The Horror Upstairs

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

The Horror Upstairs

From the pen of

Pandemic Monk

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

Dr. Robert Simmons felt discouraged, practically to the point of tears. He had studied exhaustively, put in ungodly hours in residency, and now, well now he’s stuck in an emergency room position and barely scraping by. He had the dream of becoming a General

Practitioner with his own private practice. Now he’s burdened with nearly a quarter of a million dollars in educational loans and facing the staggering cost of private malpractice insurance. On the salary he was making, there was no chance he would see his dream fulfilled this side of his fiftieth birthday.

It was with this sobering realization that he explored State and Federal positions. The work hours would be shorter, the benefits would be better, and, and this was the deciding factor, retirement would be complete after just twenty years. That was it in a nutshell, that was the benefit he couldn’t ignore. He would be forty-five when he retired on a full pension, and then he could do as he pleased.

When he received a response to one of his inquiries offering an interview at a federal facility near St. Louis, Missouri, he leapt at the opportunity. He only glanced at the description of the position. He was a doctor; they needed a doctor, nothing more need be said. He had dedicated what seemed like a significant portion of his life to the study of medicine, only to earn a position which seemed to be little more than an exalted nurse.

He rented a car upon arrival at Lambert International Airport and set out on the ninety- minute drive to Benchforth Psychiatric Institute. His plan had been to rehearse what he thought were the most likely interview questions as he drove to the institute. However, he discovered that the sunshine, the rolling hills, and the bucolic quiet captivated him. It had been over nine

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS months since he had been anywhere other than the hospital and his apartment. Birds, trees, and cows can be a beautiful sight after nine months of boils, shredded and broken bodies from traffic accidents, and gunshot wounds.

All too soon Benchforth Institute appeared. There were no other buildings near the four- story stone edifice. The building and its gardens stood alone in the middle of endless acres of corn. Aside from the spiraling concertina wire around the perimeter, it looked much like an old

Victorian estate with corner turrets, Lofty gables, and tall narrow windows. The grounds, though neglected, were once beautiful with trees and gardens.

The entrance was an opening halfway down the perimeter fence. There was a small guard hut and a tall electronic gate. Dr. Simmons pulled in and stopped.

A guard walked to the car with a clipboard in-hand. “Who are you here to see?” he said curtly.

“Doctor Bignow is expecting me at two-thirty,”

“Driver’s license.” the guard growled. Robert was going to say something clever like, “I believe please is the word you were groping for,” but the guard’s stony, unblinking expression made him hesitate. Robert sensed a depressing atmosphere of impersonal negativity even here outside the gate.

He fumbled with his wallet, then handed over his license. “Here you are,” he said with a forced smile. The guard looked at him for a moment with a confused expression before turning to walk back to the hut. He appeared to be trying to decide why the intruder had spoken to him.

All Dr. Simmons had said was “here you are,” but he reacted as if he had said “my mother is

German, and she climbed the Eiffel Tower in the nude!”

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

When he returned, he handed the license back along with a small card which stated; who he was to see, at what time, and when he must leave the premises.

He turned immediately and walked back to the hut. The gate slid back slowly, and Robert proceeded down the drive.

By the time he had climbed the front stairs, there was a short stocky man in a white lab coat opening the door in front of him.

“Doctor Simmons,” he said in a reedy monotone. Robert assumed that this was Dr.

Bignow, but the old man turned and proceeded down the hallway without giving him an opportunity to ask his name.

The building was silent except for their footsteps on the marble floor of the central gallery. Dr. Simmons was beyond feeling unwanted. He felt it irritated these people that he had driven all the way out here just to bother them. Inwardly, he was becoming strongly defensive.

He resolved not to betray his negative feelings when the interview began.

The older man led Robert into a large corner office at the rear of the building. He motioned for Dr. Simmons to sit by pointing at one of the two leather wing-back chairs as he rounded the enormous desk. When Robert took his seat and had set down his briefcase, he looked up at the stern old man; “I am Dr. Bignow,” he said, sitting erect and staring back at

Robert unblinkingly. He seemed smaller in the tall-backed desk chair, his white lab coat, and bald head in sharp contrast to the dark leather. The scene was unsettling in its silent malevolence. It was becoming more difficult by the minute for Robert to convince himself that this man didn’t hate him.

