ONE
The pale façade of Hollyhock rises from the horizon like a cursed moon against a featureless sky. The single-lane road points the way straight, with tallgrass prairie pressing in from either side, each winter-dead blade intent on keeping the car on its path. The occupants, a driver and a passenger, have been silent for the last leg of their journey. With their destination climbing into view, the driver turns his head to the passenger. She senses that he wants to speak. To offer comfort. But there is no comfort where she is going. They both know this.
“We can turn around.”
She tucks her hands under her arms, clawing her fingers into the knit of her sweater. Even with the car’s heater running, she can’t seem to get warm. Her shoulder aches worse than usual, sending echoes of the past through the bones of her chest. After all they’ve been through, the year spent in preparation for this day, she knows she can’t stop now. She owes a debt. All the same, she doesn’t refuse his offer outright. As if it might be available to rescue her later if she doesn’t claim the token now.
“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known. Just taking it this far–”
“I’m not brave.”
Though she has seen it in pictures, studied it from afar for months on end, seeing the asylum in the flesh doesn’t make its presence there on the infinite plain any less strange. It is an anomaly, something that shouldn’t exist. Something that makes you question what would cause anyone to undertake the construction of such a monstrosity in the first place. There’s nothing around. No other buildings, no town. Even now, after all she’s learned about it, the question comes, why? Even though she knows why.
She loses herself in the unmarked road, its blackness more like a crevasse than something laid upon the earth. There is no lane demarcation painted on the asphalt, and yet a line of illumination is visible at its center. It seems to pulse.
The car slips briefly upon a rogue patch of ice, then lurches when the tires return to the surface. Her heart catches in her chest and she dips her chin, shutting her eyes and slowing her breath.
“You know her. You’ve been her for a year,” says the driver. “Quiet. Polite. Formal. But not too formal.”
“I know.”
“And trusting, almost gullible. Not one to rock the boat. A rule follower.”
“I know.”
He clears his throat. “Sorry. You’ve got this. I get chatty when I’m nervous.”
“It’s okay,” she says, knitting her fingers back and forth. “I’m nervous too.”
The road ends where a rumbling gravel drive begins, and she looks up to find the asylum filling the view. It is unchanged from the old photographs: a
wide building, higher in the center over the main entry, with two heavy wings spread out symmetrically to the north and south. Untold layers of peeling white paint coat the brick, giving it a weathered, grey appearance. Otherwise, Hollyhock House stands strong, implacable. No trees or shrubs impinge upon its margins, as if the building has issued a threat that the flora have heeded.
She feels it as well. Undeniable. A magnetic repulsion. Courage, in this case, means ignoring the waves of malevolence the building seems to exude, ignoring the warnings that the trees obey. It will only be thirty days. Thirty days to do what has to be done. Thirty days to learn the truth. She owes a debt.
They pull into an empty spot designated for prospective patients. The motor clicks off and silence falls. The driver makes no move to open the door, a subtle indication to the passenger that she can still pull the cord and float safely to ground. She bristles at the invitation, even though she knows it is meant in kindness – there would be no living with herself if she turned back. She can barely live with herself now. She pushes the door open and steps out. The wind slaps her cheek like a rebuke.
“Give us a final test,” says the driver, removing a device with a small screen from his inside coat pocket.
She nods, placing her right hand below her left clavicle and applying pressure to a specific spot with a finger. He watches the screen. “We’re good,” he says, opening the driver’s side and climbing out. Their eyes meet across the car’s roof, their icy breath fleeing down the drive as fast as it can.
“Mrs Turner,” he says.
“Mr Turner,” she answers.
SPD INTERVIEW RECORD
EXCERPT OF TRANSCRIPTION
[Questioning by DETECTIVE ABRAM GASTRELL, Scottsbluff Police Department]
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GASTRELL:
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We’re recording.
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WITNESS:
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Hello.
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GASTRELL:
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Are you okay?
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WITNESS:
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I’m just a bit cold.
