Thornridge House

Content note: Explores mental health issues and contains references to physical violence.



Not everyone was equally invested. Some, you could tell, were really working towards getting better. Others were going through the motions like they were forced to be there. When their turn to check-in would come they’d just say: 

“I’m feeling fine, pass.” 

Oliver was one of the talkative ones. He was a bit formal and very eloquent in the way he spoke. He started by wishing me a pleasant stay. Then he said he was looking forward to the day’s activities, although he hadn’t slept much at night. I couldn’t stop staring at his teeth as he spoke.

One of the therapists spoke after him. They were supposed to participate in the morning community meetings just like we did. That was part of the concept, that residents and therapists were equal. She was looking forward to the day's activities too. She said it would be busy but good.

Then Ryan’s turn came, and he said he was beginning to feel anxious, as there were only three nights left until the full moon. He’d made the reason he was there very obvious. I said he would try to enjoy the day and take his mind off it. I sensed that everyone respected him despite his vulnerability. I liked him.

Alfie looked like he wasn’t listening to other people’s check-in. His eyes carried a certain detachment, the kind that came from seeing far too many days pass without changing, as if he’d been in that same spot for longer than anyone could remember. His pale skin seemed to blend into the white sofa. 

“I’m feeling fine, pass.”

Some of the residents of Thornridge House, like Ryan, were born the way they were. Others, like Oliver and Alfie, had become the way they were by accident. That was my case too.

Rose hadn’t been born the way she was nor become it by accident - she had learned it on purpose. She was there to unlearn it. 

She was the last person to speak before my turn. She was in a bad mood that day, the tip of her pointy hat tilted slightly downward. She welcomed me to Thornridge, then mumbled something about a storm coming. 

My turn came.

I wanted to tell people that I was feeling nervous about my first day, but that I was optimistic that it would mark the beginning of a life-changing journey. I wanted to say I was there to get better but also help others in their healing and couldn’t wait to get to know people better. Here’s what I said instead:

“BRRRAAAAAAAIIIIINNNSSS…”

Everyone was staring at me hoping I would add something, for a good while. Then one of the therapists intervened:

“So, during the check-in we try to say something about how we’re feeling. Is there anything you’d like to share with us, Daniel?”

At that moment I regretted ever agreeing to come to Thornridge. What a stupid idea - a zombie at a therapy retreat. Most of the activities involved talking and I was terrible at it.

“Is that all, then?” Asked Oliver.

I nodded, defeated.

“You have to say pass” said another resident.

“It’s ok,” said the therapist. “I’ll go next.” 

I exhaled slowly as the room’s attention shifted to him. He was also looking forward to the day’s activities.

I felt like getting up and leaving. But it wasn’t like I had many alternatives to being there. When my cousin found me creeping around the streets of Camden he took me to a public hospital first. That was a much worse place. There were a lot of others like me there. It was really difficult to get the authorisation to be transferred here. 

And I did like the place’s concept. I liked that we were called residents and not creatures. Specific creature names were also banned. Oliver wasn’t a vampire, Ryan wasn’t a werewolf, Alfie wasn’t a ghost, Rose wasn’t a witch. We were people.

I pushed through.

The day’s activities were announced on a white board. There was general maintenance in the morning, yoga before lunch, which was optional, group therapy in the afternoon and in the evening we’d kick back with some board games. Board games were optional too.

General maintenance was meant to keep us busy during dead times. It prevented us from being alone with our thoughts, which was great.

We were supposed to get in pairs. I looked at Ryan and he smiled.

“Why don’t we take care of the chicken coop, Daniel?” 

I smiled back.

He adapted to my slow pace as we walked.

“First day huh? It can be overwhelming. How are you holding up? Did you sign up for any of the optional stuff?”

I wanted to reply. Instead I made a sort of grunt. I tried to make it sound as polite as possible.

“I remember my first day. I locked myself in my room all day. It took me a while to open up to all of this. But once you give them a chance they can really show you how to handle everything better.”

I wanted to ask him how long he’d been there.

“Wheeeen… Ryan… Fiiiirst… Daaaay…”

He seemed happy I was participating in the conversation.

“When was my first day? It was in March.”

There wasn’t a specific duration to the program. You could come anytime you wanted and leave whenever you felt your journey was complete. They had told me small issues could be dealt with in a month, difficult cases could take up to nine months. We were in October. 

When we got to the chicken coop the animals were terrified of Ryan. He sighed and handed me the feed bag.

“There you go, you do it! I’ll check for eggs.”

I watched the chicken shuffling around. 

As I sprinkled the feed onto the ground and the first hen darted forward, I froze, staring at her thin, scaly legs, the pale gleam of her eyes, the way her head twitched and bobbed. 

My stomach churned - not with nausea, but with an ache I hadn’t felt in months. 

The hunger.

I clenched my jaw, my hands trembling. The bag slipped from my fingers, spilling feed across the dirt. 

Ryan came back carefully holding two large eggs in his hands.

“You alright in there?”

I stepped back, swallowing hard, trying to push down the gnawing, monstrous pull that had suddenly taken hold of me.

“Daniel oookaaaay…”

He watched me for a moment longer.

“Let’s head back.”

I made it to yoga just in time. I won’t tell you much about it.

I won’t tell you how my hands shook as they pressed into the fabric. How my forearm fell off during downward dog, striking me off balance. How my leg fell off during warrior pose. How, by the time we settled into savasana, my body was scattered across the floor making me look pathetic, my head on one side of the room while my contorted torso lay on the other. 

I will briefly mention that they stitched me back together and told me everything was going to be alright. 

