Frame of Mind

PROLOGUE

They say when your mind begins to unravel, you can almost feel the threads parting from the ball of string. The neurons and impulses grasp at the strands desperately trying to keep your mind whole, but it isn’t enough. Before long, the things which make a person have dissipated, along with any resemblance to sanity.

This institution was no different. Sanity had long escaped its walls. Even the staff here were no longer entirely human. A long and bloody history, folded in with corruption, assault, manipulation and horror had created a forcefield of fear around the perimeter of the building. The general consensus was that if you entered Moriarty Hospital, you were never coming out.

Local people sometimes commented on the irony of naming a building after a wildly intelligent fictitious villain, but mostly they only spoke of whispers and rumours surrounding those inside. This was the largest sanitorium in the state and had been around far longer than the likes of nearby Trinity Bay. Times however, despite how it may seem, do not change. Today was an example of this, as it was time for the annual inspection.

Previous visits had generated concern amongst professionals and directors, regarding the falling figures of those rehabilitated. Moriarty had over a thousand inmates, and three hundred full time staff and doctors. The expense of running all of that was beginning to be questioned as the funds weren’t having the desired effect.

As Doctor Christian Verne led the contingent down the corridor of what had been dubbed by some of the staff as Cell Block D, he felt a distinct uneasiness. The sound of scribbling on paper covered clipboards set his teeth on edge. Usually, they started with the mild patients, cases of identity disorder under light medication, those who felt a danger to themselves rather than the public. But on this occasion, the group had demanded to be taken to the most desperate section of the hospital.

So far, the comments had been kept to a minimum, but there had been a shift in positions at boardroom level, and that brought with it a feel of an audit. Christian did not care for audits.

Sir, may I ask when was the last time this area was refurbished?

The question came as a surprise to Christian, who stopped in his tracks and turned back to face the woman who had posed the question.

I’m sorry? he asked, unsure he had heard correctly.

The woman looked at a colleague, who shrugged his shoulders, before repeating her question.

I asked how recently the place was refurbished.

Christian wanted to laugh out loud, which was another sensation which caught him off guard. He did however, let out a slight sarcastic snort. One which the woman caught.

Refurbished? Well… never. This is exactly as the hospital appeared when it reopened at the dawn of the twentieth century.

The woman seemed shocked, and hurriedly scribbled that down. The reopening in question had been after a fire in the admissions building spread to one of the wings and claimed the lives of seventy-five patients. That section of the hospital was never rebuilt, and instead relandscaped into a garden area.

Another of the group piped up next.

So are you saying that these people have lived in this squalor for their entire duration?

That comment irked Christian massively.

These patients do not live in squalor, Mr. Francis. These cel… rooms, are cleaned to the highest standard, taking every precautionary measure of safety and security possible. Do not let a few chips of paint fool your brain into thinking otherwise.

Another flurry of scribbled notes, and Christian rolled his eyes back into his head, and let out an unimpressed sigh. The temperature had dropped somewhat in the afternoon, and his breath expanded into mist, before dissipating. The tour continued to move forwards, and Christian began his usual rollcall for the money brigade.

These four rooms on the left contain the victims of the events at the Maximum Velocity megastore in Trinity Bay. Three security guards and a young woman who claimed to have been possessed by a demon that caused her to kill her friends.

The first interruption.

Why exactly were the guards affected? They weren’t there were they?

Clearly, these people didn’t watch the news. Either that, or they had no understanding of the human psyche.

Mr Francis, if you had to go into a building that contained the mutilated bodies of several teenagers, a basement with satanic markings and yet another body, and be interrogated as to why your security system failed, then I’m pretty sure your mind would begin to unravel also. May we continue?

Pen met paper once more.

The young woman in question has had her time with us increased due to this so called demon returning and causing her to slit the throat of one of our security guards. All attempts at medicating the symptoms have so far failed, and we are unable to get a coherent sentence out of her.

Christian turned a corner into a darker corridor, away from the edge of the building which contained no windows. The air was colder still here, and several of the lights above them flickered in and out of illumination.

This is what we have dubbed the ‘Wealdstone Wing’. In the last decade or so, we have admitted forty-three patients from that area, all alluding to some kind of supernatural occurrence. For the most part, we treat them with anti-hallucinogenic drugs, and regular counselling sessions, but for those locked away in this part of Moriarty, it is stronger methods that are required.

The original woman cleared her throat.

Stronger methods? she asked, sheepishly.

Christian looked over his shoulder, but did not turn around.

Electro-shock, stronger medication. And some experimental methods which you’ll find details of in your information packs.

The group continued through the hospital, with Christian sarcastically detailing the cases before them. Several with schizophrenia, one or two with extreme kinds of psychosis, and several who had committed incredibly violent acts, but had no recollection of doing so. Upon reaching the end of the corridor, Mr Francis noticed there was a singular room with a narrower door, set apart from the rest.

