Project 17 (6 page)

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is too tempting to ignore. And so here I am, driving to Danvers crazy hospital, wondering if maybe I should turn around and just camp out someplace in my car for the night. But maybe it won't be so bad. I mean, once you subtract the whole spending-the-night-in-a-haunted-asylum factor, there are definite benefits to this trip. For one, there are going to be girls there. For another, those same girls are going to be scared. And third, scared girls + hard-up Chet = possible nookie.

What's it been, like, a year since I had a date?

The truth is the asylum has always intrigued me-- driving down Route 1, passing the local strip clubs, wishing I had a fake ID to actually get inside said local strip clubs. And then seeing the asylum peaks and steeples peeping up at the top of the hill. I remember the first time I saw it. I was at the mini-golf course in Middleton with some of my buds. All you saw ahead of you was this giant brick castle sprawled out in the distance at the top of a hill. I asked my friend what it was and he told me; only, he called it the witch's castle, claiming that the judge for the Salem witch trials used to live there--the guy who had all those people hung. Sometime after Judge Hathorne moved, they tore the house down and built the asylum. So it's almost as if, with a history like that, the place never stood a chance.

I drive down Route 62, noticing the hospital driveway on the left at the turnabout, but speeding past it. Mimi, who seems to know a little too much about the asylum if

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you ask me, says it's best to access the campus off the beaten path since cops are notorious for hanging around the entrance. So I take the exit for Route 1 South, remembering how Derik said that we should get to our meeting place between nine and nine thirty, rather than arriving all at once. It's a little after nine now, so I'm hoping I'm the first, hoping that maybe I can hide and then sneak up on Derik and the others and spook them all out, lighten the mood a bit, maybe--since I'm thinking they're going to need it.

I pull into the office park where we're supposed to meet, and drive around to the back of the buildings. The parking lot is mostly deserted except for a few cars, all empty--maybe a sparse night crew working at the electronics company. You can see the outline of the hospital from here--all the pointy steeples, like a creepy sort of church. There's a wooded hill that leads up to the place, but it's completely dark--like a horror movie about to happen.

I take a look at myself in the rearview mirror and try to calm myself down, to tame all my stupid cowlicks. Unfortunately, I inherited my father's curly orange hair. Unfortunately, I'm not exactly
GQ
material with my ghost-white face and freckly nose, and now the shiner I've got to top the picture off. But who knows, maybe one of these girls will have a soft spot (or two) for tall, banged-up, and funny.

Slicking my hair back as best I can with one hand, I

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stretch my brain cap over the crown of my head with the other. It's one of those second-skin bathing caps. It's got a picture of a brain on the top, making me look like a bald man with a lobotomy. I wore it last year to a Halloween party and pulled it out for tonight (among other party pleasers) since, for obvious reasons, it suits the occasion well.

A few minutes later, I spot a car pulling into the lot. It's Derik's--a dark blue Chevy truck. He backs in a couple cars down from mine, but he doesn't get out--just kind of sits there with his headlights shut off, engine halted, like he doesn't even know I'm here.

I grab my backpack and scoot out quick, hoping he doesn't spot me. I can see the shadow of him sitting there. Mimi's in there, too, sitting in the passenger side. The lights in the parking lot are anything but bright, but I'm still able to make out her kinky black hair.

I walk as slowly and quietly as I can toward the driver's side. Then I smack my palms against the window and let out a sickly moan--the victim of a lobotomy. I even lower my head so they can see the brains.

"What the hell are you doing, man?" Derik shouts, rolling down the window.

"What?" I ask, the smile melting off my face. I look at Mimi to see if maybe she has a sense of humor, but she looks just as peeved.

"Are you trying to get us bagged before we even get up there?" Derik asks. "Get that thing off your head. You're supposed to be wearing black."

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"I
am
wearing black," I argue, pulling a black knitted hat on over my brain cap.

Derik sighs and leans back in his seat, clearly stressed. He checks his watch. "Nine twenty," he whispers. "Where the hell is everybody?"

"Getting fitted for strait jackets," I joke.

