tall, with short black hair, and she wore a long white lab coat like a doctor as she greeted us in the outer room. “We’ll be walking through the hospital, where patients were treated for mental disorders early in the days of the facility. Then we’ll take a look at the infirmary, where they were treated for medical issues. Unfortunately, the third building is closed for renovations, but that was mostly an administrative center."

            She folded her arms. “I have to warn you, this may be disturbing. What the so-called doctors did here was completely unethical. That’s why it was shut down. But we believe there’s value in understanding what’s been done here.” She turned. “This way, please.”

            Rachel grabbed my hand. 

            “Are you okay?” I squeezed.

            “Maybe. Maybe not.” She rocked back and forth on her feet. “Shut up.”

            Something was wrong. But I kept my mouth shut.

            Aside from me and Rachel and Cari, the tour group consisted of 12 Asian senior citizens from the tour bus, plus a mom and dad hustling three teenaged girls along with them. “Keep up!” the dad ordered. “Come on! After this we can go to Burger King!”

            The walls were cinder blocks painted a dingy gray. A long series of fluorescent tubes burned from the ceiling. Everything smelled liked lemon disinfectant. 

            A series of screams and hollow laughs from a bad horror movie soundtrack burned the air.

            "Those aren't real," Jerelle said reassuringly. "It's just to give you a taste of what this place was like at its worst." 

            Cari looked up and down the walls, the ceiling. She shivered.

            Jerelle stopped in front of a door and gestured with her foot toward a six-inch slot at the bottom. "Meals and water were sent in here. The diet was—not good. A little meat, often spoiled, rotted vegetables, some dried fruit, maybe oatmeal in the morning. And water from pipes that leaked lead." 

            She opened the door. The room, six feet by six with a 10-foot high ceiling, was too small for everyone to crowd into. We took turns peering over each other's shoulders. Cameras clicked from the tourists.

            A metal cot was pushed against the back wall with a thin gray mattress on top. A bucket sat in a corner. A drain lay in the center of the floor. 

            "What, no manacles?" I asked. Rachel slugged my arm.

            Jerelle gave me a sharp glance. "Some rooms did have those, for patients who doctors felt needed to be restrained. We'll see those later."

            The kids hung back—one girl leaned against the wall, rolling her eyes. “Dad? Can we go now?”

            “Just a minute.” The father leaned through the door. His wife stayed outside, holding the kids' hands.

            We looked into other rooms. Two of them did have manacles bolted to the walls. A few larger ones held actual sinks and toilets. 

            The tourists whispered among themselves and took pictures. The girls tried to be brave. The wife glared at her husband.

            Then Jerelle led us out a back door and across a cracked concrete path into another building. Smaller, with the same dim fluorescents in the ceiling. Instead of a long corridor, a metal desk stood like a tombstone in the center a wide circular room. 

            Four doors stood around the room. Jerelle put a hand on one handle. “In here, operations were performed. Men and women had parts of their brains removed to make them more manageable. Take a look around.” She pushed the handle and leaned in to flick a light switch inside.

            The seniors walked into the room. The kids hung back—one girl leaned against the wall, rolling her eyes. “Mom? I don't like this."

            “Keith . . ." She put a hand on his arm. "Is it almost over?"

            "I just want to see this." He shrugged. "You can wait."

            Cari shuddered, and Rachel clutched her hand. We slid past the father and stood beside the rest of the group, shivering. Not only because it was cold. 

            Eight metal cots with thin white mattresses lined the room. Black curtains obscured the windows. A single yellow lightbulb dangled from the ceiling.

            Jerelle picked up a metal tray. "These instruments were used for leucotomies, also called lobotomies. The procedure involves cutting connections in the brain's prefrontal cortex in an attempt to control patient's mental disorders. This—" She held up a T-shaped instrument— "is called an orbitoclast. It was used to—"

            Cari jerked back. "I can't take this. Sorry." She turned and walked away. 

            I followed her back down the shadowy hallway to the door. Rachel was right behind us. 

            "I'm sorry." Outside in the parking lot, under the gray sky, Cari bent over the hood of her car. "It's just . . . too much."

            "You feel it too?" Rachel put a hand on her shoulder.

            Cari jerked. "What do you mean?"

            Rachel leaned back and took a deep breath. "Like I said, I'm sort of psychic. And this place . . ."

