Brian Keene - Ghost Walk

The deer’s heart.

She pawed at the ashen ground, digging a hole around the heart. Then she pushed at the rock, straining hard until it toppled out of the way, revealing a small depression. She gobbled down the heart in four quick bites and was swallowing the last shred when the darkness rose out of the hole and she heard her mate and cubs.

They called for her inside the swirling blackness. Mesmerized by this unexpected reunion, she stepped closer, yipping with excitement. Too late, the coyote realized that although they looked like her brood, their smell was different. She froze.

This was the something else—the bad thing she’d sensed before.

The darkness surged toward her and the coyote howled.

And then the sun greeted a new day, filling the land with light.

But the light did not penetrate the hollow.

There were only three stones left and less than forty-eight hours until the walls between worlds collapsed.

“This is fucking bullshit.”

Maria sat in her car, in the parking lot outside the White Rose Mental Health Facility, talking on her cell phone to her editor, Miles. Despite the fact that it was late October, it was a warm day. The sun beat down through the windshield, and Maria had rolled down her window. She was tired and the fresh air kept her awake.

“What can I tell you?” Miles said. “Come on. Did you really think you could just walk into a security hospital and speak with the guy?”

“No.” Maria pouted. “Not right away, at least. But I didn’t know I’d have to go through all of this crap.”

Miles laughed. “Listen, kiddo—”

“I hate it when you call me that. It’s demeaning.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. And I’m not pissed at you. I’m just disappointed. I even called in a few favors with some contacts in the medical system.”

“And?”

“No dice.”

“Maria, it’s very tough for a reporter—any reporter—to legitimately get an interview with a patient in one of these facilities, let alone a freelancer for a local rag like ours. The last thing any psychiatric hospital wants is publicity. They don’t want a reporter sniffing around. They’re like a methadone clinic or a group home; they want to stay nestled in communities without people even knowing they exist. They like things kept quiet.”

“But I’m not writing about them. I’m writing about Adam Senft.”

“No therapist, and certainly no administrator, wants their patient exploited for a news story. I mean, can you imagine that headline? ‘Satyr Killer Still Believes Wife Was Pregnant with Anti-Christ.’ There’s no way they’d give a reporter free rein with something like that. And you’re not even there as a reporter. This isn’t on behalf of us. This is for a true-crime book you want to write.”

“I know,” Maria said. “I’m sorry.”

After her late-night dinner with Ken Ripple, Maria had returned home and found herself too wired to sleep. Instead of just lying in bed, tossing and turning, she got up and made herself a fresh pot of coffee. While it brewed, she set her iPod for random play. Then, armed with a cup of coffee and a can of Red Bull, she banged out the first draft of the feature article on the Ghost Walk while Usher sang in the background. The article clocked in at just over three thousand words—perfect for what Miles wanted. Finished with that and still wide-awake, she’d gone online and tried to track down Ramirez, the former police detective who’d been involved with Adam Senft and the last spate of murders in LeHorn’s Hollow. She was disappointed to learn that he’d apparently dropped completely off the grid. His last known address was in Florida, where he’d been working as a security guard for a private firm. Two early morning phone calls confirmed that he was no longer employed with the company, and that he’d moved out of his apartment six months ago and had left no forwarding address. There was a possibility that she could still find him—access driver’s records, employer databases, things like that. But doing so would take time, and the star of her story—Adam Senft—was right here in town. Plus, even if she did track Ramirez down, there was no guarantee he’d consent to be interviewed, or that he even had any pertinent information. She decided to find Ramirez later, and focus on Senft instead. She put out a few feelers to several of her contacts in law enforcement and private investigation, letting them know she was interested in information regarding Ramirez’s whereabouts. Then, still unable to sleep, she’d revised the Ghost Walk piece and e-mailed it to Miles. Finally, she’d showered, ate breakfast, chugged another Red Bull, and drove to the White Rose Mental Health Facility.

Where she’d hit a brick wall—rebuffed by the receptionist and ignored by the officials. When she raised a stink, she was escorted out by a smiling, uniformed guard.

“Can’t you pull some strings for me, Miles? Isn’t there somebody we can talk to?”

“No, there isn’t. And even if there was, it would still take time. First, we would have to get in direct contact with Senft and find out if he wants to be interviewed.”

“I know. They just told me that. They said I’d have to put in a request to get on his visitor’s list and that could take up to two weeks.”

“And they’re right,” Miles said. “But it would probably take even longer than that. Trust me. I know these things.”

“How?”

“I’m an editor. I know everything.”

Maria smiled, but refused to let him hear her laugh.

“Patients at mental hospitals,” Miles continued, “even murderers like Adam Senft, retain most of their rights. They can have visitors, but the tricky part is that all visitors, even their family members, have to be approved by the medical staff. This guy is criminally insane. His life hangs on the thread of a committee of professionals who decide when he can get off the ward, for how long, when he can go outside the facility, see a movie, visit the park. Whatever. So let’s say you contact Senft. You send him a letter, ask to be added to his visitor’s list, and arrange to interview him. And let’s say he agrees—”

“He will.”

“Say he does. Senft then has to take the request to his treatment team. We’re talking a psychologist, social worker, behavioral analyst, unit director, head of security, and a doctor or nurse. All of these people have to determine whether or not the visit would be detrimental to his current treatment plan. You know how long that would take?”

Maria sighed. “A lot longer than two weeks.”

“Exactly. And that’s just if Senft agrees to the interview. He might not, you know. If he wants to get discharged eventually, he wouldn’t want to make waves.”

“But I could get him to consent to an interview. I know I could.”

“And maybe you could. God knows you’ve convinced me to do stuff for you in the past. Things I took a lot of heat for. But even if you did convince him, there’s still no guarantee. Even if you get past the treatment committee, you then have to face the judge who was originally involved in the case. And he’s the one who is ultimately responsible for letting these people back into the community, so you can bet your byline that he’s going to have something to say about it. Senft’s lawyer would be involved, too—if he even has the money to afford a lawyer. State lawyers never get involved with things like this.”

“He was a novelist,” Maria pointed out. “He’s got money.”

“He was a midlist paperback genre writer. They get paid even less than you do. And whatever assets he did have are probably frozen. Either that, or they got sold to pay for his defense the first time around. His publisher isn’t going to help him out. But let’s say some well-meaning fan pays for his lawyer, and the lawyer convinces the judge to consider your request. Then you’ve got the hospital and their lawyers stepping in to ask the judge, ‘Why do you want a raving lunatic with paranoid delusions about half human, half goat monsters running around York County impregnating housewives to speak to a reporter?’ End of interview, Maria.”