Page 46 of Into the Dark

The old woman cocked her head and waited for him to continue.

“We asked Ethan earlier, but perhaps you know more about the site.” Might as well butter her up if he could. “Is there any way to get into the basement?”

“The elevator was the primary method, but of course it needs electricity to run,” she said.

Given how many times he’d seen well-maintained elevators break down at hotels, it probably wouldn’t work even if it hadelectricity. “All right, but what about before the elevator was installed? There must be a stairwell leading down somewhere. Certainly a coal chute to get fuel to the boiler.”

She lifted one elegant shoulder. “No doubt, but I have no more knowledge of the asylum than you do, Dr. Taylor. The owner didn’t mention anything about a basement when we spoke.”

Something flickered in her eyes—the shadow of a lie? No, that would be ridiculous—she wanted them to gather evidence, to succeed. He was imagining things.

“We’ll take a look around for a door to the basement while we’re in there,” Oscar said. “Maybe we missed it before, considering we weren’t actively searching. If not, we can go around the back of the building and look for a coal chute or cellar doors.”

They left the tent and walked back up the driveway toward the asylum. The moon had just risen, and its beams picked out the stark white paint on the clocktower. Or what was left of it, after the work of wind and rain stripped it off chip by chip.

As they climbed the stairs, Oscar came to a sudden halt and pointed his headlamp’s beam at the narrow glass window to the right of the door. Cracks reflected the light back unevenly. “Was that broken before?”

Nigel searched his memory but failed to come up with anything. “Maybe?”

“We can have Tina check our earlier footage,” Chris suggested.

Oscar shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I just couldn’t recall.”

Inside, the wallpaper drooped sadly, exposing the mildew-spotted plaster. The big splotch of mold seemed to have grown exponentially, and Nigel tried to remember if it had been thatbig when they came in earlier that evening. How fast did mold grow, anyway?

Well, unless it was some kind of ghost-mold, it didn’t make any difference. They passed through the security door into the first ward, then stopped.

“What’s the plan?” he asked Oscar.

Oscar paused for a moment, considering. “The chute ghost seems restricted to communicating through taps. We need to talk to her eventually so I can help her move on, but for now, let’s try the ghost in the hydrotherapy tub. We got her EVP before, so she might be willing to use the spirit box.”

Nigel frowned. “Is that a good idea? She had a bad effect on you before.”

“I remember,” Oscar said with a shiver. “Believe me, I don’t want to go through that again. I’ll offer her some of our extra batteries to draw from if she needs energy, and ward myself against her.” He glanced at them. “If she tries to affect either of you, don’t hesitate to use your salt, all right?”

Nigel wasn’t entirely reassured, but it was Oscar’s decision. He nodded, as did Chris.

Oppressive silence wrapped them up as they trudged down the long wards, broken only by the crunch of decades worth of dirt and paint flakes beneath their boots. They shone their flashlights around, searching for what might be a door into the basement, but noticed nothing more than they had before.

The metal cage around the stairs groaned as they climbed to the second, then third floor. Yellow paint came away from the cold metal railing under Nigel’s hand, and he hastily wiped it away on his pants leg. A coughing fit took him halfway up, but he shook his head when Oscar asked if he needed help.

“I’m fine,” he croaked, though he gratefully accepted the water bottled Oscar passed him.

Chris looked at him with concern. “Are you sure you’re up to this, doc?”

“I’m sure.” Phlegm made his voice rough, so he took another swig of water.

Oscar’s brows drew down into a frown as Nigel passed the water bottle back to him. “I don’t like the sound of that cough. I’ll drive you to Weston tomorrow, find an urgent care clinic.”

Nigel shook his head vehemently. “We only have another couple of days here. I don’t want to waste our time driving around.”

“Your health isn’t a waste of time.”

The sentiment warmed Nigel, and he leaned against Oscar’s shoulder for a moment. “I’m not feverish. It’s just allergies.” At Oscar’s skeptical look, he said, “I promise I’ll let you know if I feel worse, all right?”

“Stubborn,” Oscar muttered, but he kissed Nigel on the forehead. “Fine.”

Nigel managed to make it up the next flight of stairs with no more debilitating coughing fits. The ward closed around them, not as utilitarian as the fourth floor, but without any of the bright paint or extra touches of the first two floors.

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