1952
Heavy footsteps echo through the empty halls of the asylum. Built in 1910, it has been abandoned for 13 years now. Richard Evers drags the body of his wife after him. Holding her arm, he groans as she gets heavier and heavier. He desperately searches for the exit—for anyone to help him and his love. Tears stream down his cheeks, and sweat builds on his forehead. He calls out. No answer. Again. And again. Until finally, he hears a whisper.
"Poor thing... she was so beautiful. A shame she had to go." He looks around but can find no source. "Who are you?" he asks, no longer walking. His wife's arm drops to the floor, a small pool of blood forming at the end of the little road the dragging formed. Richard looks around. "Reveal yourself!" And there she is. Down the hallway, before the open window. A ghostly woman in a white robe with blonde, long hair. Her face is pale and flooded with tears, her eyes white. "What have you done?" Her voice is tired but beautiful. "What? I have done nothing. That creature, back there—it killed her! Slit her throat and—" he retorts, but the woman cuts him off. "Shh, my child. Sometimes it is better to stay oblivious." With that, a tear falls from the woman's eyes, and she walks away.
Richard takes a moment before he takes his wife's arm again and drags her further down the next hallway, past various cells. Out of some, he can smell the rot. Death. A smell even worse than the corpse of his wife he can't seem to let go of. Out of one cell, eyes follow him. At first, he doesn't notice. But when he hears a noise and looks back, he lets go of his wife again and walks over to the door.
"Who are you?" he asks again." The only sane one in this facility. Already met that crying woman back there? Yeah. She tossed herself out the window after finding out what her husband did to her kids... insane, I tell you." The man chuckles. Richard takes in his eyes. They're white, too. "Why are you in here then?" he asks the man with a trembling voice. "Oh, they deemed me mad. But let me tell you, back when I was a child, I never felt like a child," he laughs again, "no, I felt like an emperor with a city to burn. I was the chosen one, y'know. God has chosen me. C'mon, let me out of here... You understand me, don't you? We're the same, aren't we? Aren't we, Richard??"
The weird man suddenly begins violently screaming and kicking against his cell door. Richard stumbles back, over the feet of his wife. He takes a few breaths and continues his desperate search for the exit. He could swear it was around here somewhere... When they'd come here to take photos, he had seen this particular spot while walking. Yes, it was the wall with a crucifix. The exit can't be far now. A relieved sigh escapes him.
Then, out of nowhere, another woman appears before him, seemingly out of the 1920s. "Hun, don't go this way," she mumbles and takes a drag of her cigarette. Richard scoffs. "And who are you to tell me that?" The woman approaches. "Not important enough for you to listen to me. But knowing enough for me to be certain of things. To see things, divine them. I never experienced time linear. As they say, it's an illusion. Nothing more than that... I saw my death. I divined my path. I called myself a seer; they called me a witch. And now I am here, my body left to rot. But not without my soul fulfilling its only purpose... You always longed to be loved, yet you yourself were unable to love someone. So ashamed of it, you did the easiest thing to never have to face your truth. Richard, you were falling." She begins to shake, her cigarette dropping from her hand. "You will fall." He scoffs again and shoves her aside. "Madwoman," he mutters and walks past her, the corpse still dragging behind him. The woman glances after him, breathing out smoke, before disappearing into thin air.
He continues his journey through the asylum. The creature is after me, he thinks. It'll be here soon... It'll kill me too... His footsteps speed up, the sound almost driving him mad. Almost. He hears breathing behind him. He speeds up again, frantically pulling at his wife's arm, until he hears a crack and now holds a separate arm in his hand. With another gut wrenching scream, he throws it to the side and kneels down next to his wife. He caresses her cheek. "I've got this... my love, I'll get us out of here. Please... don't give up on me."
The breathing grows louder, and he feels a cold hand on his shoulder. As he looks up, he is met with a pale but kind face. A nun. "Mr. Evers, it is time for your medications. Follow me." Richard sobs. "Please... help me, my wife, she's-" "She's dead. I know. You tell me that every day," the nun interrupts him. "I don't understand," he murmurs. "Oh, of course you don't. Now, come with me." He shakes his head, his hand shaking. "I do not belong here! This asylum is shut down! You're a ghost just like all the others!" The nun simply tuts at him. "Two of those are correct. This asylum is shut down, and I am, in fact, just a ghost... But you... You do belong here." With that, the nun disappears, too.
Richard buries his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes as he sobs. But the longer he thinks about what has happened, the blurrier it gets. The more clouded his mind is. Suddenly, he feels his sadness being washed away by something else. Guilt. It was not the creature that had killed his wife; it was him. He looks down at his wife but finds there nothing. He feels the ground for remnants of her but feels nothing but the cold stone floor he had dragged her on.
Maybe he does belong here. He feels his heart hammer in his ears; noises echo through the building. Wails, cries, screams, whispers, laughter—they're laughing at him. He tells them to stop, but nothing helps. He stands up and clutches his head, desperate to make the noise stop. And then it's gone. It's all gone. Not a sound as he flies. No, he doesn't fly; he falls. The last thing he sees is his wife at the window. Pale, with white eyes. She waves at him and disappears.
Ella Schemmel is a 14-year-old girl from Delitzsch, Germany. It’s a rather quiet city; there’s not much going on. Every Tuesday, she has choir practice, and on Thursdays, she takes dance lessons. Besides that, she likes to draw, read, and write. People say she’s kindhearted and creative. Ella doesn’t know if that truly applies to her, for she believes no one knows her better than she herself. The world is not black and white. So aren’t humans. And so isn’t Germany. She would be lying if she said she’d enjoy living there, though there are worse places. Worse times. She often says that writing gives her an opportunity to let it all flow out. Sometimes that opportunity is hard to find. Sometimes our minds are too clouded. Just like the weather in Germany.
"Barred Window" by Steve Snodgrass is licensed under CC BY 2.0.