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

“Why did you ask for an interview?” Dr. Bignow asked, “Why do you want to come here?” The question took Dr. Simmons by surprise. At that point in time, they were both troublesome questions to answer. That small voice inside his head was screaming, “Get out, get out now.”

“I, well,” he stammered. Dr. Bignow sat motionless, staring at him.

He gathered himself and continued; “the plans I had following medical school are not about to come true,” he managed. “I had hoped to open a general practice, but the combined cost of my educational loans and malpractice insurance have put that out of reach. I am also very dissatisfied in my current position.”

Robert chose that point to pause and wait for a reaction. The reaction was very slow in coming. Dr. Bignow said sharply, “What do you hope to accomplish here?” almost spitting the words. His tone implying that Robert had an ulterior motive.

A thought occurred. Why not tell him the absolute truth, no dancing with niceties?

Perhaps if he sounded enough like a Philistine, he would end the interview and show him to the door. At that point, the idea sounded like a win-win.

“The workload would be lighter, the hours would be less demanding, the benefits will be better, and I will retire in twenty years,” Robert blurted out. “Why did you agree to see me?”

“We need a doctor in residence with a broad background including emergency medicine, and, you looked good on paper.” The old doctor replied, almost implying he didn’t look so good in person. Then he fell silent again.

“OK, I guess it’s my turn again,” Robert thought. “Can you tell me what my responsibilities will be? My psychiatric exposure is very limited.”

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

“I am the psychiatrist,” Dr. Bignow barked. “The psychiatric concerns are my affair; you will confine yourself to the medical needs of the inmates. I have no interest in their medical concerns.”

“Come with me. I suppose I need to show you the facility. We have already taken too much time with this interview. I have much work to do, and your pass, well, you must be outside the gate before your pass expires.”

Dr. Bignow walked in short, clipped steps down the central hallway toward the front doors. Once again there was no conversation. Dr. Simmons noticed that there was still no evidence of any other staff members in the building. When they reached the wide marble stairs to the next floor, Dr. Bignow mounted them briskly, obviously eager to finish the tour.

On the second floor, there was a wide central hallway with five cells on each side.

Inmates occupied three of the cells on each side. An empty cell separated each of the inmates, and each occupied cell faced an empty cell across the corridor. That floor was also strangely silent. As they passed occupied cells, the inmates would turn their faces into a corner away from the door, an obvious acknowledgment of submission.

“These inmates are all here because they are criminally insane. It is with these that I do my research,” said Dr. Bignow. “You will treat them as required; you must never see them alone.

If you must deal with their medical needs, at least two guards must accompany you.”

Robert noticed that Dr. Bignow was speaking as if he were part of the staff. “You will treat…” he had said. “Hold on a moment,” Robert thought, “I’m not at all sure I want to have anything to do with this place,”.

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

As they approached the opposite end of the corridor, Robert saw another stairway. This stairway, in contrast to the one they had just used, was narrow, steep, and wooden. When Dr.

Bignow started back the way they had come, Robert stopped him and said, “What’s on the next floor?”

Dr. Bignow pivoted on him and barked, “You are never to ascend those stairs. Do you understand me? Now, come along. I must show you where you will stay, and your clinic.”

“Does that mean you are offering me the position?”

“If you decide you want it, I suppose you may have it. Now come along, we must hurry.”

The physician’s quarters were on the first floor at the front of the building. They were a bedroom, a library, and a sitting room. The office and clinic were in the basement directly below. Neither the quarters nor the office and clinic areas looked as if anyone had used in an exceedingly long time.

“They will deliver your meals to your quarters. You may walk freely on the first floor and basement, and the grounds, but you are never to go upstairs alone,” Dr. Bignow said as he stood facing Robert just inside the main door. “There is a motel about two miles down the road where you may stay this evening. If you return tomorrow morning, your rooms will be ready.” Dr.

Bignow then turned and walked back toward his office.

