Seven-X (2 page)

“How?” I asked, feeling her nervous energy puncture me.

“You know, the folk in the wood who lived up near there, all moved out. Or disappeared. Some we just never heard from. And nobody says nothing.”

“Why you think?” I asked, seeing her hesitate for a moment before scurrying to the window again, looking out carefully for signs of trouble. 

She took a deep breath… then slowly walked back and sat down across from me, staring at me with eyes that reminded me of a wounded animal. In choppy breaths, she continued her story.

“They were scared to death… Evil things go on… Some folk say they heard hell rising. Demons running wild… You can never… tell anyone I told you. Promise!”

“I won’t. You can tell me anything.” I said, touching her hand gently, to reassure her of my intentions.

“Alright. You have kind eyes,” she replied, standing up and nervously taking out a rag to wipe off the coffee that missed my cup.

“Anything else peculiar, you notice?” I asked, feeling there was something beneath her charred surface.

“Well… I did see prison trucks roll on by here at night. Mostly down that back road,” she revealed, gesturing with her head cocked toward the back door.

That perked me up more than the coffee, knowing clues to my investigation were bubbling up all around me. I was on to something. My gut was right. 

She finished wiping the table and began to make her way past me when I stopped her and asked, “You know if any came through here recently.”

She hesitated, trying to read me for trust. “Not that I know of,” she whispered. “But, a man did come by in a uniform, while back, looking for that hospital. You know…No one can figure out them roads up there, all curvy and crisscrossed. They don’t want nobody up there. That other one, he ain’t been back.”

“Was he a Spanish guy?” I asked.

“I think so… yessiree!” she exclaimed excitedly.

“Was his name Renaldo?”

She paused for a moment, thinking hard, then scanned the room again like she was trying to listen for the answer. 

“Rings a bell,” She fluttered. Then, her eyes sort of bugged out as she burst with this vein of knowledge. She bent down and looked me dead in the eye saying, “Know what. I just heard him. Jose. His name is Jose!”

“You what? You heard what?” I said, trying to gauge her sanity. She squinted as if listening to someone whisper in her ear. Then she closed her eyes softly and squatted down in front of me as we engulfed this ominous breath of silence together. After a moment, she casually responded, “No. Sorry…He said Ose. Not Jose.” She paused again. “Yep. Ose! He called you. I just heard him.”

“What?” I answered, confused. 

She was zeroing in on something, darting into my eyes with direct contact. “Listen! He’s saying Eddie. Hey Eddie.”

“I don’t hear nothing, “I told her, not tipping my hat to signs of her lunacy. 

“Well he said it again! Eddie that’s you, right?” She asked.

“Yeah.  That’s me.”

Then she broke contact, got up and walked toward the back door. “Maybe he’s round back.” 

“Sure you heard that?” I asked.

“I swear I did! I heard a voice say ‘Eddie. Hey Eddie.’ Then he just said, ‘It’s Ose. I’m coming for ya.”

“Okay,” Was all I could muster as she looked out the door.

Then in a flash, she locked it tightly and excused herself into the kitchen saying, “Well. You be careful up there. That place is the heartbeat of hell. If you want more coffee, just holler.”

And with that she disappeared into the kitchen. All I wanted was coffee and Internet service. But Aida Mae, my psychic waitress, hears voices calling me.  She wasn’t this scatterbrained on my first visit, or was she? 

Maybe I didn’t notice. Maybe I didn’t remember. I was focused on finding Annette Dobson and that hasn’t changed. I need to get answers.

I pulled out my file from my first trip and reviewed the forms again, to see whether there were any red flags or fine print I should be aware of before I check into Uphir.

Looking through, I notice the name Reverend William H. Billings. I have no idea why he’s on this agreement as the counselor in charge of assessing my spiritual condition. I don’t remember approving this consent. Then there’s Dr. Alan Haworth, into whose hands I’m signing myself away. I only spent a few minutes interviewing him on my first visit to Uphir, before being escorted away. 

