A history student is tasked with sorting through an abandoned asylum's archives. The asylum is rumored to be haunted, but Lena dismisses this as merely town folklore. When her research brings her to venture inside the asylum's walls, however, the fr...
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"The symbolism was impossible to ignore: a facade of care concealing a black hole of neglect." - This Way Madness Lies, by Mike Jay
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Donna-from-the-archives greets me in the yellow mouth of the hospital's office. It's morning, and the sun is drifting in at just the right angle through the window, painting everything behind her in warmth. She has short, greying hair and red-rimmed glasses, and she she motions me to come in and grab a seat at the mahogany centre-table. This office, opposite the asylum, had once been the home of its superintendent. Its former glory is stamped all over it still - chandeliers, frescoes on the walls, a grand staircase... It has every mark of a wealthy Victorian home - every inch of it carpeted, embellished, and frivolous.
An administrative office seems like an odd imposition onto this old mansion. Donna's archives have been relegated to what had once been the superintendent's study, complete with looming Victorian bookshelves and out-of-place bulky steel file cabinets. Donna's desk is a mess of thrown-about papers. All the other rooms, from what I can see as we pass by them and I try not to crane my neck too much, are all makeshift hodge-podges of old and new - steel and mahogany; briefcases and stained glass. I can tell the now-meeting-room was once a dining hall. The old bedrooms have been turned to offices, desks set against towering windows. And whatever is not being used has been left, as untouched as a time-capsule, in its original state.
Now, I'm not sure how to maneuver this as I sip my chamomile tea Donna's just whipped up for me. I'm not sure if I should bare my heart out raw with all the passion I've been storing for this project, or if I should play it calm and collected and indifferent. I choose the latter; I choose to treat this like a simple job I have to do - I have a feeling any acute interest in the documents that steps outside archival duties will be met with suspicion. I remember the circling security vehicles that one night Lex and I were here, and get this feeling in my gut that curiosity isn't a welcome virtue in these walls.
"Have you ever seen the asylum, dear?" Donna is smiling, it's a kind enough smile but one I feel she needs to force her muscles to make. You can tell people who frown a lot by how hard it is for them to stretch a smile. Always feels wooden and creaky when they do.
I look back behind us, out the front window that faces the asylum. "Well, yes..."
"Oh," she laughs, "not from the outside. I meant from the inside."
"No, then," I smile across the rim of my fancy teacup. "I wouldn't know how to visit it."
"Good answer. You wouldn't believe the number of break-ins we get," she shakes her head.
"I can imagine," I nod and hide the fact that I'm very envious indeed of those who have the guts to do it.
"Well, what do you say I give you a tour? You'll have to wear a mask, for the asbestos, but... Oh and no photos..."