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GASTRELL:
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Here. Take my jacket. How is that cheekbone? Would you like an icepack?
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WITNESS:
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An icepack? No, thank you.
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GASTRELL:
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Ready then?
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WITNESS:
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[Indicating]
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GASTRELL:
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Okay, it’s 8:32 am, Friday, March the 16th. This is Detective Abram Gastrell, SPD, and I am here with a witness. Can you state your name?
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WITNESS:
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Charlotte Andrew Turner.
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GASTRELL:
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And you are here to provide a voluntary statement pertaining to the events that occurred sometime within the last thirty-six hours at Hollyhock House, correct?
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WITNESS:
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Yes.
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GASTRELL:
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This device here on my lapel creates a record of my investigation. That includes recording our interactions and streaming it to the other departments participating in the effort. Is that okay?
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WITNESS:
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Yes, okay. Um, Detective?
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GASTRELL:
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Yes?
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WITNESS:
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Where is Mr Turner?
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GASTRELL:
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Your husband, Andrew Evers Turner?
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WITNESS:
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That’s him, yes.
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GASTRELL:
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We’ve not heard from him yet. We located records of an Andrew Turner who began renting a house in Hay Springs on Soapweed Place a little over a year ago.
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WITNESS:
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That’s our home. We will raise our family there.
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GASTRELL:
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Is it your Mr Turner who began employment at Parker Tool and Die around the same time as you started renting the house?
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WITNESS:
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Yes. That’s Andrew. So, you should be able to find him.
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GASTRELL:
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Mrs Turner–
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WITNESS:
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Did you check Parker?
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GASTRELL:
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Yes, of course.
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WITNESS:
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How many times, though? Did you–
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GASTRELL:
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I personally spoke with Parker. Your husband hasn’t been seen at his job since the 27th of February.
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WITNESS:
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I’m sorry, it’s all just very strange that nobody knows where he is. He was supposed to be there for my discharge from Hollyhock House.
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GASTRELL:
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Hollyhock doesn’t exist anymore, Mrs Turner.
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WITNESS:
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I just want to see him.
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GASTRELL:
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I understand. Perhaps you’ll remember additional details as we move along that might help us place him. Listen, I can’t imagine all you’ve been through in the last several days. I want clarity as much as you do, rest assured. All the area departments are trying to piece together what happened out there and not much is making sense. Hopefully you can help us get to the bottom of it. Alright?
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WITNESS:
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Yes, okay.
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GASTRELL:
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Baby steps. I’ll let you know if I receive any updates on Mr Turner. I promise.
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WITNESS:
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Okay. It’s just that he needs to be here with me. We’re starting a family.
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GASTRELL:
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You have my word that we will do our best to find him. Let’s turn to Hollyhock.
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WITNESS:
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Okay.
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GASTRELL:
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What is the last thing you remember?
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WITNESS:
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Your officers picking me up. And thank heavens they did. I was getting hungry.
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GASTRELL:
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What I mean is, can you describe physically what happened at the site before that? Before you were picked up?
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WITNESS:
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At Hollyhock House? Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Detective.
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GASTRELL:
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Sorry?
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WITNESS:
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This isn’t the type of thing you just dump on someone. I wouldn’t want your brain to collapse.
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GASTRELL:
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Let’s reset here. I’m the police, you understand that?
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WITNESS:
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Yes. Completely.
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GASTRELL:
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I need to know what happened there. I need to understand how it all … changed like that.
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WITNESS:
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Yes, but–
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GASTRELL:
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I need you to cooperate.
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WITNESS:
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I’m trying.
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GASTRELL:
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Dozens of people are missing. We need to know where they are, what happened, and if they can be saved.
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WITNESS:
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Oh, I don’t think there’s anything that can be done for them. It’s regrettable, but also beautiful.
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GASTRELL:
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Beautiful?
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WITNESS:
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Hmm.
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GASTRELL:
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How can you say that?
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WITNESS:
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I’ve seen it.