“That’s it then?” Robert muttered under his breath. “No ‘the job is yours,’ no ‘Goodbye,’ no ‘kiss my ass,’ no nothing. Well, I guess I’ll be back tomorrow then.” He had three more days of vacation and he decided on the spot he would stay for those three days, if only to irritate Dr.

Bignow.

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

The following morning Robert found a pass waiting for him at the gate. After leaving his belongings in his quarters, he explored the first floor. There still didn’t appear to be anyone else around, and the old building seemed entirely too quiet. The large oak doors with plaques reading Personnel, Medical Director, etc. he found locked and silent.

Motes of dust floated noiselessly in colored shafts of light from stained-glass windows at the far end of the wide hallway. A door with a plaque which read “Chaplain - Fr. Angelo” was open a crack. Robert knocked and after a moment he could hear movement from the room within. When the door finally opened, Robert gasped involuntarily. The specter facing him was a complete surprise.

An older man in a habit and cowl stood before him, a little shorter than Robert and appearing to be in his sixties. Only his head and neck were visible. His hair was in tufts between jagged scars which crisscrossed his head, and his left eye was missing. The gaping black eye socket dominated his pallid, drawn face.

“Can I help you?” His voice was deep and gritty.

“Please, pardon me for staring, I am so sorry. My name is Dr. Robert Simmons. I’m the new medical doctor for the facility. It seems Dr. Bignow has no intention of introducing me to the rest of the staff, so I’ve taken care of it myself.”

“Well, I’m Father Angelo and there is no other staff. Would you like to come in? For a glass of wine, perhaps? I realize it’s a little early, but lately…”

“That would be delightful,” Robert replied, relieved to find another civil human being.

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

“Dr. Bignow seemed a little restive when he interviewed me,” said Robert as he accepted a glass of wine and settled into an overstuffed chair. “It was obvious he either didn’t want me here, or he is completely devoid of any social or professional grace.”

“It is not good to speak ill of the living, but Bignow and grace, social or otherwise, one should not mention in the same sentence.”

“Father?” Robert finally said after a substantial gulp of wine. “Do you mind if I ask a personal question?”

“About my face and head, you mean?”

“That would be the one, yes.”

“Not at all,” replied Fr. Angelo as he settled into a chair. “Unlike you, they contacted me, or rather my Order, to look into some strange occurrences here. When I arrived, they asked me to interview one inmate. The man, the inmate that is, was undeniably delusional, or so I thought. He kept screaming in terror that I was there to annihilate him.”

The priest stared down at the pattern in the archaic carpet, remembering. “He,” the old priest continued, “kept backing up, trying to escape from me. He was screaming curses at me and holding his hands over his face. He had filthy shoulder length, ratted and tangled black hair.

His face was unnaturally sallow and sunken, and his chipped and broken teeth had a disgusting yellow green color. His eyes, however, I remember most distinctly. I can see those eyes in my mind to this day, darting here and there, back and forth, searching wildly in unreasoning terror.”

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

“He kept backing up, backing away from me until he reached the wall of the cell.” Father looked up at Robert, “he dropped to his hands and knees and crept sideways Like a crab, still screaming curses at me, along the wall to the farthest corner.”

“That man may have been insane, Robert, but he was also truly possessed. If you have never witnessed a possession, it is a horrid, terrifying experience. I looked at that poor soul and there was no question he had become a vessel, an insane vessel of pure evil.”

Father sat trembling slightly, staring at nothing. Then, pulling himself back to the reality at hand, he lifted his glass and emptied it. “I see you need more wine as well,” he said, hoisting himself from the chair.

Robert sat speechless for a moment then, believing the priest had finished, said, “Is the inmate still here?”

“Robert,” Father mumbled as he stood in front of him pouring wine into the glass Robert was holding in his trembling hand. “That is only the beginning of the story. It gets worse–oh so much worse.”

“But how could anything possibly be worse? The man had lost his soul.”

“Yes Robert, that was my thought at the time as well,” said the priest, “but they then informed me that this wretched soul was not alone, he was not the only one.”

Robert’s heart sank within him. He felt a morbid, malevolent heaviness in his chest.

“How many?” he asked quietly, his voice catching slightly.

