Ghost Song

They came to hurt us again. Not just me. They bring a machine specifically for this purpose. They came to hurt The Doctor and little Lulubelle, and the transient ghosts who sometimes occupy the cells. The first time they turned the machine on, I didn’t hear the screams of the others, only my own. The second time I heard them all, but mixed together. The third time I could hear each one, discreetly, distinctly.

This is the fourth time they’ve come. The first time it was just one man, carrying the machine like a child carrying a watermelon, setting it up in the entryway on a fold-out table. The second time he brought two technicians with him. The third time a whole crew, including a camera larger and more complex than any I’d ever known. They implied this camera could capture voices and movement. Now the interlopers come in force: five men and even one woman.

The machine is simple: a silver box with two dials and a switch on the back. The pain emerges from a dark portal on the side of the box. The pain comes in the form of a dissonant tone and a red mist from a dark portal on the side. The interlopers don’t appear to see the mist or hear the sound. In some ways the machine reminds me of a Vitrola, or the music box I owned as a little girl. But it is not designed to look nice, and it doesn’t play music.

Or does it… The machine produces dissonant chords that shift and tumble: a tritone, then a minor 2nd, then back to a tritone. I know these chords. I used to play them on the pianoforte. I used to vocalize the individual notes. I had forgotten this.

The leader of the interlopers is a man with cold eyes. They say his name, but names of the living slide off my mind like water off a duck. The first day he arrived with the machine, the cold-eyed man wandered around the asylum, barely making a sound. He strode the corridors, glanced in every cell, looked behind each door jamb and inside each drawer in the office. He looked everywhere, but his eyes never animated. He never appeared afraid, or interested, or anything.

The rest of the interlopers come at the behest of the cold-eyed man. Two of them are new: a tall man in a leather jacket with a strong chin who reflexively smiles at everything, and a short, blonde woman wearing a maroon scarf and bearing dark eye-makeup that makes her appear mysterious. They are speaking to each other, but I am too busy studying the newcomers to listen. Then one of the technicians turns on the machine.

Red floods the asylum. It creeps up stairwells and sinks between floor tiles. It reaches into every cell, under every door, explodes into the common area where I stand. The tumbling dissonant sound accompanies the mist like the wail of a banshee. Within seconds it surrounds me. I am tempted to run, but my feet sink into the floor.

I close my eyes. The wretched chord grows louder. What is it? E and… B-flat… and… F and F-sharp and… I am not in pain. I open my eyes. The red shrinks away. The cold-eyed man has ordered the machine turned off.

“That. Was. Amazing.” This is the tall man in the leather jacket. “How did you do it? That wind, and the cold! The way that cabinet toppled over. How? How? Wait, don’t tell me. Maybe after we do the shoot! I want to try more method acting.”

I see and hear more clearly than before. The pain woke me up. I look around. To my eye, the asylum common room is as immaculate as it’s ever been. The walls are plain, spotless white, the floor tiled olive green with black outlines. In life I hated this color scheme.

The men retreat to converse in the entryway. The short blonde woman remains, runs her hand along a door frame, a wry smile on her face. She pulls her hand away and examines the dark mark on her fingers. Clearly the asylum appears different for the interlopers: dirtier, older.

The short blonde woman goes into a routine, a practiced routine. She moves her hands in angles. She whispers, loud enough for me to hear: “I sense pain here. Suffering. I see a woman. She speaks. She said she fears a tall man with… a beard? Or a mustache?”

The woman moves her left hand over her head in a dramatic arc. For a moment I am tempted to think she sees me. Do I fear a tall man with facial hair? Did I, long ago?

“I also see two men, or three, or four. They are dressed all in white. They are angry. One has… an eyepatch, or a bandana around his head. It is red, or purple. No, not purple, black!”

I look around me. There is no group of swarthy men. There is only the doctor. I hadn’t noticed him here in the common room. He sits in a chair. He holds his wireframe glasses in one hand and stares at them. His thin lips move silently. He asks “why?”

How long had he been in the room? It is so easy to overlook my fellow departed. I turn back to the short blonde woman. She has her hand on her chin, she is considering.

“No. No.” She whispers to herself. “Focus on the woman. Who is she? What does she look like? She holds a parasol, or a small umbrella. It is pink in color, or a light purple perhaps. She is rich. She was set to inherit so her family members conspired against her. They turned her anxiety into reason to be institutionalized. Yes, that's it. She is beautiful of course. She has… blue eyes. And light brown hair… or blonde even.”

