The Redwood Asylum: A Paranormal Horror by L.A. Detwiler (recommended reading txt) 📕

for the Ambridge Farm. You know that one? It’s about ten miles past the edges of Oakwood in a town called Littleton. He worked long hours there. He was rarely home. I used to have trouble sleeping, and many nights, I’d watch out the window and see him coming home late. Very odd, I thought. He worked at the farm for a good while, up until the night he went crazy.”

“And did he ever get in any trouble? With the law, I mean?” I prodded, thankful to be getting a fuller picture of 5B.

“Not that I know of. I mean, he was questioned for the Anthony Ambridge murder, of course. But so was most of the town. That boy disappeared without a trace, like he vanished.”

“Wait, what?” I asked, ears perked up. “When was that?”

“Oh, about fifteen years ago now. Yeah, he was only eleven when he disappeared. Poor family. They’ve never been right since then.”

“But the police cleared Essic?”

“Oh yes. They cleared most of the town. But other than that, no, I don’t think he ever had any run-ins that I saw. Until that night, what, fourteen years ago now? I think that’s how long it’s been. Anyway, it was a scary night. He was out on the front lawn talking to someone. Little Red, Little Blue, he was shouting. A few others, too. It was bizarre. I was so scared. I woke my husband up, and we called the police. I thought he was on drugs or something. But apparently it was even worse because now he’s at Redwood. And you don’t go to Redwood for just a few drugs, as you know.”

I settled back into my chair, my mind racing over the information as Emily Landing proceeded to tell me about her cat that she used to have and talk about the weather. I smiled and nodded, but I was absorbed. Anthony Ambridge. Could 5B have had something to do with him after all?

I still didn’t have a lot of information, but I had something to go off of. Feeling a bit like a detective from one of those thriller movies, I eventually thanked Emily for her time.

“Don’t be a stranger. Come back now,” she instructed, and I promised I would.

But first, I had another place to visit. The sun was already setting by the time I left Oakwood Nursing Home. I thought about trying to track down the farm, but I knew it was too late. It would have to wait. I stood outside of the pristine building a moment longer, looking into the horizon. I didn’t want to go home, shuddering at the thought of the kids showing back up. I dug at my ear, remembering the worm.

Still, I felt hopeful thanks to Emily. I had a start on the case. I had to keep going.

When I got home, I headed to my desk to jot down notes. Then, I turned, and, into the emptiness of the apartment, I whispered, “I’ll find you. I will.”

There wasn’t an answer, but something told me that maybe it was enough. Maybe I could make it be enough. Maybe it would all soon be over.

The Pig’s Blood

Over the decades, there have been the staff with ill-wishes for the residents at Redwood. There have been a few kind-hearted souls who have graced the halls and made things slightly better for some of the vulnerable. And then there have been the staff who have their heart perhaps in the correct place but have misguided ideas of treatment and helping. Such is the case when the staff you hire are not always the most qualified for the position. Furthermore, the higher powers of the asylum do not look kindly on interference of any kind in their business. For make no mistake; Redwood may have started with supposedly good intentions to help those with mental unrest, but it was and always will be a profitable institution. Money, after all, guides so many human decisions, does it not? Redwood Psychiatric Hospital is no exception, as you have likely discerned by now.

Thus, last year, when Jack Worthers, a janitor hired despite his less-than-stellar record and his wobbly hands, decided to meddle, the powers that be did not take kindly to his interference with the residents.

Jack started out strong at Redwood. He was quiet, backwards even. He met all of the golden requirements of the institution: no family to speak of, little opportunity, and a socially awkward demeanor that meant he would have few to spread gossip to about the halls of Redwood. Discretion is valued, of course, by the owners and by the families. No one wants to appear in a television special about the horrific families who lock up their families in the stone walls, and the higher powers certainly do not need an investigation on their funding. There are layers of protection in place, and the careful selection of staff is crucial.

Jack spent six months in the quiet peace of conducting his job, of turning a blind eye to the various procedure rooms and the screams. He did not ask questions. He did not snoop where he was not wanted. He mopped the floors, including the puddles from the Drowning Girl, without so much as a raised eyebrow.

Until he came across a teenage boy on floor two. The son of a prominent celebrity who was stowed away in Redwood after arsonist tendencies and volatile hallucinations, this boy became a figure of interest to Jack. Some say it is because Jack at one time played father to a boy who looked like this resident. Some say that the boy’s hallucinations simply got to Jack. Others claim Jack was never quite right in the first place.

Whatever the case, around midnight six months into his job at Redwood, Jack was caught in the boy’s room on floor two forcing blood down a resident’s throat. Pig’s blood, to be exact, which was extracted from a slaughtered sow at The Edgar’s Farm, twenty