Page 45 of Immersed
Fuck. No. Don’t react.
Asher straightened, stepping back to a professional distance. When he spoke again, his voice returned to normal—casual, collegial, completely innocent. “Let’s go find the others.”
The shift was so complete, so seamless, that Levi almost convinced himself he imagined the entire exchange. Almost. But his flushed skin and racing pulse told a different story.
This isn’t the same killer. Different scenario, different personality. He doesn’t remember what happened before.
Right?
15
Forgetting to Check for Traps
Thecorridorbeyondthepatient room stretched into darkness, wallpaper peeling in long strips. Levi’s flashlight beam swept across abandoned wheelchairs and rusted medical equipment, creating dancing shadows that made everything appear alive.
He maintained a careful distance from Asher, staying three steps behind as they navigated the debris-strewn hallway. Their footsteps echoed against cracked linoleum, punctuated by the occasional creak of settling wood.
Directional signs emerged from the gloom, painted arrows pointing toward different sections of the building. “Psychiatric Ward - East Wing.” “Medical Services - Central.” “Research Wing - North Corridor.
“Research Wing,” Asher said, studying the signs intently. “Tyler mentioned it on his building schematics. Near the front entrance, if I remember correctly.
“Research makes sense,” Levi agreed, forcing practicality into his voice. “If there’s information about what happened here, that’s where we’d find it.”
They followed the painted arrows, their flashlight beams revealing decades of neglect. Water damage had warped floor tiles into treacherous ridges. Ceiling tiles hung at precarious angles, threatening to crash down at any disturbance.
The Research Wing doors stood partially open, heavy metal barriers scarred with rust and impact marks. Beyond them, a laboratory stretched into shadow—glass-fronted cabinets lined the walls, filled with specimens floating in cloudy preservative fluid.
“Jesus,” Asher breathed, stepping into the room. “Look at this place.”
Vintage medical equipment dominated the space like monuments to forgotten science. An electroshock therapy machine squatted in one corner, its leather restraints cracked but intact. Surgical instruments filled display cases—bone saws, trepanation drills, lobotomy picks arranged with clinical precision.
Levi approached a cabinet containing labeled specimens. Brain tissue suspended in formaldehyde, cross-sections revealing internal structures. Human organs preserved in various states of dissection. Tags bore dates from the 1960s and patient identification numbers rather than names.
“This isn’t standard psychiatric research,” Levi said, photographing the specimens with his phone. “This is experimental research.”
At the far end of the lab, another door stood locked, a heavy deadbolt securing whatever lay beyond. Beside it, a filing cabinet had been secured with a padlock that hung loose and broken.
“Let’s see what they were hiding,” Asher said, approaching the cabinet.
The top drawer resisted their initial attempts, warped wood binding against rusted tracks. Asher positioned himself beside Levi, both of them gripping the handle.
“On three,” Asher said. “One, two—”
They pulled together, the drawer screeching open with the sound of tearing metal. Their hands brushed during the effort, Asher’s fingers warm against Levi’s knuckles. The contact lasted only seconds, but Levi felt electricity shoot up his arm.
Don’t. He’s just helping with the drawer. Nothing more.
Inside the cabinet, manila folders spilled out in disorganized heaps. Patient files dating back fifty years, some bearing official letterhead from the state psychiatric board, others marked with red stamps reading “EXPERIMENTAL” and “CLASSIFIED.”
Levi grabbed a handful of files, spreading them across a nearby examination table. The contents made his stomach turn.
“Treatment - reconstruction,” he read from one report. “Subject 47 showed remarkable resilience to standard lobotomy procedures. Recommend increased voltage and extended duration of direct contact ECT.”
Asher leaned over his shoulder, reading along. “Memory suppression protocols. Jesus, what were they doing to these people?”
The clinical detachment in the reports was horrifying—patients reduced to numbered subjects, their suffering documented with scientific indifference. One file contained before-and-after photographs, showing a young man’s gradual deterioration through multiple procedures.
“Look at this,” Levi said, pointing to a recurring signature. “Dr. Faine. The same name from the visitor log.”