For a moment I think she sees me! The living never see me, just as they don’t see the red mist or hear the dissonant tones. I stride up to her as she talks, her eyes never focus on my form. She is a fake. She pretends to see spirits to fool others. We had them too. Speak in dramatic generalities and people will follow along. Say what people want to hear and they’ll open their purse to you. And yet… does what she said describe me?

Was I from a rich family? An heiress? No, my family were bookkeepers, educated but not wealthy. Our house was small. But I did get to dress up. I did get to be on the stage. Why? I was a singer. Of course those tones are familiar to me. I used to sing on stage. I was the center of attention. I’ve remembered this, then forgotten it, so many times.

The men return to the room. The tall man stands in the center of the common room, like he’s on a stage, facing the others. The man with the camera points to the tall man, who speaks in a theatrical tone:

“Hello, my name is Ken Buckley, Ghost Chaser. And I’m here at the Arcwood Sanitarium, long considered a nexus of intense spirit phenomena. Personally, I’m skeptical, but I’ve come here with a full crew, and a psychic, to see if we can get to the bottom of all this.”

“Cut.” This is the cold eyed man. “That was fine. Ready for ghost reaction number one?”

“Sure. Sure, let’s do it. Where do you want me?”

“Let’s move to the center of the room. Jack, move the camera to watch the windows, the hall, wherever we get the best reaction.”

I can see what they’re up to, even before the cold-eyed man points to his assistant. They are going to turn on the machine again. For the first time I anticipate. For the first time I steel my mind against the pain to come. I hear the horrid clack of the switch from the entryway. I close my eyes. I can’t see the red mist, but I feel it expanding all around me. I force my mind to seek out the dissonant chords: F, F-sharp, B, B-flat. 

I find myself humming to match the tones. It feels comfortable: I’ve trained my voice to match tones. I imagine the red mist surrounding me, probing at my skin like a swarm of biting flies. I open my mouth and inhale deeply, like I’m about to start a solo. The mist slides down my throat. I feel the sharp pain from within my body, poking me from the inside out. The pain is dulled because I have chosen how to feel it.

“Why? Why?” Someone calls out. This is the doctor. He sounds so meek, so alone. Like he has no idea that interlopers are even here.

Then I hear a girl crying, off to my left, the corner of the room. Lulubelle, it must be. She’s often in that corner, though I look so infrequently. I open my eyes to seek her out. But the red is everywhere now, thick as stage curtains. Claustrophobia overtakes me. I can still hear Lulu crying, somewhere in the sea of crimson. I reach out. I stumble. It feels like I’m not even moving. The red is intractable! I scream but can’t even hear my own voice!

“Woah! Cut! Cut! That’s too much guys, that’s way too much. Whatever you’re doing, tone it down some.”

The red falls away, like a tide receding. I fall to the ground, gasping for air. The interlopers are still there. The tall man’s eyes are wide, equal parts afraid and impressed.

“Maybe save some of that for later. Did you turn the wind machine up to the max? You almost sent an old tile into my face? And what was that scream about?”

“I heard a little girl crying.” This is the short blonde woman, the would-be psychic. Her voice is low. She looks like she might cry herself. None of the men take note of her.

The cold-eyed man walks to the tall man and whispers something to him. I rise and approach to hear. “Ghost are unpredictable,” he soothes. “You can’t always predict how they’ll react when we stir them up. But don’t worry, they’re harmless. We might need a few takes. I did tell you to leave your whole day open. We can always edit the footage. We just need lots of quality reactions, right? And now you know what I meant when I said we’re going to have a gangbusters show.” 

“Ghosts are real, huh?” The tall man shrugs, but appears placated. 

“Yes, but don’t worry. Ghosts never hurt people.”

The techs are huddled around the machine, discussing whether to turn the knobs differently, or if it matters. The short woman has her hand in front of her mouth. Her eyes are wet. She thought this was all a game and now knows that it’s not. She heard Lulu crying.

I turn to the corner, Lulu’s corner. The young girl sits there, in an old wooden chair that still stands after all these years. Her back is to me. Her mousey hair in a short bob. Why had I not thought of her earlier?

I approach. She is still crying, but softly. I kneel beside the chair. She doesn’t turn my way, her eyes are closed. I pull my head close enough to hear her whisper.