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

“At this point it has grown to thirteen. There is the wretch I encountered, and twelve others, thirteen,” Father said.

“Exactly where are these inmates being kept?” Robert asked quietly, feeling he already knew.

“They are on the third floor,” replied the priest. “Over the past few years, we have learned how best to secure their confinement. At the top of the wooden stair there is a silver- plated gate with candles–two blessed candles–one on either side, and a large crucifix bolted to the gate itself.”

“At first there was incessant wailing, cursing, and screaming throughout the day. They became quieter after dark, so we had all the windows on the floor painted black.”

“Getting back to your question about my injuries,” he said. “I felt that it was my obligation to pray for them and perhaps exercise their evil spirits, although I am far from an exorcist. With that sincere intention, I went upstairs. I knelt, held out my arms, closed my eyes, and I prayed as intensely as I could.”

“Closing my eyes was a tragic mistake. With them open, I could hardly see more than the reflection of their eyes in the candlelight. But with them closed ... While I prayed, one of them crept around behind me. Suddenly he jumped on my back and began clawing at my head.

He was trying to get his nails through my scalp so he could rip it from my skull. While I was struggling, another came up and gouged out my left eye with his thumb.”

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

Robert felt a wave of nausea sweep over him, his hand trembled causing him to spill wine on his Levi’s. His ER experience had thrown him into many disturbing bloody scenes. He had always been in control of his reactions and able to rise above. You learn in emergency situations that vomiting and fainting are of no help to the patient.

“If they could have found the eyeball, they might have sent it to the emergency room with you. There is perhaps a chance they could have re-attached it.” Robert offered, trying to sound helpful.

Fr. Angelo’s gaze rose to meet Robert’s, and he replied, “they fought over it, those wretched devils, and one of them ate it. By the time the medevac helicopter arrived to transport me to the hospital, that eyeball was the least of my problems.”

“Father, you mentioned just now that the number ‘has grown’ to thirteen. What do you mean when you say has grown? Help me understand how, with possessions, the number can grow?”

Again, there was a long pause. Fr. Angelo sighed and said; “I am reluctant to get into that part of the discussion. I’m afraid it’s, well it’s… disturbing.”

“It sounds as if it is something I need to know, however. Can it be any more unpleasant than what you have already told me?”

“Yes, I believe it is. Before we put in the ‘spiritual’ barrier at the head of the stairs we couldn’t stop them, short of shooting them.”

“At first it was just Puckett, that was the patient’s name. Puckett lured a guard into his cell, disabled him and rendered him unconscious. He then took the guard up and they disappeared on the third floor, an unused derelict area of the asylum. A week later Puckett and

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS the guard reappeared in the night hunting for more souls.”

“So, you’re telling me you couldn’t keep them upstairs?”

“That’s right. They would hunt in the dark of night. They would come down several times a month and take an inmate right out of his cell.”

“How many men have they taken?”

“I believe the count is now twenty.”

“But you said there are only thirteen upstairs. What happened to the rest?”

Again, the priest gathered his thoughts, “When an inmate, or one of the possessed ones dies, the others tear them apart, and devour them.”

“They eat the corpse?”

“They do,” the old priest said with a shudder of disgust. “I’ve seen bones and body parts when I’ve gone up. The smell of decomposition upstairs is overpowering,”

“What do you mean, ‘when you go up’? Why on earth would you go up their if, as you say, they are waiting in the dark to rip you apart and cannibalize you?”

“It is what I do, Robert. Those men are spiritually ill, and I must do everything I can to save them. As long as they are alive, I have to assume I can still save their souls.”

Robert pondered over his wine for several minutes. As horrid as the situation was, there was at least one aspect which he found intriguing. How, he wondered, was this spread from prisoner to prisoner? He agreed with the old priest that these men suffered from spiritual possession. The illness itself was contagious, however, which sounded very much like a virus.

Robert turned to the old priest. “When are you going upstairs again?”

“I try to do an abbreviated mass several times a week, just a bible reading, or a rosary

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS maybe, and today is mass day. I’ll be going upstairs at seven o’clock this evening.”

“Why are you going up after dark? Isn’t that when they hunt?”