But Derik doesn't appreciate my humor. "How 'bout I pop you in your other eye?" he says.

A few moments later, another car pulls into the lot. "This is probably them," Mimi says, pulling on a black ski mask. At first I think the mask is a joke--that she's on the same wavelength as me--but she doesn't even crack a smile.

Tony and Greta get out of their car, dudded out in black as well. Greta's got on a long black skirt with a black fur jacket that reminds me of Shithead, my cat.

"Are you gonna be able to climb in that outfit?" Derik asks her, stepping out of his truck.

"You said dark clothing," she says, in the deepest, huskiest voice I've ever heard come out of a girl. "And for your information, this skirt is Calvin Klein. As a filmmaker, you should be grateful that I took so much time with my wardrobe."

"I'll be grateful if you can get your ass up that hill," Derik says.

"You look amazing," Tony tells her, giving her butt a good rap.

"Are you sure? I mean, maybe the fur is overkill. No

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pun intended. I don't want those PETA people talking trash about me in some tabloid."

"Amazing,"
Tony chirps, a high-pitched voice like someone kicked him in the jewels. "Like a real A-lister."

Whatever that means, it totally perks Greta up. The girl snuggles up to his Slim Jim figure and purrs into his neck.

"Get a room," Mimi says.

"Preferably one with some shock equipment," I say. "Could add a real zap to the experience."

"Where's Liza?" Derik asks, ignoring my joke.

"She's with us," Greta says, pausing between purrs.

I look toward their car and notice a shadow moving in the backseat.

"Let's just say she's a tad bit nervous," Tony says.

"More like a basket case," Greta corrects. "This obviously wasn't a good idea for her."

Derik unzips his DV recorder from its case and turns it on.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

Instead of answering, he brings the recorder over to Tony's car. He knocks on the window, and Liza lets him in.

"That's really smart," Tony says, once Derik's inside. "Get the drama on film right from the get-go."

"Or the smut," I say, knowing full well about Derik's male-slut reputation (and envying it), wondering if Derik's trying at this very moment to capitalize on Liza's nerves. I mean, who would be that sketchy?

Um, I mean except for me.

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A few minutes later, Liza comes out. Her arms are folded and there's a worried expression across her face, her lips pursed together like she's on her way to have root canal or something. I'm half tempted to pull off my hat so she can see my lobotomy cap, thinking that it'll make her laugh. "Are you all right?" I ask instead.

Liza nods, but her eyes are focused on the hill--on how steep it is, maybe, or how the trees and brush look so thick.

"She's been doing some online research about the place," Derik tells us. He pulls a hooded sweatshirt from his bag and drapes it around her shoulders, totally stealing my game.

"The Internet can be a dangerous place," I say. "I once got so obsessed with female wrestlers, I couldn't stop surfing for pics--girls in headlocks, giving each other noogies, doing body slams, pulling each other's hair." I close my eyes and smile for effect, as though lost in the Land of Reminisce. "After a while I couldn't sleep at night, couldn't get my mind to shut off."

"More like you couldn't get Mr. Righty to shut off," Mimi says, gesturing up and down with her hand.

"Funny that you would automatically think of Mr. Wanky at a time like this." I wink. "Anything you need to tell me ... or show me?"

"Thanks for that image," Derik says.

But at least it makes Liza smile. And Mimi smiles too. I can see the corner of her mouth turn upward, even under that ski mask.

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***

The wooded hill that leads up to the hospital is just behind us. Derik gives us each a walkie-talkie and a head-mounted flashlight.

"This could be kinky," I say, pulling the flashlight cap-thing over my head, so that the beam angles out from my forehead.

We work our way up and sideways along the hill, fighting through branch-and-brush hell the entire way. The forest is thicker than I'd expect for March. Everything's still dead from winter, but that also means my various body parts are icing up. It's so
effing
cold up here, I just want to curl into a tiny ball.

We keep moving forward at a decent clip, Mimi in the lead with Derik close behind her, his camera propped atop his shoulder, ever eager for fruity footage. I'm in the back, following behind Liza, ready to swoop in and give her a shoulder-- or the body part of her choice--in case she needs it.