Dr. Haworth has a lean, grey haired sophistication wrapped with green eyes that dart into you.  It was like a chess match talking with him. He interviewed me more than I did him. He wanted to know what I really wanted. What was I doing there? How did I find him? I played his game, but didn’t get the answers I wanted about him, and I’m not sure if he got what he wanted out of me. 

I usually get something, some sort of clue that helps me unravel the real story. But this boy’s good. He has that power of diversion where unconsciously the conversation always seems to tip in his favor.

About a week after my visit with him, I got this
Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory
in the mail with a P.O. Box from Dell City to return it. This thing was about fifty pages with A few hundred “Yes” or “No” questions and very repetitive, like one of those dumb ass corporate job applications. 

Needless to say, I knew who it was and what they wanted.  So I filled out Haworth’s
MMPI
and mailed it back to him. 

Three days ago I got this ‘
open hous
e’ invitation to come to Uphir to cover his story. 

So here I am, sitting, waiting for the answers. And now I got them. I got everything I need. I know what I have to do.  

 I’m signing my
Consent Of Voluntary Commitment
, a
Liability Release
and heading into what Aida Mae calls “The Heartbeat Of Hell.”

AUDIO LOG, AUDIO LOG, 

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 8, 2010 1:30 PM

(Entered by Eddie Hansen, 12-8-10 at 8:30 pm with additional notes.)

If Dell City is
Back To The Future 1
, and I drove back into the 1950’s, then Uphir is
Back To The Future 3
 and my rental car must be a Delorian. The deeper I disappear into these woods the farther back in time I travel, because I just drove smack into the 1850’s. 

The building before me is epic. A historical landmark from an age of mad scientists, lunatic asylums, and blood letting. A remnant lost in time, but now restored to the glory of the spirit that lives inside. A spirit or a feeling that somehow is taking hold of me. As I stand here, I am in both in awe and respect for the millions of stones laid on top of each other to create this masterpiece in history.

Deep inside this heart of nowhere is this massive colony of Gothic Architecture, hidden between mountains, sprawled across acres of dead land, forgotten in time, but now rediscovered with my own eyes. This building is alive! I feel it. I feel its force, its power, and its majesty. I feel its breath as if the stones are ready to speak to me and tell me their story.

Long before I was born, this place was breathing with unspoken tales of terror. I know it. I feel it. Every part of my body trembled with anticipation as I reached the massive arched doorway that would welcome me inside.

A nurse greeted me, ordained in uniform of that golden age. It was more than by design; it was by choice. Her friendly greeting and forced smile led me to believe something was quite different here. My inquisitive nature forced me to step inside.

As we walked down the long, cold hallway, she was silent. I could think of nothing to say to break the awkward sound of our pounding footsteps echoing down the corridor. I merely observed the architecture with reverence as I saw my breath pour out before me with each footstep. Clouds of smoky air reminded me that my body was alive and much warmer inside than my new environment.

Soon enough, I could feel the air begin to grow warmer and the sound of a heater filled the room I was about to enter.

“The Doctor will be with you momentarily,” the nurse told me. “Take a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

And with that she left me there, in a room of wonderment, staring at the ghosts of this place. Pictures and paintings adorned the walls of people I neither knew nor ever heard of. A warrior, a philosopher, a family portrait, they were all dead now, and the only memory of them were these portraits, painstakingly painted by hand, not some digital flash of random numbers which create the instant images we see today.

This painting was created by someone who spent endless hours observing their subject and applying precise strokes of paint in patterns to replicate what their mind said was the essence of the person who stood before them.

And with that thought in walked Dr. Alan Haworth. Finally, I was face to face with him again. This time inside the heart of his domain.

“Sir Richard Andrews,” he told me. “The designer of this magnificent structure. We strive to maintain his spirit, to restore the glory of such a time when men would adhere to noble causes. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Sure,” I told him not fully comprehending his statement, but playing along.

“Please come in,” Haworth stated as he led me inside his personal office. It’s the kind of room that is purposely designed to make you feel inferior. I took a seat at his command, a bit below him, on a plush 19th Century crimson chair, looking up across his massive mahogany desk. I had to shift myself to see him clearly past all his impressive credentials and this peculiar statue of a leopard attacking a man.

