Mad is a relative word. I hope our tale has helped you see that. For over the centuries I have walked these ancestral halls, I have come to appreciate this fact more than anything. It is more prominent than the need for revenge, the thirst for justice, or the hunger for blood. I suppose all any of us left here at Redwood want is for society to understand that no single person can be a true judge of the extent of madness.
How many of us locked up in the horrifying walls of Redwood over the years could be deemed mad, even if we are from the sanest stock and family of highest regard?
On a winding road, concealed in a dark forest of overpowering trees and forgotten memories, sits a seemingly ancient building. It began with good intentions in 1834, if misguided by the cruel realities of medicine at the time. We cannot always fault people for being who they are in the time they are born into.
Still, we can fault the people who choose to seize power over others, who choose to torment and torture and abuse. Such has been the history of Redwood. Such is the modern tale of the place that has turned from an insane asylum to a psychiatric hospital to an entrepreneurial scheme for the black market of human beings. No wonder the place is so haunted—what other place like it exists or ever has existed? I shudder to think of it. The world is an evil place filled with those who are not to be trusted. The naïve, gentle souls are the ones, I have found, that get chewed up and spit out by Lucifer himself.
Such was my own story. I am no stranger to the perils of Redwood. I was there in the early days, and I have been lurking in the hallways ever since my unfortunate death within the stone-cold walls. My tale, though, is one for another time. It is an intriguing tale, of course, for it involves a lost love, the Weathergates, and insanity. Certainly, though, we all feel our own tales are intriguing, I suppose.
For now, I see it as my truest, most dedicated occupation to keep an eye on the hallowed, haunted ground. To share the stories of those misfortunate enough to call the asylum home. And more than that, to guide the wayward souls who have not yet found peace, especially those of the children. I have always had a soft spot for them, as they often have so few happy memories before their time at Redwood. At least I have some peaceful moments to reflect on. At least I had moments of joy before it all went horribly wrong.
I am the mother of the souls who came after me, the others who were killed in these chilled walls. I am the head guide of the spirits who cannot pass on. We wander the halls together. I was not the first death at Redwood, but I certainly was not the last, either. I take my role with a pride and a sense of duty. There are many of us, in truth. And we all have different aims. Some of us play with the visitors, with the staff. Some of us are as harmless in this life as we were in the one prior. We simply are not ready to part or cannot part or will not part from the place we last breathed in.
For some of us, we have found purpose in this afterlife in trying to warn others. I have spent many futile hours in the laundry, in the basement, outside the walls trying to warn those in danger of being swallowed by Redwood of the troubles here. Few listen. Many end up victims themselves, just like Jessica.
For other spirits in the halls, things are more sinister. I can understand their hatred. I do not fault them for it. After all, I have experienced the thirst for revenge, too. Revenge on those who abandoned us, revenge for the system that failed us, and revenge on the staff who sat by and watched us suffer at their hands.
I should perhaps explain that not all of the spirits are tied to the building, of course. Some come with the residents, with the workers, with the living souls at play here. The kids of 5B still stalk the halls from time to time. He is gone, but they have not received their rest. Sometimes, they taunt Jessica, but I tell them to play fair. She tried, at least. She tried to help them. And besides, she has her own haunting spirit to plague her. Poor girl. She did not deserve to die, either. Such a tragedy when fate brings upon such sadness. I should know.
But until their bodies are found and their souls laid to rest, they choose to walk the halls instead of haunting their burial site. I do not blame them. The lake, the dirt grave at Redwood, the tree that is shaped like a crooked nose, the gravesite of the darling girl’s mother. Their final resting spots are desolate and, more importantly, reminders of how they were ripped from the world. They do not deserve that.
Alas, they do not deserve Redwood, either. This is not a place for rest, after all. It is a place for revenge. And even 5B, as sick and twisted as he was, appreciated that. He tried to get them the peace they deserved. There must be some sort of redemption for a blackened soul that at least tries to right its wrongs before death.
Our numbers grow. But our strength does not, although we do try. Someday, someday perhaps we shall uncover a path to freedom from the curse that is Redwood.
Until then, all we do is sit and wait. We tell our stories. Our lurid, horrifying tales of the forgotten madness lurking at Redwood—and the sinister terrors from the living.
Not all madness gets locked up, after all. Sometimes the