“It is always dark on the third floor, Robert.”

“I need to go with you,” said Robert. “We need to get a blood sample.”

The old priest stared at Robert with his one eye. The deep black socket seemed to go to his soul.

“You need to leave now, I must be alone.”

Robert’s legs felt a little wobbly as he ambled down the empty hallway toward his quarters.

He had never been much of a drinker, but then, he thought, two glasses of wine isn’t that much alcohol.

They probably brought it on by their conversation.

He glanced down at his watch; he noted it was only half-past eleven. Instead of going back to his room, he went down to his clinic in the basement. He would need to inventory the equipment and supplies and prepare to order whatever he felt he needed.

From what he could gather, he was to be available whenever someone needed treating. That was also his job description at the hospital, only at the hospital there was always someone who needed treating. Since he, Fr. Angelo, and Dr. Bignow were the only ones in residence, he could be available for quite some time before they needed him.

He found that on the basement level, much as the first floor, they locked all the doors except those of his office and clinic. Someone had cleaned the floors and dusted his office. Who ever cleaned, they had moved nothing, just dusted around. Where they had missed places, the dust was quite thick.

There were four filing cabinets along the wall next to the door. He found all of them locked. Logic told him that the key to the cabinets would be in the desk drawer, at least that’s where he would have put it. The desk drawer revealed several keys, one of which opened the filing cabinets.

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

As expected, the files followed the medical progress of both prisoners and staff. Robert chose several files at random, carried them to the desk to scan through them, and become familiar with his practice. Several files were becoming brittle with age. Those he had chosen were all over eight years old.

The first file was on a security guard, the entries were normal and mundane. Doctor David Clark

MD made the last entry in the guard’s file in December, six years earlier. There was no mention of the patient being transferred or retired, the entries just stopped.

The next file was that of a prisoner and was much the same as the first. Nothing very remarkable, and the last entry was again six years earlier. Again, no mention of the prisoner being transferred or expiring. The entries just stopped.

After reviewing several files, Robert rummaged through the desk and found a notepad and a couple of pencils. From the prisoner files he began recording medical diagnoses, conviction information, and parole or release dates if they existed. The files for staff he reviewed for job title, age, and diagnosis.

When, at last, he decided he needed a cup of coffee and glanced at his watch; it was going on three o’clock. Taking an armload of files and his own notes, Robert left the office, locking it on the way out, and headed upstairs for his apartment.

With pages of notes spread across the apartment floor, he sat cross-legged in the center of it all, as he had done so often in med-school, and allowed his mind to collate the information. He visualized a story emerging from the data.

It was obvious the practice had stopped seeing patients in December six years earlier. That was the most recent entry. There was no reason given for stopping.

Eight years earlier, there was an inmate Dr. Clark stopped treating. The man, Jerome Puckett, was the same name mentioned by the priest. The court had committed Puckett for confinement and care with a diagnosis of severe bipolar disorder. What caught Robert’s attention was that they gave no reason for discontinuing his care. Other patient files had noted they transferred the patients to another

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS facility, they died, or they had released them. But for Puckett it was as if he were still there and just stopped being treated.

Puckett was the first patient who’s treatment had stopped. Then he found another, then another. First, with Puckett and continuing to the close of the practice, he found nineteen. Puckett must be the key, Robert concluded. Showing a need for a deeper dive into the Puckett file.

Robert was reorganizing the patient files he had taken when he found an anomaly, an entry that shouldn’t be there. He stood staring at the entry for what seemed an eternity. He gathered the anomaly, the Puckett file, and his own notes, and focused his attention on them.

Two issues before him were obvious, two were not. Dr. Clark had stopped seeing patients six years earlier, and that the nineteen patients were the men Father had referred to. There was no obvious explanation, however, for his being recruited to reopen the clinic after six years. Then there was the anomaly, the entry which shouldn’t be there at all.

Robert was pacing in his small library when he glanced out the window and noticed his car was not where he had parked it. There had been only one other car in the entire parking area, and it was still there. Heading out the front doors and down the steps, he broke into a jog. Rounding the building, he found only that one car he had seen from his study window. Deciding to ask the one man who might know, he headed over to the guard station outside the front gate.

