Tragic Magic (16 page)

“Thanks for letting us participate,” said Carmela.

“Consider us thrilled,” said Ava, deadpan.

“Love to hear that,” giggled Mindy. “You gals got much experience with urban exploring?”

“Mostly in boutiques and bars,” said Ava. “And the occasional upscale hotel.” She put a hand on one shapely hip. “So . . . you look like you know your way around this place. You gonna be our guide?”

Mindy favored them with a gleaming, toothy smile. “There’s actually going to be three guides tonight for the asylum tour.” Mindy turned quickly and started up the front steps, fluttering a hand for them to follow. “So come on along and meet our group.”

“Okay,” said Carmela, thinking,
That’s why we’re here
.

Inside, Mendelssohn Asylum was cool, dark, and creepy. High ceilings lent a cathedral look to the reception area. Chipped marble floors, institutional green paint peeling from the walls, and bars on the front windows and across the far end of the reception area gave a distinctly prisonlike feel.

“So nice and homey,” remarked Ava, looking around with curiosity. “But without that overdone decorator look.”

“Love the grayish-green paint,” whispered Carmela. “What would you call that color? I mean, if you went to Home Depot and were asking for a paint swatch?”

“Mouse poop?” said Ava, as they joined the group of two dozen or so would-be explorers.

“Okay, everyone listen up,” said a tall, rangy man with shoulder-length blond hair. “We’re going to go over all the preliminaries for tonight.”

“That’s Elmer Coltrane,” Mindy told them in a stage whisper. “He’s club president.”

“We’ve got a couple of newbies joining us tonight . . .” Elmer Coltrane glanced at Carmela and Ava and nodded politely. “So we’re going to talk a little bit about safety, equipment, and who’ll be functioning as guides.”

Feet shifted, shoulders hunched forward expectantly, and an excited hum rose from the group gathered there. Most of the explorers wore black mesh multipocketed vests, khaki slacks, boots, and helmets, so it was hard to distinguish men from women and what the age spread might be. But Carmela had the impression that most of the group was in their twenties and thirties, with far more men than women. Two men who were diligently fiddling with strange-looking equipment looked to be in their forties.

“As we move through the asylum,” said Coltrane, “remember that apparitions don’t necessarily assume a human form. And that all your senses can be used to detect the ectoplasmic residue left behind by a spirit.”

“Huh?” said Ava.

“What I mean,” said Coltrane, “is that even clairambience, your ability to taste a spirit’s message, could come into play.”

“Yuck,” whispered Ava.

“Most of you already know Mindy Deerfield and Jimmy Fletcher,” continued Coltrane. “The three of us will guide
you in separate groups to hopefully maximize your personal urban adventure experience. In a few minutes we’ll pass out safety helmets for those of you who don’t have your own, as well as helmet cams for those who are interested and electromagnetic field detectors and infrared motion sensors for those who want to focus on spirit auras. Of course, safety is always our number one concern. We’ve secured permission to explore most of Mendelssohn Asylum, but as you might imagine, a few areas are off-limits because of structural damage. Other areas may be contaminated with spores or bird droppings, so wearing a mask is going to be critical.”

Mindy, ever helpful, held up a green surgical mask, the type that was commonplace in most hospitals.

“Spores,” muttered Ava. “What kind of spores?”

“I’m not sure we want to know,” said Carmela, accepting a mask and safety helmet from Mindy.

“You want to wear one of the helmet cams?” Mindy asked Ava.

Ava nodded eagerly, suddenly won over. “Really? Sure!” Then she turned to Carmela. “I get to wear a helmet cam, how cool is that?”

“See?” said Carmela. “This tour might redeem itself after all.”

“I think you might be right,” said Ava, buckling the safety strap under her chin.

“Oh, you’re gonna love it,” Mindy assured them, giving an excited shudder. “I mean, it’s all so exciting. Can’t you just feel the energy and vibrations? Even in this old reception area where poor tortured souls were turned over to the care of professionals.”

“I think Mindy grew up here, don’t you?” said Ava in a whispered aside to Carmela. Carmela nodded, barely holding in her laughter.