Lunch time. I knew how to distinguish the good hunger from the bad one.

Conversations weren’t as deep as you might assume they were in a place like this. I tried to focus on them, but I couldn’t follow. My body was whole again but my mind was still all over the place.

I think they were talking about their favourite kind of bread. 

“What about you Daniel?”

The flashes would come in the most inconvenient moments. They prevented me from telling them I liked the seedy kind.

I closed my eyes and tried to focus in order to form a sentence.

All I could see was the fear in his eyes. I could hear the screams too.

My dark zombie heart started pounding. I was sweating.

I got up from my seat. 

I locked myself in my room like Ryan had on his first day.

Maybe it’d been relaxing at yoga that unlocked some vivid memories. Maybe it was the knowledge that group therapy was up next and I was supposed to talk about myself.

When they knocked at my door to call me for it, I felt like telling them that I was going to leave instead.

I reminded myself of the promise I had made to my cousin, that I would get better, that I would be out by Christmas.

I pushed through once more.

If the morning community meeting had been very structured and procedural, each person expressing themselves deliberately with the discipline of a classical musician, group therapy was like free jazz.

I hate free jazz.

No one was saying anything for a long while. I felt so uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to expect.

Oliver broke the silence.

“I’m stuck.” 

He made a dramatic pause.

“So… For those who don’t know-” he looked at me. “I used to paint a lot. I was a painter… before I was unwell, that is. It was… something that kept me sane.”

“Why did you stop?” asked the therapist in a routine manner.

“Because I’m stuck.”

I looked at people around the room, they were listening intently, I was more worried about what to say if the therapist asked me something. I tried to get into it.

“Do you attribute this creative block to anything in particular?” 

“I don’t know. I can’t tell…"

Another pause. The pauses made me feel sick.

Ryan intervened.

“I sometimes feel stuck too. I’m not an artist or anything, but I feel that creative block, like, socially.”

We all looked at him hoping he would elaborate on that. That’s what the pauses were for.

“Like… I feel like when I’m in a conversation I have nothing interesting to say lately.”

“That’s it.” said Oliver. “I have nothing interesting to say artistically.”

I could understand what they meant, but this was not what I had expected. I didn’t want to talk about art and social anxiety. I had done some horrible things in my life. I desperately needed to talk to someone about it.

The therapist relaunched the debate saying that sometimes it can be the fear of judgment, other people’s gaze, that is causing the block.

“I think that my problem is not so much about the others, it’s about me,” said Oliver. “I put this pressure on myself. I must mirror my vision in its entirety. When I am not able to do it, I feel terrible for not being a good translator of what I have inside me. That is really frustrating.”

Rose thought she knew what he meant. 

“Like when you imagine something in your head and you can see all the details, and then you don’t have the ability to replicate it on paper.”

“It’s rather the feeling. I’m talking about a feeling. What I want to translate aren’t images, but emotions. Images are just the language.”

I wanted to tell him I understood him.

“Danieeeel… understaaaaands…” 

Ryan smiled at me.

“I do feel what you said about other people’s gaze,” said Rose. “I know my friends admire my intelligence, my crazy ideas. But it’s not enough for me.”

“What would be enough?” asked the therapist.

“Well… to provoke something in others. To make them feel something. Without using spells. It's important for me to show people the magic I see in the world.”

“That’s beautiful, Rose. To show them the magic you see in the world.” 

And it was.

I really appreciated how open these people were. I felt bad for taking in so much and not sharing anything. I was sure places like this would do wonders for some people. But I knew I was too fucked up. We’d been talking about normal people’s problems. I had eaten people alive.

At night, I quietly packed my rags.

I was as silent as I could be as I dragged myself across the living room. People were playing Murder Mystery In Seoul. (You'd draw cards and get assigned secret roles. One person was the killer, one was the detective, etcetera.

You’d go around the board, collecting rewards and punishments, and the killer would try to murder everyone, while the others would try to find out who the killer is.)

They heard the door open.

I said I was going out for a smoke, with my bags on my back. I don’t even smoke. I felt the room go silent as I gently closed the door behind me.

I looked at my parked car. My mind was made up.

I wasn’t leaving on an impulse. It was a rational choice. This wasn’t the place for me. I would drive far away and start afresh somewhere else. I’d find a job as a bartender. The knowledge that I’d be on my own would be enough pressure to force me to control myself. Surely I wouldn’t end up on the streets again.

It was a perfectly logical decision.

I unlocked the car.

I held the door handle.

“Hey! We need one more player.”

Alfie’s faint voice echoed from the front door. I hadn’t seen him all day.

Sitting down with people and playing a board game - I hadn’t done anything so normal in a really long time, between the insanity of what my life had been ever since I was bitten and the unordinary experience of wandering through hospital corridors and waiting rooms.

I stopped thinking. My legs dragged themselves back to the front door.

The thunder started as I re-entered the house.

“There he is!” exclaimed Ryan.

They scootched over to make room for me.

The hum of voices, the soft shuffle of chairs, the faint scent of old wood and something sweet baking in the kitchen - it all felt impossibly ordinary. A snapshot of a life that was normal for everyone else but seemed so foreign to me. How long had it been since I’d sat in a room like this? I wasn’t yet convinced to stay in the program, but I really felt like playing that game for a bit.

I looked at Alfie. His completely white eyes seemed to be telling me I wasn't alone.

“Thank you,” said mine.

I looked at my card and couldn’t help chuckling at the irony of what destiny had bestowed upon me, immediately giving myself away.

I was the killer.