Page 62 of Into the Dark

Montague didn’t shriek back, but she seemed to crumple. “Please. Allow me to help Doctor Taylor, if I can.” She glanced at Dr. Lawson. “Since, as we’ve discussed, this is my fault.”

Ethan returned in under a minute, carrying a neatly folded black hoodie in his hands. As he shook it out, Oscar saw parts of it were stiff from some old stain that didn’t show up against the black cloth.

“This belonged to the ghost hunter who died here,” Montague said. “Kyle McIntosh. His parents preserved all of hispossessions, including this. When they died, the lot went to a cousin, who put it all in a storage unit.”

“Like your dad did with his parents’ stuff, Oscar,” Chris said. “I used to hate storage places, but now I’m starting to change my mind.”

Oscar stared at the old hoodie. The stains on it were almost certainly Kyle’s blood. “Why?” he asked Montague. “You didn’t even want to tell us about his death.”

“I’d intended to reveal it later.” The translucent skin of her hands tightened over her knuckles as she gripped her cane. “Assuming you were able to contact him in the first place. I imagined some artifact belonging to him might come in useful during a seance.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Of all the ghosts here—if he does still linger—he’s the one who’s most likely to understand what you’re trying to accomplish. He may have no knowledge beyond what he possessed in life, but if he does know where the original basement entrance is…”

Oscar sucked in a breath. “That’s a lot of assumptions and maybes, given Nigel’s life is on the line.”

Montague looked away. “I know. But it’s all I have to offer.”

Oscar stared at the bloodstained hoodie. Tina came up beside him and put a tentative hand on his arm.

“I know it isn’t much,” she said. “But what other choice do we have?”

Every second that slipped past was another second Nigel might be in danger. If this didn’t work, if they were wasting their time…

Then what? As Tina had said, what other options did they have?

“All right.” He took the hoodie from Ethan. “Let’s give it a try.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

Oscar ledthe way back to the asylum. Lights from their headcams and flashlights cut through the night, revealing the tall grass and overgrown trees, their leaves shivering in a steady wind. The clockface in the tower above glowed a sickly green; one of the hands loosened and fell away even as they approached.

Their walkie-talkies crackled, and Tina’s voice sounded. “Something’s going on inside on the static cams. The paint is really falling off the walls all of a sudden, and some of the plaster is following it.”

“Is the whole place coming apart?” Adrienne wondered. She didn’t suggest they turn back.

Oscar took his walkie-talkie out of the holster and depressed the button. “Thanks for the heads-up, Tina. Keep an eye out for out us. Over.”

The front door stood open, even though Oscar was certain they’d closed it after giving up the search for Nigel earlier. Pouring as much energy into his wards as he could, he went up the steps and passed inside.

Most of the wallpaper had peeled away in diseased strips. Rot crawled along the exposed plaster and mushrooms sproutedbetween the floorboards. The air smelled like a sick room: pus and unwashed bodies, combined with a whiff of gangrene.

The splotch of mold on the wall had grown and filled in, forming the shape of a man. Dr. Wilkes, or one of his victims?

He came to a halt when their lights found the elevator. It stood open, as if beckoning them to enter.

“Um, wasn’t that closed before?” Zeek asked nervously.

“It was,” said Adrienne, “and no, we’re not getting on the damn thing so it can plummet into the basement with us.”

Nigel was in trouble. He needed Oscar to find him. It would be so much easier to get on the elevator than go on what might amount to nothing more than a wild-goose-chase after a dead ghost hunter.

But the sense of menace rolling out from the elevator set Oscar’s teeth on edge. One way or another, he felt certain it was a trap.

Even so, it was hard to turn away from it and take the stairs up to the third floor. The northern wing was a mirror image of the women’s wards, the long hall seeming to deteriorate before their eyes when they entered. Threads of mold crawled all over the walls and ceiling, and the doors hung half-off their hinges. The hardwood floor groaned under their feet, and Oscar had the horrible image of it giving way and plunging them all into the basement below.

Yellow paint flaked from the steel mesh protecting the nurse’s station at the end of the first ward, revealing great swathes of scabrous rust. The abandoned chair looked as though a body had rotted in it, the upholstery stained with brown fluids.

“The doctor’s influence is certainly pervasive,” Dr. Lawson remarked, which was an understatement if Oscar had ever heard one. He’d tried to convince her to stay behind with Montague, Ethan, and Tina, but she’d flatly refused to let them go after Nigel without her.

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