The Killer Among Us

Chapter 37

Four days left

Jacob

The mind is a powerful tool, it can strengthen you and it can drive you into the ground. My own mind had grown untrustworthy, however. Reality had become distorted, blurred. It had felt as if my own eyes betrayed me, seeing things that weren't there and fanning my illusions. I remember reading that people see through the lens of their own trauma, creating their own subjective reality.

As I drove to Tree of Life Sanitarium in the morning hours of yet another day without Aria, I wondered what kind of people resided in that mental institution. Somehow I feared that they would not be any different from me, broken and hurt people that were being treated for the demons that were poisoning their minds. Maybe, I thought, if I stepped foot into the institution, I would never get out, and maybe, just maybe, that would have been for the better.

In front of the building a weeping willow hung its heavy head low, burdened with the grey clouds that hovered low in the melancholy sky. Looking at it, I understood where it had gotten its name from.

A massive historic gate surrounded the worn down building, built from numerous red bricks. It stood between me and the dark, weathered sanitarium like a warning sign, causing me to feel weary. I wondered what the purpose of the fence was. Were they trying to keep people from getting out or were they trying to keep people from getting in?

I swallowed hard as I reached out to ring the bell at the main entrance when I suddenly saw, faintly in the corner of my eyes, a head of blonde curls walking towards me. I could have sworn that I heard Ava's enchanting giggle, yet when I turned around she wasn't there. The streets were empty, the mist of rain painting the area in a grey and sinister undertone.

I shook my head, banishing the hallucinations from poisoning my sanity, what was left of it anyway. Then I rang the golden bell.

Immediately, a faint buzzer sounded and a stern female voice blasted through the old intercom, "Tree of Life Sanitarium, how may I help you?"

"Eh, yes. Hello. I am here for the visiting hours," I announced in a shaky voice.

She sighed heavily, "Name?"

"Jesse," I stuttered, "Jesse Todd."

Then, without further inquiry, the gate creaked open and I walked inside hesitantly.

Walking up the dusty porch, I felt a sinister heaviness, as if shadows were hiding in the dark, watching me.

It was eerily quiet when I entered the main hall. Somehow it was huge and yet I still felt claustrophobic, like the place captured me, pressing down on my mind from all sides. It was almost as if they had already put the straight jacket on me. It made me wonder, could they tell, just by looking at someone, how unstable they were on the inside?

If you listened carefully, you could hear the faint screams of delusional minds echo off the ancient walls. They were yelling, laughing maniacally, groaning in frustration. In the day room to my right you could see patients in their stained hospital robes struggling to put together a jigsaw, playing the piano out of tune, staring mindlessly out of the windows. Some just rocked back and forth in their chairs, dazed and confused.

I stood there for a while, when one of the patients suddenly caught my eye, a young woman, with a buzz shaved head. She returned my gaze slowly, when she suddenly mouthed the word, "Run," making shivers run down my spine. A nurse came up from behind her, leading her to sit at the table with some other patients.

I wouldn't have been surprised if someone told me that I had travelled back in time, back to the 70s maybe. The whole atmosphere appeared to be frozen in time. The nurses were wearing light grey uniforms that would reach just above their knees, with white aprons that were cinched at the waist. A white cap was pinned into their neatly combed back hair. They were all young and yet their eyes were empty, distant from reality.

The older lady that was working at the slightly illuminated reception desk cleared her throat, "Can I help you?" Her tone was sharp, straight to the point, and yet she didn't look up from the stack of papers she was flipping through.

With a slow pace I approached the window, a guest log on the counter caught my eyes immediately. My fingers were itching to scour the pages for any clues.

The lady peaked up, not looking through her narrow glasses that hung low on her prominent nose. It was that kind of nose, that kind of face, that fit the personality of a person without questions, almost as if their character, the way they carried themselves, was predestined, carved into their DNA.

"Yes, actually," I responded in a polite tone, shooting her a small smile. "I'm here to visit some -"

Before I finished my sentence, she interrupted, "Name?"

"Uh- Ian," I tried to sound casual. "Ian Brooks?"

She flipped through some paperwork for a moment before finally stating, this time a little less confident, "Ian Brooks was signed out years ago."

Then, as if I wasn't still standing in front of her, she moved on to the stack of her papers.

I didn't know what I had expected. Surely, if he was indeed the killer, he wouldn't still be a patient in a sanitorium and yet I hoped for something more, something tangible.

Again, I asked in a confused tone, "Excuse me? May I ask if you have any information on him? His address, maybe?"

She chuckled to herself slightly, "No, I'm afraid I can't help you with that."

Self control is a finite resource, one I didn't have a lot left of, so instead of accepting my defeat, I put my right arm on the counter of the reception, leaned in closer and said, trying to make the urgency of my situation evident in my tone and demeanor, "Look, I know that it's probably against your policy, but -"

"It is," she fell in my words for the second time, fanning the flame of my anger.

"As I was saying," I cleared my throat, "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, so if you could just help me out with -"

"I can't."

With a heavy thud, I slammed my fist onto the reception desk but she didn't even flinch.

From the corner of my eye, I saw someone approaching and I had to swallow hard to not burst out into utter rage. When I turned, I saw a young woman in a white lab coat coming closer, an understanding look on her pretty face. The name tag that was pinned to her chest read, "Dr. Garcia."

"Hey there," she started, throwing her long brown hair over her shoulder, "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Yes, actually," I cleared my throat, adjusting my leather jacket. "I am looking for someone."

She nodded sympathetically, holding out her hand and I shook it firmly.

"Okay," she smiled, "Why don't you just give me the name and I'll see what I can do?"

If the word trustworthy was a person, it would have been Dr. Garcia. Everything about her oozed kindness and sympathy, from her relaxed posture to her soft voice to the pronounced dimples that decorated her cheeks when she smiled.

Slowly, I turned my whole body to her and uttered his name silently, "Ian Brooks."

Her hazel eyes widened in what I could only describe as disbelief, maybe even panic.

She pursed her plump lips together, coming in close, "Why don't we take this to my office?"

Her voice was sincere and urgent. She underlined the urgentness of the situation by placing her hand on my shoulder, squeezing it ever so slightly. Almost instantaneously I realised that she knew exactly who I was talking about, but did she know who Ian Brooks really was and what he did in the peril of night? There was only one way to find out and if I really wanted to obtain the information this pretty doctor potentially possessed, I had to play my cards right.