Джон Пассарелла: Halloween: The Official Movie Novelization

Decades of funding neglect had reduced Smith’s Grove State Hospital to a depressing cement and cinderblock psychiatric purgatory, an institutional eyesore steeped in perpetual grunge from which emanated a mélange of sour odors ineffectively masked by a haphazard dash of harsh disinfectants. Overhead fluorescents fought a losing battle, a literal dying of the light, as some tubes flickered warnings of imminent failure. Meanwhile, the incessant buzzing threatened to scour from the troubled mind any last vestiges of sanity. And yet, despite her gloomy surroundings, Dana Haines struggled to contain a nervous excitement.

They had an unprecedented opportunity in front of them. All their planning and preparation had led them to this moment, a major coup. While Aaron signed the requisite paperwork at the security station’s check-in desk, Dana removed the digital recorder from the bag slung over her shoulder, switched it on, slipped headphones over her ears, and held the embedded microphone close to her mouth. “Check, check.”

Aaron exchanged a look with her, mirroring her anticipation.

With the hint of a smile, she tilted the mic toward him.

“Testing, testing,” he said in his measured, professional voice. “One, two, three.”

With an approving nod, she said, “Ah, sticking with the classic.”

“Appropriate, yes?”

“Of course.”

She held the recorder at arm’s length, sweeping it through a slow arc from left to right. Even on this side of the security station, disturbing sounds bled through in unexpected bursts: a bout of maniacal laughter, fists pounding on a metal door, a mournful wail. For a fleeting moment she acknowledged that a normal person would react to everything she’d seen and heard thus far by vacating the premises. But Aaron Joseph-Korey and she were cut from different cloth. They followed the story wherever it led. And their brand of stories never led them to day spas and sandy beaches.

“You need to sign the waiver,” Aaron reminded her.

Momentarily confused, she frowned. “Waiver?”

“Enter at your own risk and all that,” he said. “The usual.”

“Of course,” she said. “Walk the walk.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” Setting down the recorder, she picked up the pen attached to the clipboard at the security desk and addressed the guard facing her. “Where do I sign?”

Wordlessly, the guard jabbed his index finger at the line on the bottom of a form she didn’t bother to read. One disclaimer was like any other, an institution’s preemptive evasion of responsibility distilled into the simple declaration that, if anything bad happens, it’s not their fault. Or another way of saying, you were warned.

Behind the desk, other security guards viewed monitor feeds, although one focused on a game of computer solitaire while another riffled through manila folders in an under-the-counter filing cabinet. Behind them, facing the security window overlooking a common room, a nurse with hair pulled into a severe bun switched on a turntable and placed the needle over a spinning record. After an initial hiss, the needle found its groove and “Pick Yourself Up” from Swing Time played, piped through wall speakers otherwise reserved for a PA system.

As Dana scooped up her recorder she focused her attention on the common room’s three occupants. A lab-coated doctor, whose wavy hair and full mustache had almost made the complete transition to gray, spoke to a slump-shouldered patient flanked by a grizzled security guard while trying to write on a prescription pad. Frustrated, he shook the ballpoint pen, tried again, and tossed it in a nearby trash can before removing a more elegant pen from his lab coat pocket.

Beside Dana, Aaron whispered, “That’s him.”

The doctor completed the prescription, signed his name, tore off the sheet of paper, and passed it to the guard. As the guard turned to escort his charge back to his room or the hospital pharmacy, Dana glimpsed the name stitched on the breast pocket of his uniform: Kuneman.

Though she had instinctively raised the mic toward the security door during the exchange, she doubted it was sensitive enough to pick up details of the brief conversation, especially over the peppy music that had, thankfully, drowned out the incessant buzzing of fluorescent lights.

The doctor glanced up at his visitors and nodded. Aaron sported khaki trousers and trainers with his gray wool overcoat and a long blue-gray checked scarf. With her long maroon coat, Dana wore a knee-length brown-and-tan patterned dress, brown hose, and suede ankle boots. Not her idea of casual, but too late now to wonder if they should have dressed more professionally for the meeting. Besides, they’d presented themselves as journalists. Might as well look the part.

The security guard closest to the window pressed a button beneath the desk, triggering the loud buzz of the door lock mechanism disengaging and the metallic squeal of security bars retracting. A green light flashed on as the doctor pushed open the door to greet them.

“Good afternoon,” he said with a thick accent. “I’m Dr Ranbir Sartain.”

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with us,” Dana said, wondering if he’d view their British accents as similarly thick. “We were hoping to have this opportunity before he is transferred to the new facility. Glass Hill is far less accommodating.”

His disdain evident, Ranbir said, “Glass Hill is the pit of hell. Underfunded and short-staffed. For years he has been kept here to be studied. I suppose the state has lost interest in discovering anything further.”

Considering their present surroundings, Dana imagined Glass Hill must be spectacularly awful. Perhaps they employed medieval torture devices to keep their patients in line.

“Well…” Aaron said. “That’s why we’re here.”

Best to assure Ranbir up front they were on his side.

Dana glanced down at her recorder. “Do you mind if I record this?”

Sartain smiled agreeably. “Why not?”

Once they were inside, the door lock buzzed again, this time with the unnerving finality of a sprung trap. Ranbir escorted them down a dim hallway, past one shuffling patient who avoided their gaze, mumbling to himself as if completely unaware of them. The disturbed faces of other patients, some with clinical escorts, many behind barred doors, flashed by them, frozen moments of fear and confusion, hope and resignation, agitation and resentment. Dana paused briefly, caught by the sight of a patient with unkempt hair, his lips pulled back from yellowed, uneven teeth. He grimaced and squirmed, plucking imaginary insects from his body and crushing them between his fingers before hurling them aside. In an endless loop, he muttered, “Too many, too many, too many…”

In a nearby room, a wizened old man sat in the corner, arms wrapped around folded legs, staring into the distance as he rocked back and forth with metronomic regularity.

Too many seemed lost in their own minds or trapped in an unwelcome reality. Unlike the needle of the nurse’s turntable, they hadn’t found the groove to move forward and knew only the hiss and crackle of not fitting in, of unfulfilled potential.

Dana pulled her attention back to Sartain’s voice, grateful she’d been recording him, so she could go back and listen to anything she might have missed. His accent, at least, helped her focus on his words. Raising the mic, she asked, “How long have you been working with him?”