For years, I’ve read about the cruelties of Mendhurst Asylum. I could recite the names of the doctors who performed the lobotomies and the patients who vanished without a trace. But, the history isn't important right now. It is about a single name, a patient number, and the truth hidden somewhere in the morgue’s refrigerated depths. The darkness may be home to more than just animals.
The asylum was dilapidated, the walls and ceilings were crumbling from years of sitting without usage. The paint on the walls was peeling, and the holes in the walls were home to rats, mice, and even racoons if they could fit. The rails of the beds, and staircases were a dark orange, rusty color. The medical equipment still stayed motionless in the rooms, almost like the people would be back in a few minutes, not centuries.
Elliot Ashford, the local historian of the town of Holdensville, pulled up in a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala. The asylum was very rundown, since it hadn't been used since the 1920’s, and Elliot jumped out of the car, his outfit didn't really match the car, wearing jeans and a very worn t-shirt. A small book was on the dashboard, the title being “History of Mendhurst Asylum” although it was just a small notebook that he added to every few days if he found anything new.
The wind whistled in his ears, and he smiled, looking up at Mendhurst although he saw a little girl rushing past the window. Elliot blinked, and the girl was gone. Elliot blinked, the sun blasting his eyes. He walked towards the door, but not before a small chunk of the building fell off, almost hitting him.
The asylum was dilapidated, the walls and ceilings were crumbling from years of sitting without usage. The paint on the walls was peeling, and the holes in the walls were home to rats, mice, and even racoons if they could fit. The rails of the beds, and staircases were a dark orange, rusty color. The medical equipment still stayed motionless in the rooms, almost like the people would be back in a few minutes, not centuries.
Elliot Ashford, the local historian of the town of Holdensville, pulled up in a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala. The asylum was very rundown, since it hadn't been used since the 1920’s, and Elliot jumped out of the car, his outfit didn't really match the car, wearing jeans and a very worn t-shirt. A small book was on the dashboard, the title being “History of Mendhurst Asylum” although it was just a small notebook that he added to every few days if he found anything new.
The wind whistled in his ears, and he smiled, looking up at Mendhurst although he saw a little girl rushing past the window. Elliot blinked, and the girl was gone. Elliot blinked, the sun blasting his eyes. He walked towards the door, but not before a small chunk of the building fell off, almost hitting him.