Either the security guard was asleep in the small hut, or no one was on duty. Robert yelled, no answer. He was going to try opening the gate, but as he drew near the fence, he could hear a low, almost imperceptible, electrical hum. Giving up on the guard, and not wishing to electrocute himself, Robert returned to the asylum, the crunch of gravel sounding loud as he walked.

After Robert had entered the enormous front doors, he proceeded to Dr. Bignow’s office and walked in. He was expecting to see the psychiatrist seated behind the oversized desk, but the high-backed chair was empty. As he Cracked open the door to the Doctor’s residence area he

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS called out, “excuse me, Doctor Bignow, are you in, sir?” There was no answer. Pondering his next step, Robert concluded that Dr. Bignow must be upstairs with a patient.

There seemed no alternative. He needed to find him. “Why,” he wondered while mounted the marble staircase, “would there be so few guards in a mental hospital? It made no sense.”

As he approached the top steps, he peered along the corridor, no one. He then moved as quietly as possible, his senses heightened. He walked down the very center of the hall.

Like before, the prisoners turned away, hiding their faces. At the foot of the wooden steps he could hear activity on the floor above. There were creaking and scraping sounds. There were low growls and angry sounding grunts.

Robert turned and retraced his steps to the marble stairs at the other end of the main hall. He vaulted the steps three at a time until he reached the first floor.

He spotted Bignow walking away from him down the main hallway. “Time for some answers,” he thought as he called out, “Doctor Bignow, we need to talk.”

Dr. Bignow halted and turned toward him. “Do you feel you need to holler like a high- schooler when you wish to have a conversation?”

“It is sometimes appropriate. What has happened to my car? That was a rental you know.”

“I am aware of that. You will no longer be needing it. We have returned it.”

Dr. Bignow turned and shut the thick wooden door to his office and locked it. Then the two men moved to a cluster of chairs near the large stained-glass window. As Dr. Bignow brushed past him, Robert noticed a distinctive bulge under his lab coat.

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

“So,” thought Robert, “Dr. Bignow is carrying. I wonder whether he’s armed for protection or for assault. This situation is getting more confusing by the minute.”

“OK, Doctor Simmons, I will answer your questions if you answer mine first.” Before

Robert could respond, Dr. Bignow demanded to know who had contacted him for an interview.

“Why, you did, I assume. I sent my request to your attention,” Robert said, not trying to hide his confusion to the odd question.

“Was there a signature on the correspondence?”

“I can’t remember,” said Robert.

“I have corresponded with no one concerning an open staff position at this facility. We do not need a medical doctor.”

“You, Doctor, have misplaced your anger. Someone wanted me here, at least for the interview. And while we are at it, how much do you know about the hospital’s history?”

“Why?” sneered Dr. Bignow.

“Because, this has never been a hospital for the Criminally Insane. Why did you tell me it was?”

Dr. Bignow stared back, his aggravation palpable. “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he said in a harsh whisper. “I think we’re done here, I have work to do.”

“I don’t think we’re done at all. First you tried to discourage me, to get me to turn tail and run back to the city. Then, when I refused to leave, you cleaned a place for me until you could figure out what to do. Now you can’t afford to have me leave.”

“You do your research and leave me free to do mine,” Robert said, then turned and walked away.

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

In his study once more, Robert needed access to recent Benchforth activity. He had an outside land line on the desk. He also had his laptop. They would have bugged the phone, but the laptop, if the old place had Wi-Fi, he could get internet access.

Once he had opened the laptop on the table in front of him, he found a strong internet signal. He Googled Benchforth Psychiatric Institute. The St. Louis branch office of the Federal

Bureau of Prisons handled the management of the institution. A drop-down menu gave him information on staffing, research overviews, projected budgets, etc. The information was there up to six years earlier, then it stopped. There were six years missing.

Robert returned to the office to search the hard files once again. When he reached the lower corridor, however, he heard an out-of-place noise. A rustling sound with an occasional clink came from the far end of the dark, tunnel like passage. The basement had the same footprint as the rest of the building, Robert reasoned. There were thousands of square feet of passages and rooms.

