A Personal Haunting

Renovators had preserved the integrity of the building’s outside brick. The Ionic columns were spot on, Jack explained. The columns that extended three stories high were set evenly across the 25-foot spans in either direction. Still, I could only think of the souls who were stripped of all their dignity once they passed through the heavy double doors.

Cameras around our necks, Jack and I explored the abandoned places in our part of America. On other adventures, we entered empty concert halls where we pictured dashing gentlemen in coattails escorting fashionable ladies in finery. We had waltzed through grand ballrooms to fanciful music that only played in our heads. We crouched, stretched, and twisted for the best angles to capture light bouncing off rusted machinery in long-closed factories.

This was different. The place never had glamour. This place was tucked away in the mountains far from horror-stricken stares. It rarely kept its promises of better lives someday. Unknown to Jack, it also had a personal grip on me. He did not know that meds protected my own freedom from places like this, not Prozac, which would be cliché. Our four-month relationship hadn't gone that far. So, when he asked if I was up for a photo shoot at this old hospital, I said yes just to keep my secret. He explained that we had to check it out before the interior work turned halls that once housed mental patients into luxury condos, marketed for mountain vistas in a cloistered community.

Jack shoved a door with his shoulder. Its rotted, dried-out wood scraped across the stone floor inside, sounding like fingernails on a chalkboard times one hundred. I strained my neck to see the vaulted ceiling above walls in hospital green. Giant, scratched, chipped apostles of wood guarded the entry to mysterious spaces. I stood, mustering all my courage to explore. Meanwhile, Jack bent then tiptoed to find the best light in the great hall. I heard his shutter click repeatedly as his awe-struck sighs echoed throughout the void.

He dared me to enter a shielded hallway, alone. I did, of course. I breathed deeply with every step in the closed-in corridor as I navigated the chunks of ceiling plaster on the floor. The only light cast deep shadows without illuminating my way.

I walked softly to the closest half-opened door. I gently pushed it in. It creaked but did not scrape the floor. Beyond that was a single room. I followed striped light up to the small, barred window near the ceiling. Once my eyes adjusted, I saw a wire bed frame with a shredded mattress half on, half off. I refused to consider the dark stains in the middle of shredded cotton. Whatever the source had been, the stench had evaporated long ago. The air was full of plaster dust. I choked a bit.

Then I saw a scrap of patchwork in an embroidery hoop, the needle stuck in the middle. The cloth had small stains the same color as those on the mattress. I looked at the wall markings, either drawings or handwriting. Another wall had deep cuts in groups of five. Residents had counted something, probably days.

When I adjusted my camera settings, the automatic flash opened, so I readjusted for the extra light. I worried that the flash would blow out the shadows. When the bulb burst as my shutter clicked, the light was even brighter than I had imagined. In my LCD screen, I saw a bare bulb strung so high that no one could reach it, even standing on a chair or the bed. I had not looked for a switch when I stepped into the room, because there was no electricity anyway. Then I turned to a corner that I had not explored before to see a cracked, dirty mirror over a porcelain sink. I was confused. How could a mental patient be trusted with a mirror but not a light switch?

With two circular hand motions, I wiped gunk off the mirror. As I peered closely, my face rose into view. The smoky glass was warped. A crack spread out from the lower broken corner. Suddenly, I realized the image was not me. It looked older, haunted. Its hair was stringy and thin, while my own was thick and wavy. Then, the eyes moved even though my own did not. The mouth formed words. I shuddered. I listened, but the sounds were as distorted as the mirror’s image.

Without thinking, I said, “Excuse me. I can’t understand you.”

The apparition spoke more clearly, “I’m Emma. This is my room. Why are you?”

I said hoarsely, “Emma was my grandmother’s name. I’m Emily.”

“Oh,” the image said. “That’s lovely.”

As she moved a hand to her mouth as if to stifle a giggle, I caught a glimpse of a long, jagged cut inside her forearm, but only a glimpse. I wanted to run, but my feet were cement because all my blood had drained into them. My grandmother had died in this place when my mother was a child, something I only learned when I was first prescribed antidepressants. Circumstances were never discussed. This reflection was too old to be my Emma, who had died before she turned 30. This face looked ancient next to my own reflection that had just materialized in the mirror. I was nearly 40.

“Miss Emily, do you do piece work? Did you see mine over on the bed?”

I shook my head at the first question, then nodded at the second.

“I wanted to be an artist, but I was only allowed to do piece work. My brother Jesse ran off to New York City to learn all about photography. Then, I had three babies, and I lost one. She passed with my husband in an automobile accident.”

I stopped breathing. She was my grandmother. I had enough presence of mind to realize that she looked so worn because she had been in this place so long.

“It was too hard to take care of my babies by myself. My mama got mad at me for that. After all, her mama had lost two babies and her man in the flu time. And mama herself lost one to the croup during the Great Depression. So, she persuaded my daddy to put me here.”

Tears welled up in my eyes.

“No, it’s not sad like you think. I could do piece work all day long here. Someone cooked for me and someone else cleaned my room for me. When I screamed at night, someone gave me something to chase away the evil ones. When they said I could go outside and never come back, I found a way to stay forever.”

“No, I can’t hear this.” I found the strength to pick up my feet, so I stumbled out the door.

“Oh, Miss Emily, I was hoping we could talk. I want to show you how to do piece work.” The voice trailed off behind me.

I raced to the great hall where Jack was examining an apostle’s feet.

“Look, Em, the wood has been rubbed so it is shiny and smooth. Can you imagine how many people prayed at these feet?” Jack smiled sadly. “I bet they thought of the story of the wounded woman who pulled on Jesus’ hem when they were in the crowd. How sad that none of them got an answer.”

“So, you’re an atheist.”

“Of course, you?”

We had not gotten to the religious stuff yet. He saw me look up to the arched wall where the outline of a cross glowed in the dirty green paint.

“I bet they all wept at the crucifix. Catholics ran the place.” He pulled his camera to his face. He must have discovered another artistic composition.

I did not mention that the glow looked like the empty cross of the Protestants, so residents may have found release. I just stood trying to breathe quietly so he could not hear that I was out of breath. My forehead felt damp, so I wiped it with a bandana.

Jack looked up. “It is warm in here.” He moved around for another angle. “Anything interesting back there?”

I shook my head, but his back was to me. “Not enough light. Besides, I stirred up a lot of dust.”

“Hmm, so it’s not worth exploring?”

“No, it’s dark and creepy. Too dark to capture the creepiness.”

“Well, I’m done here. Let’s shoot outside before the cops catch us trespassing.”

The open air revived all my senses. While Jack spent another half hour snapping photos of the “exquisite” architectural features, I wavered over whether to tell him what I had just seen. By the time we were in the car, I had decided not to say anything. As I said, our relationship hadn't gotten too far.

Once I was alone at home, I checked my pill dispenser. I missed two doses. I sank into my pillow, satisfied. My twenty-first-century mind convinced me that I had conjured up the image because my brain chemistry was off. Emma was no ghost, and Jack was not long-term relationship material.

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