Page 62 of Insane Obsession

December 25, 2024

- 2 years later -

“Welcome to Saint James’s Asylum for Women.”

Sweeping open the door, I welcome the group of tourists. Some of them carry the book I published about the DiSanti Massacre. They all hold a flashlight and have a thoughtful gaze that does little to hide their trepidation.

They’re in for quite the ride.

When the last person comes through, the door clangs shut with that unnatural bang. The first yelps already echo through the dark corridor.

The first of many to come, I’m sure.

I gaze up at the camera that’s placed in the top corner and smile at the secret audience lounging in the basement. A shiver of need teases my insides.

“We all react differently to fear. This tour is scary, it’s why you signed up for it. However, if it gets to be to much and you need an out, simply follow the green emergency exits. It’sone of the few alterations we gave the building. You can always leave.” I look around, making sure to catch each and every gaze. “Always.”

“How long do people usually last?” An older woman asks.

I try my best to swallow the chuckle that bubbles to the surface. “It takes us twenty minutes to climb down the stairs and visit the isolation room where Laura DiSanti was held. So far, no guest has seen that place.”

“Wow,” someone mouths.

“Exactly. Now, you’ve all signed the terms and conditions that are part of this visit. Saint James truly is haunted, and not just by a troubled past. Things happen here. Creepy things. So be careful with what you film, because this place is not for the faint of heart.” I smile at a guy with an old-fashioned camera. It’s similar to the one I used the first time I came here, two years ago.

The group chuckles.

“No one is changing their mind? Then switch on those lights and let’s go.”

Lights flicker around as we slowly move forward.

“Don’t linger in the rooms,” I warn. “Because you might just end up getting locked in.”

Another wave of nervous smiles.

Soon, they’ll be begging to get out.

“Do we also get to go upstairs to visit the bedrooms?” The guy with the camera asks. His glasses are crooked.

“We can. If you’re still with me.”

I’ve barely finished my phrase when a light pangs at the end of the hall. People panic and shine their flashlights around. There’s nothing to see.

“Stay with me, and you’ll be fine,” I chuckle. “This ghost is rather fond of me.”

This time, no one laughs.

Signing with my light, they follow me closely. “On the ground floor, we find hobby rooms and the kitchens,” I explain. “Over the past two years, we have discovered a lot in this place, but there still are—and probably always will be—secrets.” I glance at the moving rocking chair and smile.

“In your book, you mention that Laura DiSanti wrote in her diary that she felt misunderstood,” the young guy asks.

“Absolutely. She felt like a victim for being sentenced here. While really, she had committed no crime.”

“What about the baby?” Someone asks.

“We believe the baby died in childbirth.”

“Who was the father?” The guy asks.

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