Witness and Worship | An Outlast Document

Chapter Two ❖ The Calling

At first I'm compelled to knock on the door, to ask who it is, to say that we're here to help. Except I'm not here to help at all, I'm here because I'm a stupid nosy teenager with a vague, paper-thin story about wanting to see if my brother's all right, so I stand back and let Miles do the talking instead.

He knocks quietly. "Hello? Who's in there?" he asks. "Are you a patient, or an executive? We're not going to hurt you."

No answer, just the uncertain sobs of someone hiding in the bathroom. The door's locked, anyway, so if they don't want help, there's nothing we can do.

In fact, the only door here not locked leads to a small staff kitchen. There's a soda machine - I'd kill for a coke right now - a sink beside which sits what looks like a piece of intestine or windpipe or something, and a vent. Above it a crimson stain drips onto the floor, except it's not the floor but a slope of plywood that looks like it's been torn from one of the barricades, and Jesus Christ, who could bleed so much it's soaking through from the floor above?

I blindly follow Miles as he hauls himself up into the vent. It's dark - great observation, Carmen, your photography teacher would have an aneurysm - and creaks badly as we crawl through. The right is blocked off, leaving us no other choice than to go left.

There's a loud crash just below us, making me jump again. Christ, give a girl a heart attack at seventeen, why don't you?

" - Rider! Not again!"

Miles peers through the metal grate, the camera held up to his eye. I edge a little closer so I can see what's going on, though I'm not sure I want to. Someone comes barrelling out of the bathroom, screaming bloody murder. Then he turns, and I hold my breath as he looks directly into the vent. He sees us. He knows we're here.

"No!" he screams, then spins around and locks himself back in the bathroom.

I'm a little spooked but more confused and concerned. Why is a patient allowed to be running around like that? He's clearly not entirely in control of his faculties. But was he even allowed out at all? I decide not to dwell on it, telling myself I can ask those kinds of questions later. Preferably to the relevant personnel, preferably when I won't get in trouble for raising my voice just a bit when demanding what the hell is going on with the lethal force clearly being used on patients.

The vent continues on for a few more feet before Miles drops down into the room below.

"You're all right?" he says, turning back to help if needed. "You can get down?"

"I'm not twelve," I reply. I dangle my legs over the edge of the vent and jump down, stumbling a little as a shock goes up my calves. "Woah! I'm OK, I'm sweet."

We've landed in a small corridor, almost like a balcony that leads to the rest of this floor. A pane of frosted glass obscures our view over the edge, but I can see blobs of color that make it obvious we're standing above the main reception area. That's where we want to go when we leave. It's where we would have ended up, had the doors not been locked.

"Careful not to break your ankle, yeah?" Miles smiles grimly. "Which way do you want to go?"

There's a door to our left. Through the glass, I see a long corridor, an elevator and a few flights of stairs. That must be the main hallway to the rest of the asylum. To our right someone's piled furniture up so high it's almost over my head, and next to that there's a room labelled Library.

"Uh... somehow the barricade is less appealing," I say.

Miles agrees. Except when he tries the door out to the stairwell, it's locked.