            She turned and gazed up the hill. Her boots staggered in the gravel. Rachel blinked. "Up there. People are buried there. Lots of people." She shuddered.

            "Oh god." Cari Sheppard trembled. "I have to get out of here. I didn't think . . ."

            "Take her home." I pointed toward Cari's car. "I'll stay."

            "What?" Rachel lifted a fist. "I'm not leaving you here!"

            "I have some questions to ask." I backed away. "Come on. It's what I do. It's my job. I have to find out what's going on."  Or what happened. "Go."

            "Don't be an idiot." She punched my arm. "Or I guess it's too late for that."           

            I grinned. "I'll be okay."

            "You always say that." She kissed me quickly and slid into Cari's passemger seat. "Call me."

            I watched Cari's car roll through the gate. For a moment I seriously thought about following them.

            But although no one's every called me brave, some people have described me as a stubborn asshole. It worked when I was a reporter—although it ultimately got me fired—and it's still part of my job now.

            I took a deep breath and headed back into the asylum.

Cold Ghosts, Part Three

There wasn't much left of the tour by the time I rejoined the group. The last room was a small gymnasium. "In addition to exercise and recreation areas outside, patients recovering from their surgeries could exercise in here," Jerelle was explaining.

            The room brought back bad memories of high school gym class—hardwood floors, two basketball hoops at either end, soccer balls in nets strung in one corner, a set of weights on one wall—and kids throwing dodgeballs at me without mercy. At least it didn't smell like sweaty jockstraps.

            A tourist raised a hand. "Where did they go, ma'am? Once they were done?"

            Jerelle sighed. "Most of them never left."

            I had to do it. "So what happened to them?"

            She peered at me. "Well, their families claimed them once they died. Otherwise they went to the state."

            I wondered about the hill Rachel had looked at. But this didn't seem like the right time or place to ask about Martin Greer.

            We headed back to the first building. Jerelle thanked the tourists for their attention. I waited as they lined up to get into their bus.

            Then I walked up. "Hi. Tom Jurgen. We spoke on the phone?"

            She blinked. "Oh. Yes. You were here with two other people?"

            "They weren't feeling well."

            "Yeah." She leaned against the door. "It's unpleasant. I shouldn't—I would have given that family their money back. It's not really for kids. Maybe we should change the sign."

            "I got a little freaked out too." I hesitated. "Like I said, my client wants to know about Martin Greer."

            She nodded. "And like I said, I have to know I'm dealing with a family member."

            "Sure." Too bad Cari had to leave. But I couldn't blame her. Especially if Rachel felt scared. "One question?"

            She cocked her head. "Okay, I guess."

            I pointed. "What's up on that hill?"

            Jerelle turned. "A tree."

            People are buried there. "What kind of investigation did the state carry out? You didn't mention that in the tour?"

            "People went to jail. Lots of money was paid out. Is that what you're looking for, Mr. Jurgen?" She put a hand on the door handle. "Can I help you with anything else?"

            I shook my head. "Just the facts. Thanks. I enjoyed your tour. Sort of."

            She smiled. Sort of. "Thank you. Have a safe drive back."

I sat in my car and called Rachel. "You all right? And Cari?"

            "We're almost home. I invited her for dinner. I'm making ratatouille. Don't be late or it'll be cold."

            I glanced around the parking lot. Four cars, not including my Prius. The gate was still open. 

            Maybe they wouldn't notice an extra car here. At least for a while.

            "I'll be a bit. I can warm it up in the microwave." Although I was hungry. Maybe I'd stop at Burger King.

            "Oh, no." I could almost feel Rachel's fist punching my shoulder through the phone. "You're not going to do something stupid, are you? Of course you are. Jerk."

            "I'll be careful."

            She snorted. "Yeah, I've heard that before. Get home before I throw your underwear out the window."

            I chuckled. "I love when you talk dirty to me."

            "Getting off the highway now. Don't get killed."

            "That's my mission statement. Love you."

            "Jerk."

The sun was setting behind the gray clouds. I grabbed a small flashlight from the glove compartment, tested it, and closed my door softly. 

            Like I said, I'm not brave, but I had questions, and no one was answering them right now, so I figured I'd have to find the answers myself. I just hoped I'd be able to get home with them before the ratatouille got too cold. Or else my client would be unsatisfied. And Rachel would kill me.

