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

at risk. Before that, though, family portraits were a common practice in the prestigious family.

The larger-than-life portrait that graces the foyer walls on the ground floor is in dull shades of browns and greens, a muddied look. The family is wearing shades of dark blue. It greets everyone who walks inside the main entrance. In the portrait, there’s a woman in a Victorian outfit. She wears frilly black lace around her neck, a stern look, and a monstrous hat. She sits on a park bench beside a pram and a little girl. The girl is smiling ear to ear, her bouncy, wild curls the only piece of fun in the picture, the only piece that feels real. A lanky boy stands behind the bench, his suit crisp. He wears the stoic face of a teenage boy who already knows he’s elite.

Underneath the enormous painting is a plaque honoring the founder of Redwood, Francis Weathergate, the lanky teen in the photograph. It is his younger sister, Claudette, the girl with the wild curls, who prompted his building of the stone, castle-like dwelling on the outskirts of the town of Oakwood. When construction was done and Claudette was securely in her room on the top floor where she could see out into the forest, Francis had the painting installed. He said it was his favorite—some speculated it was because their father, Joseph Weathergate, was absent. Some say it is because of Claudette’s happy smile.

Claudette’s residence in the top floor of the building is also marked by a plaque outside of room 5B. The asylum has been modernized and updated through the decades. New locks, new features, a computer system have been put in. Still, many of the rooms—or cells, depending on which side of the locked doors you reside—remain the same. The stone walls in the B wing are the same walls Claudette would have touched as she was escorted back from her surgery that helped with her nervous condition—a condition that caused her to stab her father and accuse him of sexual irregularities. The surgery, of course, righted those wrongs, to the family’s relief. Wouldn’t do for a prominent family to have scandalous, reputation-killing remarks made about them from a daughter who was clearly mad.

The portrait hangs as a reminder of a brother’s love, at least if the inscription is worthy of belief. Francis Weathergate remained at Redwood for the duration of Claudette’s stay through 1848 when an unfortunate accident ended with her falling out a fifth-story window in the asylum, her tediously treated brain splattering on the ground below. It seems an unwelcome coincidence that Mrs. Weathergate was visiting Claudette on the same day and that Francis happened to be at a board meeting for one of his investments. The newspapers of the time left that out, but the oral history has been passed down, staff to staff to staff.

Still, the current staff of Redwood swear that if you stand in front of the painting long enough, you’ll see a tear fall from Claudette’s eye, a true paradox considering the bright smile. The newbies are always shown this relic and told the story, but only after they’ve proven they’re going to stick around for a while and are hearty enough to handle the going ons in Redwood’s walls. It is hard enough to find help at Redwood, after all.

A single tear falling from a painting might be sad and alarming, but not terrifying. Claudette, some say, was freed by her fall. She was never a vengeful woman, anyway. And Francis made sure there was no ill treatment of his sister. As the decades passed, however, there was no watchdog to keep an eye on the standards, and some wicked hands made their way into the asylum.

Not all occurrences, therefore, are as simple and pitiful as a tear falling. Some of the spirits that walk the halls are much angrier than Claudette. Some have a score to settle. And some will take revenge on anyone or anything they can.

Chapter Four

While Anna talked at the man in 5B, I studied the drawings on the table in the corner of the room. The surface was fastened to the wall, more like a shelf. But all over the top were pieces of paper, drawn in crayon. They looked like the drawings of a child with all of their fantastical elements and colors—reds, blues, browns, and pinks lit up the stark, thin paper in way that was mesmerizing.

However, it was also terrifying. As I leaned closer to the drawings, I discerned the eerie details I had missed at first glance. The blue drawing with puddles and raindrops looked serene from a distance. Up close, though, one could see a severed hand floating, and it was in exquisite detail for being a crayon drawing. The red drawing featured eyeballs in puddles of blood and what appeared to be a child with a nearly severed head. The brown drawing hid a skull and crossbones design throughout the trees and limbs. All about, each drawing was filled with images of childhood—lemonade and dancing dogs and sunshine. But interspersed were horrifying images that sent a shudder through the observer.

Each drawing was done in only one color, but there were multiples of each, as if they’d been silk screened. The ones on the corner were a frenzy of scribbles in black with large Xs and skulls.

“Therapy,” Anna replied when I looked at her questioningly. She was helping 5B change. His eyes were vacant and glassy, but they were somehow still focused on me. I squirmed in discomfort, feeling badly for staring at the drawings and for talking about him like he wasn’t even there.

“The drawings?”

She nodded in response. “After his treatment last year, he started saying concerning things. Dr. Righthound thought it might help us understand him. Started it last year. Of course, pencils were out of the question, so we went with crayons. We let him draw with the crayons when he’s feeling agitated.