Witness and Worship | An Outlast Document

Chapter One ❖ The Break In

Night is just beginning to fall, a curtain being pulled across the sky by invisible hands. The bushes and trees that surround the car on either side blot out the last tendrils of sunlight, and a low-lying fog skirts the ground. I've never really liked the dark - never liked its cold sense of foreboding, the way it grabs you like a tight, suffocating blanket, the way it hides what might be lurking just a few feet away, but I have to do this.

A man's flat voice drones from the radio, talking about an infestation of 'boxelder bugs' in Arapaho Park. We had been listening to a few albums by The Killers, belting out the lyrics to Mr Brightside and Battle Born. We managed to get through all four albums, and attempted to listen to the radio, but eventually we dissolved into silence. I wish I'd brought along some epic movie soundtrack so we feel less like we're going to hell on earth and more on an adventure to Mordor... OK, maybe not.

Miles is silent as he drives, his eyes focused on the narrow dirt road. He's pretty quiet; hardly said a thing since we left a run-down motel in Missouri in the small hours of the morning and started the gruelling drive up to Colorado. In fact, the most he's said in the past hour is the occasional "Sorry!" as the car bounces along the road. I don't mind though. I prefer to lose myself in my own thoughts.

Then the news reporter's voice garbles and gives way to a hiss of static. Miles frowns and turns it off, then reaches across to the dashboard to switch his phone on. "No reception," he mutters, and turns his eyes back to the road.

I'd meant to text Mom and Dad and tell them we were almost at the asylum, but I guess we got too far into the mountains to be anywhere near a cell tower. Annoying, but hopefully we won't be here long enough for it to be a problem. If anything does go wrong, we can always get back to Miles' jeep and drive to the nearest town.

"Hey, look," he says, taking his hand off the steering wheel to gesture to an old sign at the side of the road.

I can't quite make out the words yet, but as he rounds the bend, I gasp. A brick fence topped with loops of barbed wire. A building that stretches into the sky, completely dark except for a few lights in random windows.

Mount Massive Asylum.

With a quick glance the fuel gauge, Miles says, "We'll have to find a gas station pretty soon when we leave. I'm down to one bar."

He slows and parks just inside the gate, where we're greeted by a small guard's station and a boom barrier. It doesn't look like it's been used for years - decrepit and empty, though on the building there's a camera that pivots back and forth. A dud designed to deter nosy reporters and potential rubberneckers, or a real, working camera?

We sit there in silence for a moment, taking in the grandeur of the asylum. It does look beautiful, 19th-century-inspired architecture silhouetted against the final wisps of orange sunset. But we know it's not a nice place. There's a file on the dashboard that outlines roughly what's been happening here over the past few weeks, though it's more likely to be years now.

"You OK, Carmen?" Miles asks.

I look up to see him watching me, not looking particularly concerned, but just sort of curious. A deep shudder runs through me, even though the temperature of the car is pretty warm, and I nod. "Yeah, I'll be OK."

He reaches over and pats my hand, a little awkwardly, then grabs his bag from the back seat. He pulls out a video camera, a notepad and a couple of batteries. "I was going to have you take notes while we were here, but I think it'll look a bit suspicious if I'm busy talking to the staff and you're behind me scribbling away. Besides, it looks like it might be a bit dark. Has your phone got enough charge to be able to take some videos?" He pops the batteries into the camera and switches it on while I check my phone.