He sat there draped in the finest linens of that bygone era. Like Daniel Day Lewis in Gangs of New York or one of those Ivory Merchant Films, Haworth was indeed a character of great magnitude.

“Your papers please,” he stated as he leaned back in his chair. I placed my signed consent forms on his desk, while he quietly observed me. To capture the moment, I pulled out my digital recorder and asked. “Do you mind if I turn this on?”

“Not at all,” Haworth responded, acting colloquial when I knew he had motives behind everything he said. He continued. “Welcome to Uphir, Mr. Hansen. During your stay you may record when given permission and at no other time. Do you agree to this?”

“Sure,” I told him, gaining the sudden realization that I had no other choice.

“Then let’s begin,” He replied, staring at me as he picked up a pen and maneuvered his note pad and case file just out of my line of sight.

I turned on my recorder and stated, “This is Eddie Hansen. It’s Wednesday, December 8th, 2010. I am at the Uphir Behavioral Health Center in Uphir, Texas speaking with Dr. Alan Haworth.”

“Correct,” he interrupted making sure to control the conversation and stop me when he desired. “Edward Thomas Hansen. You are of sound mind and body. You are currently not under the influence of medication, alcohol, or drugs. You enter this facility voluntarily and under your own free will.”

“Yes,” I replied watching him read me beneath my answers.

He continued, “And you will submit to my procedures for your care during your stay here. Yes. Is this true?”

Here is where it got weird. Parts of my interview are not on this memory card. As I play back my recording, all I hear is hissing from this point on. Every once in awhile I hear this low rumble and a muffled voice breaking through the static.

As I sat there with Haworth, I felt like there were eyes all over me. More than just the hundreds of cameras that seemed to be planted in every corner of the institution. There was a presence, or a strong feeling that someone else was in the room with us. Maybe it was Rev. Billings watching, because about five minutes later he came into the room fully informed of not just my conversation with Haworth, but of our past meeting and my present agenda.

This guy spooked me. If Haworth was looking into me, Billings was looking through me. He looked more like a football player than some priest. He had this hulking stillness wrapped in a pinstripe suit, which sat in direct defiance to the whole 19th century theme Haworth had going on. Reverend Billings looked like he had seen it all and nothing was going to faze him. He was eyeballing me hard, trying to penetrate me deeper than my emotional or mental, cognitive capacity.

Billings was examining my essence or spirit man as he called it. I’ll be honest; I was uncomfortable in that room, with these two playing good cop-bad cop, dissecting my mind and spirit as it was a game.

Haworth said they needed a comprehensive assessment of my total being if I was to be allowed full access to the facility, from my childhood memories to my family medical history, they drilled me on it all.

Then Billings said I would see and hear things that I won’t be able to explain or rationalize with my senses and that I needed to trust them and their procedures completely. And finally Haworth concluded that I must be fully prepared to protect myself. Protect myself. Seriously!

At this point I was ready to pop Haworth in the head. His even toned probing of me was bashing my nerves, but I kept my cool. I listened as they continued interrogating my psyche. Sitting there, the lingering scent of sulfur burned through my nostrils, waking me to the fact that I needed to fight to maintain control of this situation and never let my guard down. So I began to dissect their strategies and formulate my plan to get the answers I needed to break this case.

I’m thinking, and stop me if I’m paranoid, that they have some sort of white noise generator, like inside a military facility to control any digital communication in and out of the facility, including my recordings.

Because after about fifteen minutes of this static our conversation came back clearly. My memory now clenches onto the subject matter as I hear Reverend Billings speaking. 

“The gateway to demonic forces is a thin veil covering a realm that influences most human beings. Do you believe that a mere thought can act as a core element in the infiltration and possession of demonic hosts?”

“No,” I answered firmly.

Then Dr. Haworth interjected with his air of superiority. “Would you care to elaborate, Mr. Hansen?”