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

madness. Still, for several weeks after the accident, before she was moved, Queenie started saying bizarre things. Crazy things. Insane things. She started shouting that Anna did it. She accused her of murder. The staff laughed. Her family laughed when they visited at Christmas, the only day they came to the asylum. They never came back again, which suited everyone just fine. Everyone laughed at the mad woman making up insane claims about Anna. Who would believe her? Who could believe her? No wonder the woman was locked away, they said.

They all dismissed the nonsensical ravings of a mad woman, passing down the crazy story of Phillip and Queenie as an understated, duller story than Josephine or the Pig’s Blood or the other tales of Redwood.

I didn’t shrug it off. I cried a few tears. Because Phillip and Queenie, they gave me hope. They made me feel like it might all matter after all. That what I was doing and watching might matter, if just one person could escape this hell hole. Phillip’s murder and Queenie’s disappearance, though, made me feel depressed. Because it reminded me that the legends are true.

Redwood sucks you in and never truly spits you out.

I felt more trapped than ever that year, if that could ever even be possible.

Chapter Thirty

Ihad to see him. There was no getting around it. Even if it meant getting fired, I needed to see him again, if not to solve the mystery than to assuage my fears. But how could I possibly get into 5B without Anna stopping me? When my shift ended, I drove down the foggy road on the Redwood property. I didn’t go home. I parked my car in a parking lot a few blocks away, tucked inconspicuously behind a strip mall of cafes and the post office. Then, I began the careful trek back to Redwood and hopefully the answers I needed.

I crossed easily in the early morning light toward the property, the dense forest daunting before me. My body ached from the night’s work, but my mind was the more painful aspect of myself. It whirled around images of the kids, of the yellow girl, of everything that had transpired. I pushed back a strand of hair, wondering if I would even recognize my own reflection if I looked in a mirror. Could a blackened soul be spotted in the reflective glass? I wasn’t sure.

The iron gate seemed to beckon me forward at the front of the asylum property, but I knew it was too risky. I could be spotted, and then I’d be done for. I already knew my days were probably numbered at Redwood, and it was probably for the best.

My shoes squeaked in the dewy grass as I edged to the side of the property. The iron fence was still intimidating, but I knew what I had to do. I mustered up strength and a bit of wily resolve, stepping up on the bottom rung of the iron fence. The pointy top mocked me, and I pictured myself falling onto the spike, bleeding out on the edge of the property while Redwood drank me in. Shuddering, I murmured an inadequate prayer and hoisted myself upward, balancing precariously on the dampened top rung before heaving myself over the pointed top. I fell in a heap on the deviled ground, the dark energy surging through my veins as though the earth here was different, was malicious. Was deadly.

Standing slowly like an aching, elderly woman, I assessed the damage. I was in one piece. The spikes hadn’t killed me. But as I looked toward the direction of the stone asylum, the dense forest smothered me. I felt claustrophobic yet paradoxically unrestrained in the leafy, wet forest around me. It was silent, the soft morning light splotching against certain branches in a not-quite-ethereal way. I inhaled, trudging forward. My work was just beginning, and I was so tired already.

Dread careened into my chest as I forced myself forward. My feet crunching the foliage beneath them was the only sound. Still, as I edged through the maze of trees, I felt the familiar feeling: I wasn’t alone.

I steadied my breathing, my hands feeling along against the branches as I made the trek onward, toward the stone coffin that so many were trapped in. I longed for the feel of the cold wall underneath my fingers, for the noisy screams in the halls of the prison-like building.

My skin prickled as I heard footsteps approaching behind me. Heart racing, I paused, leaning on the scratchy bark of the nearby tree. My fingers felt a smooth carving. I glanced over, my finger tracing the number three. I didn’t have time to ponder it, however; the footsteps stopped and then started once more. I turned to face what I felt was certainly my impending doom.

He stood here, tall and gangly. The gaping hole on his face oozed with mud, with earthworms, with blood. His masculine body was marred by clods of dirt as if he’d been birthed from the earth itself. I backed against the tree as he moaned and groaned, worms swirling and twirling around his limbs.

I stood, appraising him for a moment. Wondering what it would take to release him even though I thought I knew. But how could I track him down? How could I make any of it sensical? I stood for a long moment, pity usurping my fear for a split second.

And then he was upon me.

I couldn’t breathe. Dirt clods pummeled into my open mouth, stifling my scream. I was choking and sputtering on dirt, the gritty texture clogging my throat and soaking up my spit, my voice, my life force. I looked up at the forest covering, longing to see the sun but only seeing the being above me. He strangled the life out of me as his moan drowned out my own thoughts. I would die alone in the forest, staring up at the sky. Who would find