            I bypassed the main building, and the infirmary. The ground was cold under my shoes as I made my way up to the third building. Under renovation, Jerelle had told us. But this looked more modern than the other two—aluminum siding, thick windows with bars across them, a heavy slanted roof. 

            The windows were wrapped in black plastic. 

            I stepped up the door. Should I knock? I put my hand on the doorknob and turned slowly. Unlocked.

            So I opened the door and stepped inside.

            Before I could call "Hello?" to pretend I wasn't trespassing, I heard the screams.

            Not fake, like the shrieks in the first building. These were real. 

            No! Stop! Help me, help me!

            The hallway here was filled with bright lights and white walls. The tile under my feet was speckled and clean. I saw rows of doors, with thick metal handles. 

            Not again! Let me go! Let me out!

            What the hell?

            I grabbed my phone for a quick video. Ten seconds, fifteen . . . maybe that would be enough. I turned to get out—

            Patty Jerelle stood in the doorway. "What are you doing here?"

            "Uh . . ." Think fast, Tom. "My car wouldn't start. I was just looking for—" I held up my phone. "My battery died."

            "Patty?" A voice over my shoulder. "What's going on? Who is this?"

            I turned. The man behind me was short, with his hair shaved almost bald on his scalp and a thin black beard on his chin. He wore a gray T-shirt and jeans, and a stethoscope over his shoulders.

            "Sorry, Dr. Talcott." Jerelle spread her hands. "He was asking questions. I thought he went home."

            "And I was just going." I backed away. "Maybe my car will start now."

            Jerelle grabbed my arm. "Not yet."

            I stiffened. "People know I'm here. What's going on? What are you guys doing here?"

            "Never mind." I felt a jab in the back of my neck. "You won't remember."

Cold Ghosts, Part Four

I'm in a dark hallway. Dirty water trickles under my bare feet. 

            Blood drips from my arm.

            I lean against a gray cinderblock wall, trying to catch my breath. Fluorescent tubes blink overhead.

            Is this a dream? Or a nightmare?

            I look right, then left, then right again, searching for the way out. Shivering. Where's my jacket? Wait— 

            I look down. I'm in a long hospital gown, my feet bare and cold. Where are my clothes?

            I stagger forward, determined to get out of here. Somehow. Bare feet and all. Or at least wake up. I close my eyes. Wake up, wake up, wake up—

            “No." A whispered voice. A cold hand on my shoulder. "Not yet."

            I swing around. What the—

            A tall man with a ragged beard raises a finger. “Quiet."

            Behind him stand more people, in shadows. Men and women, young and old, standing outside the heavy doors that had once locked them in. A cold breeze chills my scalp and shoulders. 

            "Help me." An old man kneels on the floor. A long bloody bandage twists around his skull. "Please?"

            A naked woman stares at me. "You have to help us."

            I rub my eyes. “Uh—who are you?”

            “I’m . . .”  The bearded man hesitates, as if searching his memory. “Martin.”

            Wait, what? “Martin Greer?”

            “Yes. I think so.”

            “But—” How do I say this? “You’re . . . you’re dead.”

            “Yes.” He nods. “For a long time. Help us. Please."

            I blinked my eyes open. What the hell?

            A woman with short black hair in a white coat like a doctor smiled at me. "Relax. Everything will be fine." 

            No. I struggled, but my arms were tied down. Duct tape. I was in some kind of hospital bed. In a hospital gown. I kicked my feet. No shoes, but my legs were free. At least I still had my underwear.

            "It'll be over soon." That came from a short man, almost bald, with a thin beard. "Patty? Increase the anesthetic." 

            "Yes, Dr. Talcott." She reached over to adjust an IV than trickled down into a vein in my arm. "Don't worry, Tom. This will all be over soon. And then you'll feel fine."

            Tom. Me. Tom Jurgen. That was me. Rachel . . .

            "She'll come for you." I gulped. "You don't want to make her mad. Trust me."

            The doctor held a T-shaped instrument over my head. The orbitoclast. I twisted my neck. "No. No . . ."

            The woman—Patty?—clasped a hand over my forehead. "Stay still. It'll all be over soon."

            "No. No . . ."

            The doctor leaned down. "Just relax."

