Louder Than Sirens ➳ Larry

day one

day one

It's the summer of 1967.

Bright sunlight kisses Louis's skin as he walks along the pavement. His heeled boots click along the deteriorated concrete, stepping over loose stones and cracks. Occasionally, a stray weed or dandelion peeks through the fissured cement. Skeletal trees border the side of the road, decaying wood tinted grey, bark peeling. Abruptly, a flock of ravens swoop above Louis's head. They caw as a warning, but he dismisses it.

He looks up to see a tall fence, ten feet in height, topped with spiraled barbed wire. Green vines crawl up the metal barrier and stretch along its exterior, a never-ending labyrinth of climbing plants. They suffocate the perimeter of the hospital and obstruct Louis's view as he peeks through, eyes narrowed.

Louis wipes his sweaty forehead with his handkerchief. He squints past the ivy-clad fence, eyeing the red bricked building. From the outside, it appears perfectly normal, save the cracked windows and rotting shingles. As he looks up, he notices the windows closed with iron bars, similar to a jail cell.

Louis approaches the front gate. He grasps the metal handle and tugs, but it doesn't budge— just rattles a little. It's locked. He shields his eyes with his hand and gazes upwards, searching for an employee.

About twenty seconds later, a plump, dark-skinned woman in a white dress approaches the gate. At first, Louis wonders if she's a patient, but then he sees the red nursing cross on her hat. Her shoes pad along the dew-covered grass.

"You must be the investigator, yes? Mr. Tomlinson?"

He nods.

"Lovely," she greets with a thick northern accent. Her voice is staggered with labored breaths. "I'm terribly sorry to keep you waiting out here in the heat."

"It's quite alright," Louis assures her with a charming smile.

The woman reaches into her dress pocket and extracts a large key. She sticks it in the fence's lock and twists it, tongue pressed between her cherry lips with concentration. With a loud creak that rattles Louis's nerves, she opens the gate.

Louis steps past the metal barrier. He instantly feels chills and his hairs stand on end. The nurse shuts the gate behind him and locks it. He suddenly feels as trapped as a prisoner.

"I'm Cathy, the head nurse," she hums, brushing a strand of black hair away from her cheeks. Her hair is curled in perfect ringlets that reach just past her shoulders. Her nursing dress fits snug around her waist and bust.

"Well, Cathy," Louis begins, clearing his throat, "thank you for opening the gate."

"Oh, no need to thank me. It's my job, after all," she insists. She nods towards the beaten path that leads to the front porch. "Follow me. I'll show you inside."

Louis walks behind cautiously. Cracks and holes fill the porch's wooden panels. The steps protest Louis's weight with a high-pitched squeak. He reads the metal plaque above the gothic-styled door.

Whittingham Asylum.

The heavy door opens slowly, its rusted hinges crying with neglect. Louis paces behind the nurse with caution. He instantly smells a strong whiff of cabbage from the nearby kitchen. The main lobby is spacious with black and white tiled floors, all freshly polished, of course. Thanks to the humidity, the floral wallpaper peels and rips beyond repair. The iron-barred windows cast rectangular shadows of light throughout the room.

Wooden benches fill the foyer. Louis spots a few patients sitting, some rocking back and forth, others talking to themselves. They're all dressed in white, sort of like ghosts. Perhaps that's how they're treated, too. Louis hears a loud scream from the other side of the asylum, but he assumes that's normal, judging by how the nurses don't react.