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GASTRELL:
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Look, somehow you’re the only witness. You can’t play gatekeeper of–
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WITNESS:
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Gatekeeper? I’m not playing gatekeeper. I am the mouth of the Earth, Detective. The Rose of Jericho.
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GASTRELL:
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The what?
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WITNESS:
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See? Even if I told you everything, I just don’t think you’d understand. Oh, this would be so much easier if we had the recordings! Then you could learn about it right from the source.
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GASTRELL:
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There are recordings?
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WITNESS:
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Maybe the Doctor kept copies at her home. You could search there.
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GASTRELL:
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You’re referring to Hollyhock’s director, Althea Edevane?
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WITNESS:
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Yes.
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GASTRELL:
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People are searching her property as we speak. But I need information now. Where was everyone when the event began? How did it start? Where should we be looking to give us the best chance to find the people who weren’t as lucky as yourself?
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WITNESS:
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There are animals whose little stomachs explode if you feed them too fast. Goldfish. Baby birds. The mind is the same way, Detective.
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GASTRELL:
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Christ.
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WITNESS:
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It’s frustrating to me, too, you know. I want my husband back. You want information.
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GASTRELL:
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Are you … trying to negotiate with me?
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WITNESS:
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Absolutely not. I’m just empathizing.
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GASTRELL:
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You seem the empathetic type.
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WITNESS:
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You’re being sarcastic, Detective.
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GASTRELL:
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Perceptive, too.
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WITNESS:
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I’m a very empathetic person. Feelings and all that.
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GASTRELL:
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Where do I look for survivors, Mrs Turner?
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WITNESS:
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There are none.
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GASTRELL:
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What?
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WITNESS:
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So there’s no need to rush the search because no one is alive.
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GASTRELL:
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I don’t think there’s any way for you to know that.
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WITNESS:
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You’re entitled to your opinion.
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GASTRELL:
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Tell me what happened, Mrs Turner. Tell me exactly what happened.
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WITNESS:
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The Earth found a mouth and exhaled.
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GASTRELL:
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What the hell does that even mean?
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WITNESS:
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The message sent from six directions, Detective. Summoned by the token of séance. Insinuation.
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GASTRELL:
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Alright. Let’s take a step back for just a second. Why did you go to Hollyhock in the first place?
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WITNESS:
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To get better, of course. Andrew and I wanted to have children, but I wasn’t well. Emotional problems. I needed to be healed before we tried bringing a little one into the world. I was admitted to Hollyhock House and now I’m cured.
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GASTRELL:
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Cured? From what?
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WITNESS:
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Domestic psychosis.
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GASTRELL:
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Domestic psychosis. Right. Between us, do you believe that’s even real?
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WITNESS:
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Oh, yes, absolutely. Our family physician, Doctor Hughes Barker of Hay Springs, made the diagnosis and provided the referral to Hollyhock. Doctor Edevane confirmed it.
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GASTRELL:
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Did you want to go?
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WITNESS:
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Why bother asking? I didn’t have a choice in the matter, legally speaking.
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GASTRELL:
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Sure. I understand that.
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WITNESS:
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But yes. I wanted things to work out with Andrew. I thought that it was worth doing thirty days in an institution if it healed me. I tried to make the most of it because I wanted what was best for our family. Andrew. Myself. Our future children. I went in with an open mind. Which was important. That’s the only way to heal. And I did.
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GASTRELL:
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What was it like when you first arrived?
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WITNESS:
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You’ll tell me if they find Andrew?
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GASTRELL:
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Yes, of course.
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WITNESS:
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It all began in a room.
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GASTRELL:
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Let’s start there.
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NEBRASKA STATE LUNATIC ASYLUM
“HOLLYHOCK”
NORTH WING
The orderly’s hair glowed like summer beneath the lights as we traveled down the lacquered hallway. I lost myself in the sun-kissed locks, so heavy and rich that they might liquify at any moment and drown my attentions. The orderly – or maybe she was a nurse – stopped and turned a doorknob. She wore a nametag that said ENID, but I knew her name already, though I’m not sure how.
