Joe Gribble - Darkest Edge

The bright sun and fresh air were a deep contrast to the stifling darkness of the hospital. Mark stepped outside and took a deep breath.

Ellen followed him outside and they both looked over the campus.

The campus was much larger than what Mark expected. There were at least a dozen buildings, and several large, grassy areas. The campus had to have been quite amazing at one time, but now it was rundown. The grass could stand to be mowed, and most of the buildings were past due a coat of paint by at least several years. One building, located at the very rear of the campus, stood out from the rest. It was smaller than the others, only two stories. The most striking difference were the windows — they were barred.

Mark pointed at the rear building: “That looks interesting. Let’s go take a look.” Mark headed for the rear building.

“Damn,” Ellen said behind him.

Mark stopped. He looked back. “What?”

Ellen was fiddling with the camera. “Juice is low. I must have left the spare battery pack in the car.”

Mark put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Brilliant. You’re a professional, right?”

“Don’t have a cow,” Ellen said. “I’ll run and get the spare. I’ll meet you over there.”

Ellen went back into the building.

Mark just shook his head as he watched the door close behind his so-called videographer. Mark headed across the unkempt grounds to the smaller, two-story building. It wasn’t a long walk, though with each step the grass seemed to get taller and taller… and for some unknown reason, each step seemed to get harder and harder. Mark felt a sense of dread coming over him the closer he got to the building. He noted the building had only one pair of doors in the center of the front, and another, single door on the narrow side closest to him. A rickety fire escape rose from the side door to the second floor. Mark headed for the front door, protected from the weather by a small awning. As he approached the door, Mark’s legs felt like logs. So heavy they seemed almost impossible to lift. As Mark contemplated the door, he looked down at his hands. Both were visibly shaking. “What the hell?” Mark asked himself.

He looked back at the main building. No Ellen in sight. No one in sight. He pulled a mini-bottle from his jacket pocket, twisted off the top and downed the contents. He put the empty bottle back in his coat pocket and checked his hands again. Still shaking. He wrung his hands together, hoping to stop the uncontrolled tremors, then looked at the door. He reached for the knob, hand slowly crossing the space, pausing before actually coming into contact with the knob. Finally, he crossed the gap and grabbed the knob and twisted. Locked. He felt like a weight dropped off when he couldn’t get inside. He moved slowly toward the window in the door to try and get a look inside, but it was painted over on the inside.

Mark walked along the front of the building. He found all the windows opaque with paint and protected by bars. At the side of the building he spotted a window where it looked like the paint had been scraped away. The clear section of the window was higher up, so Mark grabbed the bars and pulled himself up, struggling to climb high enough to see inside. His head reached the level of the window and he looked inside. It was difficult to see into the room, with the bars keeping him away from the glass and the sun shining from behind him. What he could see, briefly, was an old gurney, several sinks along the walls, a cabinet, and what looked like a drain in the middle of the floor.

Mark’s arms began to shake convulsively. They gave out and he dropped back to the ground. He began gasping for air. He loosened his tie, and leaned back against the wall for support. He bent forward, hands on his knees to hold him up as he gulped for air. A cloud passed over his vision, and things kept getting darker as he slid down to the ground. His lungs ached for air and the ground started to spin, turning faster and faster, his vision getting darker and darker, until everything went totally black.

Ellen loaded the spare batteries and stepped into the next building, hoping to get some good footage before she had to catch up with Mark. It was dark inside, so she switched the camera into night mode, using the monitor to guide her way. The green and black picture gave the building an eerie look.

The building was similar to the wing they had just left. Evenly spaced doors, sconce light fixtures along the walls. She was about a quarter of the way down the hall when a door behind her opened, light spilling in.

She turned to see the dark silhouette of a man blocking the light in the door.

“Hey! What are you doing in here?” the deep voice reverberated down the hallway.

Ellen lowered the camera and headed back toward the man.

When she got closer, she noted he was wearing blue scrubs, a name tag hanging from his collar. The man was in his mid-twenties and well built. “Hi,” she said. “Chicago TV News. We’re doing a story on the hospital.”

“You shouldn’t be in here,” the man said.

“I’m sorry,” Ellen said. “I’m just trying to get a feel for the place.”

The man produced a small flashlight, shining it on the camera, then on her. His frown faded to a smile. He reached out to shake her hand.

Ellen noticed a Celtic Cross tattoo on his thick, muscular forearm, just below his sleeve, as she reached out to shake. “You’re Irish?”

“Scott Ryan,” he said.

“Ellen Kilpatrick. We’re practically family.”

“That we are,” Scott said, still smiling broadly. He held her hand a bit longer than was customary. “Well, Miss Ellen Kilpatrick of Chicago. Welcome to Dayton.”

“Thanks,” Ellen said, eventually retrieving her hand.

They said nothing for a moment, sizing each other up. Finally, Scott said: “These doors should be locked. I’d hate for a guest from Chicago to get hurt in the dark.”

“Dr. Drexel said we could look around,” Ellen said. “The door back there was unlocked, so I let myself in.”

“We?”

“My reporter. He’s around here somewhere,” Ellen said.

Scott stepped farther inside, the door closing behind him. He adjusted the bright beam of his flashlight, expanding it to illuminate a broader area. “I better come along with you,” Scott said.

“Do you mind if I film?” Ellen asked.

“Depends. Do I get to be on TV?”

“Depends,” Ellen said. “Can you act?”

Scott turned to face Ellen. “Check this out.”

Ellen hoisted the camera back up on her shoulder and flipped it on, pointing it at Scott. The red light began to flash as the camera recorded.

Scott put the flashlight below his chin, shining it upward, turning his face into a creepy shadow. He twisted his voice into a caricature of an Irish brogue accent: “This is Scott Ryan, with me new friend Ellen Kilpatrick, on the latest episode of Irish Ghost Busters.”

Ellen flipped a switch on the camera and it stopped recording. She took it off her shoulder. “I see. You can’t act.”

Scott pulled the flashlight from below his chin, shining it on Ellen. “Well, perhaps not. But I have other skills.”

“Interesting. Would tour guide be one of them?” Ellen asked. She pointed the camera back down the hall and flipped it back on. “What was this building used for?”

“Back in the day, patient rooms.” Scott tried a door. Locked. He went to the next one, it opened. “Most of the patients were kept upstairs in large bays. A few of the more “challenged” patients had to be separated. They were kept in rooms like these.”

Ellen followed Scott into the room. She continued to film as Scott led the way.

The room was dusty, yet still presented itself as sterile. It held a small, metal bed frame, high off the ground. Along one wall was a metal sink and toilet.