            Then the lights went out. 

I fought against the duct tape in the darkness. It was tight, but the tape was looser on my left hand. I leaned down and caught a strand in my teeth. Come on, come on . . .

            The lights flickered up again. Patty jumped back. "What the—who are you?"

            "Go away!" The doctor waved a hand. "You're dead! Go back up to the hill!"

            Two tall shadows stalked forward. I recognized the man from my dream. He had a ragged beard. The woman was naked. Old. Her skin sagged around her hips. But she clutched the old man's fingers.

            Help us, she whispered. Please.

            I got one hand free and yanked the IV from my arm. I sat up, my mind suddenly clear again. 

            Oh, hell. Rachel was going to kill me. 

            I struggled with the rest of the duct tape. Got it loose enough to pull my other arm free. I rolled over and dropped off the bed. Where were my clothes?

            Talcott looked back at me. "Get back up there."

            "I don't think so." I clutched my arm as blood and fluids dripped down. "Where's my phone?"

            "Dennis!" Patty Jerelle was backing away from the door.

            Two more shadows had joined Martin Greer and the nude woman—one short, with thick shoulders, and the other one as tall as a basketball player. I couldn't see their faces. 

            Then more joined them. Men and women, some of them naked, most of them in rags. And at least one young boy, crying. 

            I staggered up, trying to keep my balance. What was going on? 

            Talcott pointed. "Go back up the hill! Now!"

            The hill. People are buried there. Lots of people. I leaned against the hospital bed. "I don't think they want to go."

            He glanced at me. "Shut up. Patty, put him out again."

            She picked up a syringe from the table behind her. Nervous. She'd have to fight me this time. I crouched, my legs shaking. I'm no krav maga master, but I have been known to fight dirty.

            But Martin Greer stepped in front of her.

            "He can't hurt you!" Talcott turned to Jerelle. "Give that to me. I'll take care of him."

            I didn't wait. Talcott's back was facing me, so I kicked him as hard as I could. In the ass. Like I said, I fight dirty.

            He fell to the tiled floor with a curse. Jerelle dropped the syringe. When she ducked to get it—

            Her shoulder passed through Greer's hip. She jerked back with a yelp, rubbing her shoulder as if it burned. 

            I whirled around. Spotted my clothes on a chair in the corner. I grabbed for my pants and ran.

            The ghosts—or whatever they were—didn't move. Or at least they didn't move fast enough. But I figured I could run through them, just like Jerelle had gone through Greer. I leaned down and ran forward, my bare feet slipping on the tile. I could do this. Run, run, run—

            I expected to hit something. I didn't expect the wave of cold air all around me. It was like running like a waterfall of liquid oxygen. 

            I fell on the floor in the hallway, gasping, and rolled away from a shadowy man in ripped jeans and a shredded T-shirt.

            What the hell? No time to figure it out now. At least they could maybe block Talcott—or slow him down.

            I yanked my cell phone out, hoping the cold hadn't damaged it. Punched numbers. One buzz, two—

            "What is it?" Rachel. "Are you coming home now?"

            "It's full of ghosts." One hand on the floor, I stumbled against to my feet, my knees aching. "You were right. They're buried up on the hill. Someone tried to lobotomize me. Call the cops."

            "Oh for Christ's sake—" She laughed. "I knew you were going to get into trouble. Okay, I'm on it."

            I could see Talcott on the other side of the wall of ghosts, getting his nerve up for a run through them. That gave me a moment to pull my pants on. I searched my pocket as I buckled my belt. I still had my car keys . . . 

            Then I heard the screams again. Real screams. "Help me!"

            I hobbled to the nearest door. No electronic lock, just a metal handle. I pushed it down.

            Click. Locked from the inside?

            I glanced over my shoulder. Talcott lurched forward.

            I pushed the door open.

            A woman lay restrained on a bed, like mine, with an IV in planted her arm, like I'd had. 

            Bandages were wrapped over her skull.

            She didn't seem fully conscious. But she was awake enough to moan, and struggle weakly against her restraints. 

            I didn't have the time—or strength—to help her escape. "Someone's coming," I told her. "Soon."

            Then Talcott burst through the ghosts, but they'd tightened up like a football team on the line of scrimmage. He shrieked as he plunged forward and hit the floor face down. Blood dripped from his nose as he tried to peer up at me.

