by Joe Stanley
ii
A small shape darted out from an alley, it was the kid. He turned up the sidewalk on the other side of the road and continued. He seemed edgy, or angry, as he zipped away. Duffy thought only a moment before he set out in pursuit, had he gone back to call it in, he’d lose the kid in the night. In fact, at the end of a long day, he was in no shape to chase down a young boy, so he decided to hang back and tail the boy wherever he was going. He wanted a word with the boy’s parents for letting him out so late…
Suddenly the boy stopped and gestured at the ground, coming up with a struggling cat. Before he could even speak, the boy had slipped into another alley. Believing he knew what was coming next, Duffy stopped and listened until he was sure he heard the anguished howl of a cat. Dashing to the alley, he saw the boy, sans cat, already at the far end. As his foot struck something soft and fleshy, the officer flashed his electric torch downward. He touched it and found it still warm, sickened by how its head had been so cruelly twisted around. Anger flashed in him. Now, the kid was a punk, and he’d have him.
It was hard to keep up. The punk’s small size let him pass through openings Duffy had to back-track around. Several times he was sure the boy had eluded him, but each time, he’d see the figure darting across the street and down another alley. At first, he thought the kid was wandering randomly, there seemed no sense to the directions he moved. But now, as they followed the edge of the city, the punk seemed intent on a collection of abandoned buildings. The small figure left the sidewalk, cutting across a field and disappearing into a thick stand of trees.
When he reached the trees himself, he discovered a small trail worn down into the orange mud. As he followed it, there was no doubt the trail was not made by grown men, as numerous small branches slapped his face. There was no sound ahead of him, and he tried to keep his own steps quiet but as fast as the dimness would allow. Finally, the trail reached a tall chain-link fence, one, he noted, that was topped with barbed wire. The fence was split near the bottom and he squeezed through and followed the trail on. He heard a noise, the laughter of a child.
The trees thinned on the edge of some large playground. In the dark, it was an eerie place. The playground pieces loomed like bizarre alien structures. Even the gentle rocking of a swing felt as sad and cold as the wind. He would have expected the place to be full of kids, had it not been well past midnight, for even empty, it was as though dozens of eyes were watching. Then motion and noise caught his full attention, the closing of a door of the largest nearby building. Suddenly, he knew he knew exactly where he was and part of him couldn’t believe it.
It was an orphan’s hospital. It had been built to house the victims of the infamous Spanish Flu. Entire families had been lost, and sometimes the parents went before the children. These kids had been brought here to die. A few epidemics of tuberculosis had seen the place put to similar use. Throughout the years, a number of very sick children were also given up to the care of the state here. The place had such a terrible reputation that being “sent to the orphan’s hospital” became a threat for juvenile delinquents.
But reputation was something the place had plenty of, he reminded himself, as he closed the distance to the door. Some of it was just silly, even if it came from veteran officers. They told of reports of children seen or heard near the place, but these were just ghost stories… Or were they? Sure, the place hadn’t been used in twenty years, but Sapphire City’s homeless population made any empty building a squatter’s paradise. Perhaps he was about to put the ghost stories to bed, finding a colony tucked away inside.
He transferred his flashlight to his left hand, keeping the right hand free to draw his service revolver. Sliding in, he was pleased to get out of the elements, but this comfort could not assuage the instincts that told him something was terribly wrong. The inside was in poor shape, but this was no more than time and neglect. There was no sign of vandalism, no litter of empty bottles or cans. There was little reason to believe anyone had been here, let alone that they stayed for any length of time.
A long hallway stretched away to some slightly brighter gloom ahead. To one side there seemed to be a large kitchen or laundry. To the other, an indoor gymnasium or utility room offered a view of the darkness with its large windows, all intact. Next came a reception area or waiting room, complete with an office and receptionist’s station. These were to one side of the building’s main entrance.
At one time, a visitor must have been impressed by the glorious scene it formerly made. One must have felt as though they were entering a beautiful chapel. But the finery, thanks to dust and flaking paint, now took on grotesque and sinister suggestion. It the flashlight, the shadows cast seemed harsh and menacing. And while a wide staircase ran up and away to the second floor, across from him was a solid dark wall, pierced by two heavy doors.
The wall had nothing to capture or hold the eye, unlike the office or desk across from it. One was not meant to look that way, he understood, one was not meant to think about what happened beyond. He could imagine parents sat in the office, signing papers with their backs to the wall. Looking at the forbidden doors, he knew what to expect beyond. And in the dusty floor, he saw the marks of the doors’ recent use. There were no footprints to be seen… but this was a clear sign of passage.
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