When he followed the sounds, he soon became confused. He had no means of orientation after turning several corners. The dim hallways seemed to split off in all directions.

Suddenly a pronounced, “Clunk,” sounded on the other side of a nearby door. The sign above the door read Observation Room. Observation of what, Robert wondered. It could be a room to observe surgeries, experiments, or anything.

When he tried the knob, he found it to be unlocked. Robert eased the door wider. There were seats oriented to view a small lighted arena through a glass partition. A treatment table

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS stood in the center of the room with a large, boxlike device at one end. Restraining straps hung menacingly from the table. “That’s barbaric, no one uses restraining straps for a procedure any longer,” Robert said, “they haven’t for years.” He had taken several steps toward the glass to get a better view when the door slammed shut behind him.

When he whirled around, he was facing a horrid specter. Before him, a man hunched forward with shoulder length strands of filthy hair, and a gaunt, hollow looking face. The wretch’s eyes combined jaundice yellow and a petechial purple/red. The teeth in his gaping jaws were all broken and discolored.

From behind him he heard the rasping voice of Fr. Angelo. “You should not have come.”

The old priest step out from behind a door holding a large candle. “Mr. Grendel has been missing for several days now and he will be hungry.”

The grotesque specter of Mr. Grendel drifted to one side, Robert crept a step in the opposite direction, and the priest stepped forward ever so slightly. This slow, three party dance to gain strategic advantage went on step by step to the music of silence. They maintained distances and held eye contact. Robert’s legs felt leaden, the muscles in his back and neck were a coil, poised to react.

Then the patient raised his left hand to his mouth. While maintaining eye contact, he bit off his middle finger at the first joint and spit it at Robert. The doctor’s reactions were a beat slow in the dance’s rhythm. The dirty, bloody, saliva covered lump of human flesh and bone struck the doctor in the side of his face, just below his right eye. The splatter of the amputated finger was in his eyes, his nose, and even his mouth.

Robert spat, retched, and spat again. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

Fr. Angelo moved forward, forcing the large candle on Robert, then tackling Mr. Grendel.

When the priest struggled to his feet, he was gripping the patient’s injured hand in both hands.

Blood was pumping from the stump of his finger.

“The candle,” barked the priest. “Hold the candle here.”

Robert, grasping the candle in both hands, held it in front of the priest. Fr. Angelo forced the stump of the man’s finger into the flame and held it steady. The sour stench of frying flesh filled the small room and the man’s screams were deafening. The flesh bubbled and seared black, sending wisps of acrid smoke into the air.

When at last Fr. Angelo released the poor wretch, he ran from the room into the corridor and lost to the dim light and the warren of tunnels.

Whirling on the old man, Dr. Simmons demanded, “Fr. Angelo, I want answers and I want them now. To begin with, who are you? You are not a priest. No priest I ever met would wear a rosary as a necklace, and no Catholic priest would walk around with a King James version of the

Bible. Also, I found your file in my office. It seems you died years ago.”

The old, robed specter sat in a nearby chair, wheezing. “Yes, you are correct. Father

Angelo, God rest his soul, died nearly six years ago now.”

“Died how?”

“They infected him in an attack, he became fatally ill, and died upstairs in the dark. My name is Puckett.”

“Puckett, the first patient?”

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

“Yes. I was patient zero. I survived upstairs for five years. By the time Bignow and his crew arrived last year, I had regained my mind. I put on Fr. Angelo’s robes and came downstairs.

Bignow had never met Fr. Angelo, so he simply accepted me at face value, such as it is.”

“Why is Dr. Bignow such an ass? It seems to me he would welcome having another sane person around. I should think having no one other than insane patients to talk to would drive most people crazy.”

“Yes,” said Puckett after a pause, “But they’re security personnel and they’re serving as bait.”

Robert sat slowly in a chair facing Puckett. “And Dr. Clark?” he asked, moving the conversation forward.

“Also dead, upstairs with the rest.”

Robert sat silently, trying to put the information into some coherent order. Eventually he looked up and asked, “bait for what? What is Bignow trying to catch and why?”

