I drove up to an elaborate entryway that dominated the center of the structure. Two wings—east and west—extended from either side, sweeping back along bleak, snow-covered grounds like long tentacles. The central portion of the building housed the admissions area, several administrative offices, and access to the two wings. I knew from the research I’d done prior to leaving the house that, at one time, the less dangerous patients were kept in rooms close to the central area, while the worst criminals were relegated to the furthest recesses of the wings. But that was back when the facility was full, overpopulated even.
Currently, only seventy patients resided at Willow Point. And because of the reduced numbers, the entire west wing had been shut down. Looking at it now, it appeared flat-out abandoned. I swung the car into a wide arc and then backed into a space across from the portico at the main entrance.
Apart from the ones in the center of the building, all of the windows were covered in wire mesh and thick metal bars. The bars on the operational side—the east wing—looked thick and impenetrable. But the bars on the abandoned west wing windows were in disrepair. Many were bent or pulled down at awkward angles, some missing all together.
Those empty windows looked like gaping eyes of black, crying broken shards of glass. It was positively bizarre to turn to the operational half of a building, see a facility clearly in use, and then twist back the other way and see nothing but a decrepit eyesore. It was somewhat unsettling, like half the place was alive, and the other half dead.
When the west wing was first shut down, the public had questioned the wisdom of keeping criminally insane patients in such close proximity to an abandoned wasteland. But officials took care to assure the masses that the wing no longer in use had been completely sealed off from the main facility.
I wondered about that now as I turned off the ignition and got out of the car. A lone guard patrolled the barbed-wire perimeter on the east wing side, the side I was closest to. But nobody patrolled the west side. I expected to see more personnel, more guards, but I’d also read that there were only a limited number of staff up here nowadays. And that certainly appeared to be the case.
Rock salt covering the front steps crunched beneath my boots as I approached a heavy-looking metal door. There was a buzzer to the left. I pressed it and waited to be admitted. While I stood waiting, I glanced around some more.
I couldn’t help but focus on the creepy west wing, the abandoned side. It was such a mess, but hard to take your eyes off of. A cluster of black spray-painted letters, up between the fourth and fifth floors, drew my eye. Someone had scrawled “help me” under a window. A rusted and hanging bar dangled next to the unsettling words. Had a vandal written the plea, or a patient? The latter made me shiver. How had a person gotten up so high? Or had the individual already been up there?
I imagined some distraught patient, hanging out the window, a bottle of spray paint in hand. But no, that couldn’t be right. The bars would’ve been in place when patients lived there, and why would they have access to spray paint. I pulled my coat tighter. Ugh. There was something unnerving about the cryptic message.
When I was finally let into the building, I was checked in again, and then told I’d have to wait a few minutes to go up to see Ami, who was apparently held up on the fourth floor. I sat down on a bench and tried to pass the time. But I just couldn’t get the “help me” out of my head. Why hadn’t someone scrubbed the area clean? I was pretty sure I knew the reason, though, lack of funding.
Willow Point had always been plagued with too many patients and too few funds. That plight had given rise to many of the stories and rumors I’d heard growing up, stories that detailed the atrocities and deplorable conditions at Willow Point. The tales from the early days were perhaps the worst.
Only decades ago, treatment for the mentally ill, particularly the criminally insane, was often barbaric. Torture and brutality in such facilities were commonplace. Patients were subjected to ice cold baths, electroshock therapy, even lobotomies. A doctor on staff at Willow Point in the 1940s supposedly performed several hundred lobotomies, right here in the building I now sat in.
A fluorescent light above me buzzed loudly and flickered, making me jump. Jeez, this place was getting to me; I wished they’d hurry things along. The sooner I visited with Ami, the sooner I could get the hell out of this creepy establishment.
Thankfully, my name was called. “Ms. Fitch?” I looked up to see a nurse. “If you’re ready, I can take you up now to see Mrs. Hensley.”
“I’m ready,” I said tightly as I stood.
The nurse passed me off to a different nurse when we reached the fourth floor. The second nurse, a matronly lady with her graying hair in a bun, introduced herself as Nurse Allen. She led me down a hall and to a recreation room of sorts. My heart sped up when we reached the open doorway and I spotted Ami. I couldn’t help my response. Even under guard—there was one at the door—my former best friend still frightened me after what had happened in the lighthouse. I faltered a little, and the nurse gave me a questioning look.
“I’m fine,” I assured her.
Nurse Allen walked into the room, with me trailing behind. Ami looked different. Her long, blonde hair had been cut short. It lay in sort of a bob, framing her face. She wore no makeup and appeared tired, but I had to say she still looked kind of pretty.
Ami glanced up as we approached. “You came,” she said, surprise evident