Once the helmets, cameras, flashlights, electromagnetic detectors, and recording devices had been distributed, turned on, and tested, Elmer Coltrane led them down a long
hallway and into an old chapel. Pews and kneelers had long since been stripped out, but medieval-looking light fixtures, obviously nonfunctioning, dangled overhead, and a rough wooden crucifix tilted on one wall.

The club president cleared his throat. “Before we go any farther, I’d like you all to gather in a circle.” Everyone slowly complied as Mindy scurried about, handing out tiny white vigil lights. “As you all know,” continued Coltrane, “Melody Mayfeldt was a dearly loved member of the Restless Spirit Society. She was a true believer in the great beyond, and we honor her now, with the firm belief that Melody has gone on before us to pierce that veil of mystery we can only hope to fleetingly glimpse.” He bowed his head. “She is our fallen comrade.”

Boots grated on cement as throats were cleared and candles lit.

He continued. “For those of you who would like to attend Melody’s funeral, it will be held tomorrow morning in Lafayette Cemetery. I can’t think of a more fitting or beautiful place to be laid to rest. And now . . . a moment of silence.”

Everyone bowed their head.

Carmela, finding the bobbing of the headlamps and the tiny white candles slightly disconcerting, peered out from beneath her helmet at the Restless Spirit membership. Melody may have been a beloved member, she decided, but was there someone in this group who hadn’t found her quite so beloved? Someone who’d been jealous of Melody’s role in the organization? Someone who’d made a pass at Melody and been angered at her rebuff? Someone who was young, reckless, and disreputable and found out Melody had owned a fancy French Quarter jewelry store?

Carmela knew there were as many possibilities as there were people here. The thing she had to do was watch, listen, and maybe ask a few questions. Just like any good investigator would.

After a few minutes, candles were snuffed out and a ripple of excitement ran through the ghost hunters.

“Whose group do you want to be in?” Carmela whispered to Ava.

Ava rolled her eyes. “I’d rather not pair up with the cheerleader.”

“So maybe . . . Jimmy Fletcher’s group?” said Carmela. She grabbed Ava by the elbow and edged over toward him.

“He looks like a college professor,” said Ava. “So maybe we’ll learn something.”

Fletcher
did
look like a professor, Carmela decided, even with the gray T-shirt that proclaimed
Ghost Hunter
. He was in his midforties and slightly balding, but he possessed sparkling eyes and a pleasant smile.

“I guess we’re with you,” Ava told Fletcher, batting her eyelashes in a not-so-subtle manner.

Fletcher just smiled knowingly and handed her a small digital voice recorder with a directional microphone, which she promptly passed on to Carmela.

And then they were off, their group heading down a long, dark corridor with just flashes of light from their helmets to show the way.

Fletcher wasn’t a bad guide. He’d obviously read up on the history of Mendelssohn Asylum and was able to talk knowingly and with authority. He led them into small, shabby rooms and individual monastic cells that inmates had once called home. A few remnants of padded mattresses still clung to these walls and exuded a pungent, unpleasant smell. The occasional skittering of mice made Carmela wish she’d worn boots so she could tuck in her jeans.

“Here we find the stone staircase that takes us down to the basement hydrotherapy rooms,” said Fletcher. “The individual treatment rooms, which are also located down here, will probably look more like torture chambers to today’s more sympathetic eye.”

Rough stone steps spiraled down into the ground. Even though the building was cool, dampness clung to their bodies and seemed to soak into their clothing.

“As you can see,” said Fletcher, “two different pools were located down here. Water therapy was often used in an attempt to shock patients back into their right mind. Obviously, images of Chinese water torture or witch dunking at Salem come to mind, since most poor souls were unable to complain or refuse treatment.”

Carmela and Ava edged their way past a long-empty pool and down a hallway, then followed the group into one of the private treatment rooms. A metal table stood in the center. Four-inch straps of rotting leather were bolted to the top, middle, and bottom. These were straps used to hold the head, arms, and legs of the patient. In the eerie white light from the helmets, the table looked cold and violent. A pile of rotting sheets lay at one end.

“Anyone want to try out the table?” Fletcher asked.

The group took a collective step back.

He chuckled. “I thought not.”