“Here we are, Mrs Turner.”
“Oh, please, call me Charlotte.”
“Sure,” she said, directing me inside.
I went in. “How delightful.”
“I’m glad you think so. This is the Welcome Room. You’ll be here for one night and then assumed into the program with the others tomorrow. Go ahead and get yourself a shower and changed. You’ll find a set of clothes on the dresser. I’ll be back with your supper later on.”
“Thank you,” I said, turning back to the door, only to find it shut.
It was a single bedroom, much like what I imagine you’d find in a nicer hotel (I’ve never stayed in a hotel, but I’ve seen them on my daytime programs). There was a lamp by the bed and filigree wallpaper that walked a precarious line between beautiful and hideous. Seeing as I was powerless to change the decor, I resolved right then that it fell on the side of beautiful. It was a nice change from the dull floral print in our bedroom at home, which was unquestionably hideous, though I’d never say as much to Andrew because he picked it out. So that was that: the wallpaper in the Welcome Room was beautiful. I traced my eyes over its elaborate loops and swirls from one side of the room to the other.
There was a little notepad on the desk and a fat purple marker to write with – probably so nobody could stab themselves with it. Popping off the lid, I wondered if it was wide enough to wedge inside my windpipe – not that I was seriously considering it, but I’m sure others had. The so-called “hard cases.” I thought about doodling something, but nothing came to mind. I don’t remember ever taking art lessons.
I took a shower as I’d been instructed, using the bottles of soap and shampoo that were provided. Both were pungent, with herbal tones so strong that I tasted them as I scrubbed. I wasted no time rinsing, stepped out, and wrapped my body in towels.
The facility-issued clothes sat atop the dresser. Holding them up, I was presented with a delightfully whimsical costume. It was mostly a dress. The material was heavy white fabric with thin sections of ruching going down the bodice, over the silhouette, and all the way to the hemline, as well as a high collar and long lantern sleeves. Two rows of buttons ran up the front from waist to neck. I spread it out on the bed and lifted the skirt. Sewn in at the waistline were leggings in a waffle weave, like thermal underwear, except thicker. My first thought was to be thankful for anything that would battle the chill. My second was of how difficult this was going to make using the bathroom. My bladder is famously petite.
I put on the ill-fitting panties and unhelpful bra provided, then lay back on the mattress, gathered the dress, and worked my feet into the attached leggings. Next, I got my shoulders and arms into the blouse and spent a considerable effort securing its many buttons. Short of breath and standing before the small mirror above the dresser, I felt transported deep into the history of somewhere.
Sitting stiffly on the bed, I angled into the pillow to preserve my windpipe beneath the unyielding collar. Still, the dress antagonized my throat, so I moved to the desk beneath the window. I found a posture that suited both dress and neck, then took in the view. Outside it was utterly still, undisturbed by the little robins and house finches and crows that usually stay for winter. It was barren and stale out there, clear to the horizon. Even the clouds hung static in the sky. The parking lot seemed fake, like those in the village center of a model train set. I half expected the hand of a giant child to reach down and start zooming them around. That was a nice thought – a child at play.
Cutting a black band through the snow beyond the parking lot was the road Andrew and I had traveled to get here from Hay Springs. Though the trip
ended with our temporary separation and my institutionalization, the drive had been lovely; Andrew was so sweet and accommodating. We’d listened to my favorite music for nearly the whole trip, with him joining in as I sang the words. We talked more than we had in months, mainly about our future – assuming my treatment went as planned – and even indulged in debating baby names! By the time we arrived, I was sparking with anticipation. Yes, there were nerves – I had come for psychiatric care, after all – but also the hope of new beginnings. Even as we parted, there was so much excitement.
I remained at the window until Enid returned. She smelled like those oils that are supposed to be good for you. Eventual oils, I think they’re called. ...
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