All, of course, die of natural causes—according to the records kept in the dusty basement. Their only company is a redheaded ghost who only shows herself to the select few staff members; the ones she has chosen, whom she knows will meet a certain fate. Otherwise, the far-fetched stories and twisted truths sit in the dark, never to be examined except by the too curious worker. Curiosity kills more than cats at Redwood, though.
Clearly, those of us privy to the ins and outs of the asylum, however, know the truth that the records do not divulge. Undoubtedly, a fair share of deaths at Redwood are of natural causes; the natural deadening of the mind after decades of misuse, the decaying of a body that does little other than rest in solitude, and the passing of diseases amongst the residents who are forgotten by the world. Still, for every natural death at Redwood, there is at least one resident who met a more sinister fate. The Drowning Girl, for example, is one of the most infamous. There are many others lost in the sea of hidden memories, many names of the murdered who have been covered up in order to protect their murderers.
There is one homicide, though, that took place in the walls of the asylum, that has not been forgotten—by residents, by ghostly patrons, by the whispers of the staff. And most of all, within the psyches of the doctors, for in the 1950s, one of their own fell victim to the sinister ways of Redwood.
Officially, Dr. Woolstone died of a heart attack. A terrible tragedy, the random heart attack striking on Christmas Eve. In the asylum late at night making his rounds like the patron saint of the hospital that he loudly proclaimed he was—a ridiculous notion, I assure you—Dr. Woolstone was found dead in the hallway, clutching his chest. A terrible loss for all, but especially the institution.
What the newspapers and the staff did not reveal, not even to his own family, was the true nature of his death. It was no sudden onset of heart palpitations that took him down, no sad twist of fate.
It was murder. Pure and simple.
A rusty pair of scissors gleaming in his heart. That was the heart attack that claimed Dr. Woolstone. And it was none other than his favorite patient, his Little Dove, as he called her. Rachel.
The black-haired girl was a stain on society, according to her parents. Her melancholic behavior turned violent the July they turned her back in to Redwood, which had been her home at the tender age of nine thanks to a few too many run-ins with the neighborhood’s pets and a few too many social suicide behaviors. But that summer, according to her mother and sister, two gems in society, Rachel tried to kill her own family. And thus, she was sent for help and care that only Redwood could give.
In other words, she was sent to the shadows so her sister could carry on the family reputation peacefully, reputably, and with a financially sound pick to carry on the legacy. Something her sister, Rachel, who besides a penchant for killing neighborhood animals had a penchant for kissing members of the same sex, a scandalously perilous choice in her time according to her family, could not carry out.
The walls of Redwood closed in on Rachel. The staff claim she was a vile girl with horrific, black markings on her soul. Some whispered voices, though, claimed that Dr. Woolstone had more than a tenderhearted appreciation for Rachel’s plight; some claim he tended to offer therapy of the sexual kind when the lights at Redwood went out. Whatever it was, Rachel found a way to forever silence his perverse urges.
Officially, no one knows how the scissors got to her room. Someone does know certainly. But no investigation led to the true source. I would like to think that the person who armed Rachel was too wise, too spectacularly cunning to get caught. Regardless of the details of how it happened, Rachel was armed and was inherently dangerous. Thus, as the Christmas carols welcomed in the savior’s birth, Rachel plunged the scissors deep into the illustrious asylum doctor’s chest, forever silencing him in the night. Then, she turned the scissors on herself, leaving an eerie ornament behind to remind her family of the wrongs they had done.
Unlike many souls at Redwood, Rachel does not make her presence known frequently. Although last year, one of Rachel’s descendants was committed for a short period of time in the asylum, and that Christmas, the screams from her room seemed to alert the staff to an unearthly presence.
That girl didn’t last long. She was too weak for the walls of Redwood. Or maybe she was too strong. Because in some ways, it seems the strongest of Redwood’s residents find a way out—even though it is not a way back to the world of the living.
Rachel’s legacy lives on, though, in the whispered tellings amongst the staff and certainly in the back of each current doctor’s mind. Because sometimes, the residents do find a way to rise up. Sometimes the prisoners seize the power. And sometimes, they have help doing it.
The humans of Redwood might not understand all the intricate occurrences and malevolent plots in the place, but they do know one thing, at least the smart ones do: a weary soul, a restless spirit, claims a certain amount of power, too.
Chapter Thirteen
In the corner room of floor five, Anna tended to my scratches with the medical kit and a touch of tenderness. I sat quietly, my nerves calmed.
“What made him so upset?” Anna asked as she bandaged the scratches, even though I insisted it would be fine.
I eyed her from underneath the fringe of my bangs. Hesitation crowded into my heart and mind. Should I trust her? I shook my head as she tenderly wrapped the scratches. I really was