“They need one of the infected patients from upstairs for research, they’re trying to find an antidote for the virus. They want to control the disease.”

“Puckett, do you know what happened here?” asked Robert.

“Yes, I do. At least I have a theory.” Puckett replied. “About ten years ago a government agency began experimenting with a mind control drug on the patients here at The Home–it was a sort of modern-day MK-Ultra situation,…”

“But it got out of hand?” asked Robert.

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

“Not exactly,” said Puckett. “Dr. Clark, Fr. Angelo, and I–I was recovering by that time– concluded that quite separate from the drug they gave me, I contracted some sort of bacterial or viral infection. Quite separate from the drug really did nothing. The disease caused dementia, paranoia, increased muscular strength, and of course the delusion of demonic possession.

Symptoms which overwhelmed the patient.”

“The disease was also very communicable via bodily fluids and the patients have an overwhelming drive, as you just witnessed, to ‘recruit’ by any means possible.”

“You were the unfortunate mental patient who trialled this drug?” said Robert.

Puckett smiled at that. “We were not mental patients. This place, the home, is being operated by the National Intelligence Agency. Everyone in here has pissed someone off and, ergo, simply disappeared from the outside world.”

“Then you were political prisoners.” Reasoned Robert.

“In a nut-shell,” Puckett said. “Some world’s most intelligent nut cases are right here.”

“You said that Dr. Clark, Fr. Angelo, and others died. Do you know the cause of death?” asked Robert.

“The disease. If the person is not sound enough, the disease will kill them.”

“And where are they now?” asked Robert.

“As I mentioned before,” said Puckett, “If they don’t feed the infected, they resort to cannibalism.”

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

“Why would the Government want to control the infection rather than cure it?” Robert inquired.

“That’s the funny part of all this. The disease does exactly what they were hoping the drug would do. So, where the drug failed, the disease succeeded beyond their wildest expectation. Problem is, they can’t control it. At least not yet.”

“And Dr. Clark was trying to find a cure when he became infected?” said Robert.

“That’s right. Shortly after his demise, the Feds swooped in and took all the files going back five years.”

“OK, that just leaves one unanswered question, who arranged for my interview–it wasn’t

Bignow.”

“No. It was us.”

“Those infected who survived are recovering. We’re coming out of it one at a time, just like we went in. We secured one of the computer terminals and started using the system as we needed. The one thing we needed which we didn’t have was a good doctor. Bignow thought the office in St. Louis had arranged the interview, so he went along with it.”

“Now that I’m here, and I know what’s going on, what makes you think I’ll stay?” asked

Robert, still wiping the saliva and blood off his face.

Puckett smiled slowly, “You have no choice Doctor, they have infected you, you’re one of us now.”

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS

Early the following morning. After a very restless night, Robert stretched awake. Opening his eyes, he tried to orient himself to his new surroundings. The harder he tried, however, the more confusing it became. He was not in the bed in his quarters where he had been the night before. He was on a hard-narrow cot. Swinging his feet to the floor and looking around, he saw bars. Bars on the door, bars on the window. He was in a cell. “Good morning, Sunshine,” said a voice from the hallway. Robert looked up to see a guard in a gray and black uniform sliding a food tray under the bars of his cell. “We wouldn’t want you getting hungry now, would we,” The guard said with a smile.

Jumping to his feet, Robert ran to the door, “Wait,” Robert called as the guard started down the hallway. “There’s been a mistake. I’m not supposed to be here. I want to see Dr.

Bignow.”

“why of course you do,” said the guard with a smile. “Dr. Bignow is right over there where you left him. When you two figure this all out you can fill me in,” the guard smiled again and continued on his breakfast rounds. Robert looked across the hall in the direction showed by the guard and saw, behind the bars of the cell opposite, Dr. Bignow. Dr. Bignow was standing barefoot in a white hospital gown behind the bars looking at him. “Well, so now you wake up.

You kept us all up half the night you did.”

“Guard,” screamed Robert.

But the guard paid no attention, he just continued his rounds. “Up and at-um Mr.

Puckett,” he said at the next cell, “breakfast.”

THE HORROR UPSTAIRS