Fiction Friday #3

The ground was hard, frozen by the touch of the season’s first frost. A frigid air had blown the last of the stubborn leaves off the trees, leaving nature’s retreating message on the Dogwoods, crossed out in black lines on the bark. Evelyn left the maps in the car, and followed Jeff onto the old asylum property, now partially a park. It was the beginning of the afternoon, the time of year when darkness falls early.

As she took a small notepad and a pen out of her jacket pocket, a pack of gum fell out.
“So the town of King’s Park used to be called St. Johnland in the 1800’s?” Evelyn asked, brushing off the pack to offer Jeff a piece.

Jeff took two strips of gum, and stuffed them sloppily into his mouth, then proceeded to chew like a llama Evelyn once saw at a petting zoo in Yaphank. “He’s so freaking weird.” she thought. There was always something quirky about the way he looked at her, that made her uneasy, even back in grad school.

“Yes,” he continued, laughing nervously, in 1885, this land that we’re standing on, plus about 600 acres was home to a working farm attached to King's County Asylum. At first the site was chosen for the overflow of mental patients in NYC hospitals, with the belief that country air was beneficial, but between 1885 and 1895, this place grew overcrowded too. In 1900, the site officially became a state mental hospital called King's Park Psychiatric Center. Over the years the name changed to King's Park Hospital, which closed at the end of 1996. At that time the remaining 1300 patients were transferred to Pilgrim State Hospital.”

“And when Pilgrim State closed, many of those patients became homeless, living in the streets of many towns across Long Island,” Evelyn added.















Jeff nodded. “Sadly, that is true. Let’s take a walk to one of the old wards. Follow me.” On unofficial “museum curator business,” Jeff seemed to have unspoken rights to the property, and he knew how to get into the boarded up buildings.

Evelyn traced his steps through the overgrown brush to a large building, standing silent and sealed like a mausoleum.

“This is ward 122. It was built around 1890.” Jeff pulled off a loose board off the bottom of a first floor window. He placed it against a knotty tree and made a gesture of mock grandeur. “After you, Madame.”
Evelyn hesitated. Going into an abandoned building with a strange person is not advisable, but she was obsessed with this place, and the story attached. So she climbed in the hole. They found themselves in a long hall. The walls were cracked with powder blue paint peeling like dry skin. “Don’t breathe too much,” joked Jeff, “there’s asbestos.”

Evelyn was too absorbed to care. She followed dusty footprints into a large center room, pulling her phone out of her jacket pocket to take some pictures. Evelyn felt this impromptu tour was giving her a clearer understanding of the ledger, like newly discovered pieces of a puzzle that were filling in the gaps. In her mind’s eye she saw the room as it was in the time of St. Johnland.

Men in chairs near the fireplace, sitting crumpled over, some rocking, all staring down at their feet, mute. The next thing she knew, Jeff was slamming closed the ancient door to the large room, and turning towards her, his eyes dark.

Pictures are from online archives. To Be Continued Next Friday...Click on the label: Asylum Project for the other pieces of the story. Your comments on this fun and interesting fiction piece are much appreciated!

Fiction Friday: Asylum Project #2

”All the lonely people...Where do they all come from? All the lonely people...Where do they all belong?”
–"Elinor Rigby" The Beatles

St. Johnland, 1880:

Just as he reached for the fence, Edward could feel the dogs tug his right shoe and tear the bottom of his overalls. He leaped, and fell prostrate, letting his body be dragged, feeling the heat of hounds’ breath. His hands dug into the tilled soil, and he gagged on the smell of manure. “I don’t belong here!” he shouted. “He’ll kill me if I don’t get out! ...HeHehe! SHUT UP! I’m gonna slit your neck in your sleep, Eddie boy,” someone else who shared his tormented body growled.

Back in Men’s Cottage B, it took four nurses and two doctors to get him into the straps. They faced him toward the window, sitting up on the gurney, to prevent him from drowning in his own snot and tears. The window had a calming effect on Edward, and the straps prevented him from harming himself.

In a woman’s voice, Edward sung himself to sleep, focusing on the field flowers he had picked and taped to the top right corner of his window.

“Hush little baby, don’t say a word, mama’s gonna buy you a mockin’ bird…” Tomorrow would be different.

In a small office the size of a closet, Dr. Mack pulled a ledger off a giant shelf and opened to Edward’s file. Filling his pen with ink he scratched a note in the book. “With three days observation, Edward may be allowed to return to work in the kitchen.”

Evelyn looked at the clock. 2:45 A.M. Although her sleepwalking episodes ceased with the discovery of the book in the basement, she now had a new problem: insomnia. The ledger was fascinating, and she couldn’t stop reading it. She was on a quest for these names. The faceless men in Cottage B had a story to tell. Anyway, what else did she have to do on a Friday night?

She opened her laptop and popped up her email. “Evelyn, Got your message. Meet me at Reese’s tomorrow at 2 p.m. We’ll talk about the “funny farm.” Just kidding. (Not Really).
-Jeff

Jeff liked his coffee black, strong enough to discover undissolved coffee grinds at the finish of a cup. He had a vested interest in research related to the Kings County Asylum, since he was the curator of the local history museum and his father owned a 1/3 of the neighboring property. He had maps and documents spread on the table when Evelyn arrived.

“Wow, this really is a working lunch.” Evelyn said, pulling off her coat and pushing aside the menu beside her paper napkin. They had met in grad school, and back then, Jeff had a vested interest in acquiring her. However, that was ancient history, and involved a scathing rejection. Now, he just wanted her book, the treasure from Jack Thurman’s barn.

“You know, he really did not have the right to take that ledger.” Jeff said. It was the private property of the hospital.

Evelyn picked up a crayon from a cup next to the ketchup and drew on her napkin. “But he did, and now I own it.” It’s not that I’m not open to selling it to you Jeff, or even giving it to you for posterity and local history’s sake. When I’m done with my …project.”

“Well, are you going to let me in on this mysterious project?”

“Maybe, when I’m through with it if you tell me everything you know about Kings County Asylum.” Evelyn said.

Jeff picked up his menu and stacked the documents up next to him in the booth. “Alright, these maps are for you to borrow. Now order. We’re going on a little field trip after lunch.”

To Be Continued...

-Above picture taken from The history of Kings Park Psychiatric Center website