Nobody really says anything--not when we pass the first sign promising jail time and fines for all who trespass, and not when we pass the twentieth sign that promises the same thing. It seems we're already on hospital property. Apparently, according to Mimi--oh, wise one of haunted asylums--Danvers State spans five hundred acres of land. I press the speak button on my walkie-talkie and let out a couple Jason-from
-Friday-the-13th
grunts, a couple
che-che-che-heh-heh-heh's
to lighten the mood, but nobody seems to appreciate it.

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"Are you
trying
to get us caught?" Derik's voice plays through my speaker.

"I'm
trying
to make this interesting," I argue, wondering if everybody's sense of humor got extracted with the last lobotomy. At the same moment, a sharp branch scratches across my chin. "Crap!"

"Are you all right?" Liza asks, peeking back at me.

"Better now," I say, happy for her concern. Even happier that she's walking right in front of me, where I can score a good view of her lucky (for me) Seven jeans.

A good twenty minutes--and eighty scratches later-- and we finally make it up to the top. Derik, still filming, orders us to click off our headlights to avoid being seen, and then we sprint across what appears to be a meadow of sorts.

Until we finally get there. And see it. It's like a huge rush, and I have no idea why. I have no idea why I even care. I mean, the place is creepy to the fiftieth power. There are a couple of spotlights strategically placed about the grounds--for the patrol guys, no doubt--enabling us to get a decent view. The main building has wings that jut out on both sides, making it seem even longer. There are gables and steeples all over the main building that reach up into the sky, giving it a Gothic flair.

Standing at the edge of the campus, I look out onto the grounds, noticing the smaller, more modern-looking buildings scattered about--and how one of them is only a short distance away.

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Liza is practically shaking--from the cold or from nervousness, I have no idea. "How are you doing?" I ask her. "Do you want to borrow my scarf?"

I'm just about to take it off when I notice a spotlight blink over what appears to be a garden of overgrown deadness--dry and twisted trees, and walkways spilling over with bushes from hell. "Did anyone see that?" I ask, completely focused on the spotlight, on how it seems to be fully illuminated now.

"See what?" Tony asks.

I shake my head, deciding to just keep it to myself.

Even though the main building is still a good three hundred yards away, it seems so close. And I suppose it is. I mean, it's one thing to see this place from the back of a mini-golf course, when it's far enough away to crack jokes about shock treatments and straitjackets and not feel self-conscious doing it. But it's a completely different thing when it's sprawled out in front of you like a castle. When you probably shouldn't even be here, let alone say anything disrespectful.

Still, there's just something about this place that calls out to me, like it wants to invite me in. And I'm nuts enough to actually go.

I glance around some more, trying to see if I can spot any security guards anywhere, but the buildings and campus look pretty deserted, so I'm thinking they must be hanging out around the entrance off Route 62, on the opposite side of the building, Dunkin' coffee and crullers

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in hand, fighting to stay awake. I mean, how can a place so immensely huge be completely guarded by cops? Still, the idea of sprinting our sorry selves across an open lawn doesn't give me a warm and fuzzy feeling, either. I mean, we're bound to get bagged.

"We shouldn't be here," Liza whispers, before I can thwack a little sense into our tour guides.

"There's no turning back now," Mimi says, lifting her ski mask to just above eye level. She takes out her pocketknife, and for a second I think we're all done for, but then she orders us to stay put--all of us except Derik, who follows her with the camera to the building closest to us.

"This better be worth it," Greta says, straightening out her skirt. She's got the thing hiked up around her waist for trekking purposes, a pair of dark tights underneath.

"Just remember," Tony says, "a lot of self-respecting A-listers started out in horror films. Just look at Paris Hilton."

"You are not seriously comparing me to
her,
are you?"

Before Tony can answer, Mimi gives us the thumbs-up. "We're in," her voice plays through the walkie-talkie.

"Come on in," Derik's tells us. "But be quick and be quiet."

We go--some a bit more reluctantly than others. While Tony tries to soothe Greta, continuing his list of respectable actors in horror films, Liza is still shivering. I unravel the scarf from around my neck and go to hand it