Carmela glanced around. Dripping water seemed to add to the atmosphere of dread and helplessness. A heavy pressure seemed to surround them. Maybe . . . maybe there really was something to this restless spirit thing?

“It’s been said,” began Fletcher, “that many people feel like they’re being buried alive as they walk these halls. Some say it’s departed souls who are trying to warn visitors to flee.”

“I’m ready to cut and run to the nearest bar,” said Ava in a stage whisper.

There were a few nervous giggles, and then Jimmy Fletcher held up an index finger. “At this juncture, might I suggest we split into groups of two and utilize our various devices and electromagnetic detectors? This is the time and probably the place to try to determine if any spirits are present.”

Carmela raised a hand. “What exactly is an electromagnetic detector?”

“Exactly what its name implies,” said Fletcher. “It detects magnetic fields. And if it registers strong, erratic pulses, we know there’s definite activity.”

“What kind of activity?” asked Ava.

“Ghostly,” said Fletcher in a slightly ominous tone.

“T
HIS is just awful,”said Carmela. Her flashlight played across the walls of several more treatment chambers. Some had bars on the doors, while others had small sliding windows that had allowed staff to surreptitiously peek inside. Each door looked to be almost five inches thick. They definitely meant business down here.

“I keep expecting to see shackles and chains hanging from the walls,” whispered Ava.

“They probably had those at one time,” said Carmela. “Then modernized . . . to this.”

“From the Tower of London all the way up to the Spanish Inquisition,” said Ava. “Imagine that.” She slapped her hand against the side of her helmet, startling Carmela.

“What?” said Carmela.

“Just making sure my helmet cam’s on,” said Ava. “You got your recorder on?”

Carmela gazed at the tiny green screen on her handheld unit. “It’s on. In fact, it’s been on for the last ten minutes.
Probably the only thing I’m gonna pick up is station WRNO. Or my irregular heartbeat.”

“Maybe,” said Ava, “we need to descend into the bowels of this place to discover its true psychic source.”

“You make it sound so enticing,” said Carmela.

“You know what I mean,” said Ava, pointing down a dark corridor. “Down in the boiler room or maybe even the morgue. Since this place is . . . was . . . a hospital, there has to be a morgue.”

Carmela frowned. The whole notion made her jumpy. “I
suppose
it should be down here somewhere.”

Together, shoulders touching, the two women edged down the passageway. Dirt and glass crunched underfoot, and water oozed from zigzag cracks in the walls.

“This remind you of anything?” asked Ava.

“You mean like Medusa Manor?” asked Carmela. “Maybe a little, but Medusa Manor is Disneyland compared to this place.”

“This place is definitely hardcore,” agreed Ava.

“I was reading on the Restless Spirit Society’s Web site,” said Carmela, “that buildings can take on and retain a sort of physical imprint of violence that occurred there.”

“Like psychic footprints,” said Ava.

“Something like that,” said Carmela.

“And the air, too,” said Ava, sniffling. “It’s like mold and bleach with a faint smell of blood and urine. Like hopeless-ness and desperation all melded together.” Ava stopped abruptly and clutched Carmela’s arm. “Oh my Lord!”

“What?” said Carmela, turning toward Ava and momentarily blinding her with her light.

“I’m almost positive I stepped on a dead body!”

Carmela took a deep breath, then aimed her beam of light at the floor. A dirty, lifeless doll lay in a crumpled heap beneath Ava’s feet. “Take it easy, it’s just a doll,” Carmela told her.

Ava let loose a sigh as she glanced quickly down at it, then kicked it out of her way. “Gettin’ jumpy.”

Gazing back at the rag doll, Carmela wondered how it got there, who it had belonged to. Dropped, perhaps, by some little girl on her way to treatment? The black eyes of the doll stared, vacant and accusing. Carmela shuddered.

“Cold?” asked Ava. “Want to turn back?”

“Maybe we—” began Carmela, but the rest of her words died instantly. The green screen of her directional microphone had suddenly come alive, crackling and jumping like mad. “Ava, I’m picking something up!”

“On your recorder? You mean like voices?”

“Something,” said Carmela. She focused on the eerie green light and watched, fascinated, as it spiked and peaked.

“Maybe voices of former inmates,” Ava said in a hushed voice.