            I figured he was in no shape to hurt me now. Not for a minute or two, anyway. So I stepped toward him cautiously in my bare feet, keeping a healthy distance.

            "What the hell are you doing?" My voice echoed, louder than I'd expected.

            "I'm trying to help people!" He crawled to his hands and knees. 

            "By cutting up their brains?" I took a step back, wishing for Rachel's Taser. 

            But the ghosts surrounded him. Greer stood a few inches away from my shoulder, as if protecting me.

            "It's the perfect place." Talcott clamped a hand over his bleeding nose. "It's isolated, and the tours are disturbing enough to keep people from wanting to see too much. Look, both of my parents had dementia! They died from it! I thought—I might be able to find a way."

            "So all these people have Alzheimers or something? And you're trying to cure them with lobotomies?" I wondered if he had a little—or a lot—of dementia himself.

            "Dr. Talcott?" Jerelle called from the room. "Dennis? Are you okay?"

            "I'm fine! I'm . . ." He yanked a handkerchief from his back pocket for his nose. "Stay there!"

            "What about the ghosts?" I gazed at Martin Greer's shadowy face. "Buried up in the hill?"

            "They're from before! They're supposed to stay there! But they keep coming out! If anyone came in to look at the hill, they'd find all this! They have to stay there!"

            "They don't want to stay there." I leaned against the wall for a moment, catching my breath. "And neither do those people you've got locked up." Or me, for that matter. "I'll be in my car. Waiting for the cops."

            "No! Wait!" He dropped the handkerchief and somehow pulled himself up, trembling. "You can't! I'm close! I really am close! Wait. Wait."

            The ghosts started to close around him.

            "Wait." I waved my arms at the ghosts. "The police are coming. They'll dig up the hill. You'll get a proper burial. Wait—"

            "NO!" Talcott shrieked as the ghosts moved in on him.

            I couldn't do anything. Talcott was a criminal, maybe crazy, but I didn't want to watch him die.

            Unfortunately, I had to.

            When the ghosts finally moved back Talcott looked like a husk of a human. His skin was gray, his thin hair gone, leaving only a bare bumpy scalp, and his fingers and feet were shriveled. 

            I lurched back and tried not to throw up. Cops hate it when you vomit in a crime scene.

            One by one, the ghosts disappeared, until Martin Greer was the only one left. 

            He looked at me and nodded.

            I nodded back. "You have a niece who asked me to look for you. She'll take care of you."

            He almost smiled. Then, like the Cheshire cat, he faded away. 

So I told the cops everything, like I always do, even though they don't usually believe me. But they did believe in dead bodies. And lobotomy patients, once they saw them.           

            Patty Jerelle invoked her right to remain silent. But she seemed too traumatized about Talcott's cold death to speak much anyway. 

            I was exhausted, wishing I could have invoked my own right to remain silent when Rachel showed up. "You idiot! What did you think you were doing? Wait'll I get you home! You're cooking dinner for a month. And no sex for a month, either! Where are your shoes?"

             We were standing out in the parking lot between our cars. 

            Cari giggled. "Are you all right?" She put a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry I got you involved in all this."

            My feet were cold. "I'm fine. It happens. The important thing is to follow up on what's up in that hill. I can help you with that a little, but you're going to want to get a lawyer. It could take a long time."

            "Like I said, I'm kind of rich." She leaned forward to impulsively to kiss my cheek. "Thank you."

            I hoped Rachel wouldn't slug her. She gets territorial sometimes. But she shook Cari's hand. "Tom's an idiot. But you can usually count on him to do the right thing."

            "It's called being stubborn." I opened the door. "Can you drive, Rachel?"

            Cari got into her BMW and drove past the cop cars. Rachel snapped her seatbelt and started up.

            She was silent until we hit the highway. Then she patted my knee. "You okay there, Tom?"

            I shivered. "I never knew ghosts were cold. And I wish I had my socks. But yeah, I'm fine. Just a little freaked out."

            "Good." She punched my shoulder. Lightly. "Jerk."

            "Uh, about that no-sex thing—"

            She snorted. "Okay, maybe a week. Or three days. But you are making dinner for a month. Or two."

            I closed my eyes, ready to drift off to sleep while she drove. Long day. "Deal."

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