“Protect me mother. Protect me father. Protect me auntie. Protect me nurse. Protect me mother. Protect me father…”

I pull back. The urge to help her, to save her, to whisk her away to safety is so strong. But how can I help? I don’t even know this girl, despite living parallel to her for so long. I’ve never even introduced myself. And yet… she’s been dealing with this same pain as I. She died in this same asylum, not at the same time, but maybe fifty years later, or fifty years before.

Who would send a child to an asylum like this? Why was I sent here? Why was anyone? Images flood my mind. I was a star of the stage. I wasn’t beautiful, I always hated my large nose. But I had a voice to rise above my station. I was a local sensation, known from town to town for effortless high notes. How had I ended up here?

“Let’s give it another try.” This is the cold-eyed man. “Why don’t you move to the hallway in front of the line of cells. That’ll be a nice backdrop.”

“Yeah, yeah. I can ad-lib on this. I’m getting excited now. You said you had a ghost-hunting trump card. I thought it would be some new graphic-editing software. What did I know you could rile up real ghosts!”

They were going to turn the camera on again. They were going to turn the machine on again. What wretched bullies-

I remember now. I hated bullies in life. I was put in this asylum because I would lash out. I pushed a schoolmistress into the mud when I saw her slap a student. I punched a guest composer square in the nose when he berated the chorus. I struck a landlord with my parasol, he was evicting our neighbors. I hit him so hard I broke the parasol. So much blood. He recovered, but it was enough, with my history, to get me declared “mentally disturbed.” 

I lost that rage when I died. Or maybe I simply forgot it. I remember now. I whisper in Lulu’s ear: “Your nurse is here little Lulubelle. I will protect you.”

The tall man goes into another monologue for the camera: “Since I’ve arrived, we’ve seen a few arguable instances of paranormal phenomena, but nothing to write home about. I’m about to travel into the belly of the beast, however. Down this dark hallway are the cells of those confined to this asylum. The sad, sorry inhabitants, many of them trapped against their will. According to records going back 150 years, seven patients and one doctor died on these premises. If any location in the United States houses the restless dead, it would be Arcwood Sanitarium.”

“Cut! Okay, great. Fantastic. Go out in the hallway and we’ll turn the machine back on again. Be walking down the hall like it’s your first time down there. Be patient. Ghosts are unpredictable”

“I don’t know if I should stay. Are you sure you need me?” This is the short woman, speaking quietly, fear in her eyes. Only the cold-eyed man looks her way. He shrugs at her.

Suddenly Lulu is holding me around the waist, her tears staining my simple white dress. I feel warmth for the first time in so long. I will not let them hurt her.

I feel a shift in pressure just before the machine turns on. I stand straight up, Lulu joins me, still holding me around the middle. “Courage,” I tell her. “Hold your breath if you have to, but I will not let the red mist reach you.”

The sound precedes the mist by mere seconds. I open my mouth wide and inhale, like I’m testing my lungs before a concert. I take in all the vile sound, every decibel of hurt. I feel like I have a needle in every vein, like my skin is singing in pain. Then I exhale, vocalizing, sliding up the scale in thirds and fifths: a long, loud arpeggio of agony. I hit every note I used to be able to hit and beyond, rising one octave after another. Streams of crimson follow the sound of my voice, back out toward the anteroom where they’re housing the machine.

“What is happening man? What did you do?”

I cannot see the interlopers, my eyes are clogged with scarlet. But I can hear their screams, their panicked shouts. I hear furniture smash against the walls. I find myself laughing, deep scarlet cackles escape my lips.

The fog clears. I watch their camera arc across the room, out the main doorway, smashing into the infernal machine. Both devices crack apart like eggs, metal fragments splintering and flying in all directions. Most of the interlopers have fled already. Only the cold-eyed man remains. He backs away slowly, his eyes wide and animated like I’ve never seen them. He hasn’t even noticed a metal shard has pierced his side. He is too busy counting the money he is losing. Finally he turns and flees.

“That was something.” This is the doctor. He stood up for the first time that I’d ever noticed. His voice is sonorous. I wonder if he was kind to his wards.

Then I hear a giggle from below. Lulu is looking up at me. “Thank you,” she says, “Are you my new permanent nurse?”

“I could be, if you’d like.”

“I would like.”

“What would you like to do next?”

“I would like to leave this place.”

I almost say that this is impossible. That this is our home. That we’ll never leave. But I know instantly this to be untrue. “Yes. Let’s go.”

And I feel myself rising up, hand in hand with this little girl I’ve shared a residence with for a century, rarely even noticing her. There is light above. I wonder where we’re going.