Dr Verne, what is that room for in the corner? he asked.

Christian turned an realised which door he was referring to.

Maximum security. That room contains our most violent inmate. And I use the word inmate instead of patient, because if she weren’t medically insane, she would be on death row right now.

Propelled by curiosity, Mr Francis and the others began to creep towards the door.

I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Christian warned, not moving towards the door with them.

But they did not listen. There was a small window in the centre of the door itself, but no light emerging from within. Mr Francis and the woman gazed through the glass, their faces almost pressed up against the cold metal surface of the door. The room was completely shrouded in darkness. No movement. No sound.

Mr Francis turned his head to look at Christian.

I don’t see anybody.

Christian giggled.

No, but she can see you.

As Mr Francis turned his face back towards the glass, the contorted face of a woman threw itself at the glass window, shrieking in agony and her fists began pounding at the door. Mr Francis and the woman threw themselves back in fear, both landing on their backsides, much to Christian’s delight. When they got back to their feet, the woman was gone.

How many psychopaths like that do you have here, Verne? demanded Mr Francis, now angry and embarrassed.

Oh we have twenty-one murderers, sixteen rapists, a dozen or so paedophiles… but only one of her. She is unique.

The woman furiously scribbled down notes on the situation before storming down the corridor with the others. Mr Francis stopped one of them and pointed to the door.

Take the room number down and the patients’ name. I want to know more about her treatment.

Yes, Mr Francis.

The younger assistant edged towards the door, speaking as he wrote down the requested details.

Room number… 47. Patient name… Kristin Silverton.

1

Nine months ago

Okay, so what do we have Chief?

The smoke was still billowing up from the wreckage of the building despite it now being extinguished. The Fire Chief strolled over towards the detective and his partner.

We got a goddamn mess, Frank. That’s what we got.

Frank held his hands up. He had been having a fairly good day until the call came over the radio for all available units to attend the scene of a series of potential murders and arson. He’d even managed to stop by the new Tim Hortons on the way into the station that morning.

Just the details, Miles. Cut the sarcastic shit. I’ll get you a Banoffee French Vanilla latte later?

The Chief’s caffeine intake was dangerously low, so he nodded and removed his helmet.

Got a report of a small fire at the back of the store about an hour ago. One unit arrived to find the whole place burning. That’s when the shitstorm rained down. Four engines later, we discover the culprit, sat on the curb over there, rocking back and forth in a pool of blood that wasn’t her own, cradling a knife.

The two of them turned to look over at a woman, no older than thirty-five with matted brown hair, and her clothes drenched in crimson. There was so much blood, there was no way to tell what colour her outfit was originally. She was currently cuffed to an ambulance trolley, and her legs held down by leather straps.

She set the fire? asked Frank.

Miles shook his head.

"She killed the people inside, and burnt the bodies. That is what caused the fire in the building."

Frank looked at the woman again, wrestling against the restraints, but no emotion on her face. He thought he vaguely recognised her though, and it troubled him.

How do we know she killed them? You know, apart from the redecorating she’s done on her outfit.

Miles turned slightly to his left and pointed at a young man, being comforted by paramedics around six feet away.

We have a survivor. And he has phone footage. Says she strolled into the store, calm as you like, picked up a bag of Reeses Pieces, walked up to the counter, and then it was like her face changed. That’s all I could get out of him.

Frank nodded, and sent his partner over to take a look at the apparent maniac on the gurney. He moved towards the young man, who was now sipping from a cup of water.

Hey there.

The young man instantly flinched, and dropped his water. Frank held up his hands.

Hey it’s okay. I’m Detective Frank Short. Chief Hernandez tells me you saw the whole thing. Wanna tell me about it?

The young man shook his head, and looked away. His eyes kept darting back and forth like his mind was trying to keep itself together. However, although he did not wish to speak about the events, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Handing it to Frank, his hands were shaking. He took the phone, which was open to a video file.

Thank you, he nodded and walked over to the side of the neighbouring building away from the young man.

Frank tapped play on the video. It appeared to be of the man who had given it to him and a friend trying to see how much they could fit in a shopping cart without it falling out. Typical social media fodder. However, in the background, the woman now on the gurney behind him walked into shot, and the young man could be heard.

Woah, that chick’s hot.

The video did indeed show her walking up to the chocolate and placing it on the counter. She even smiled at the clerk. But then it turned violent. Her entire face changed, like she had left a room and someone else had walked in. It may have been his imagination, but he swore he saw a flash of purple in her eyes. Without hesitation, she reached up, grabbed the clerk’s head and twisted violently to the side and up, snapping his neck. He fell to the floor in a heap, and the screams of the young man and his friend could be heard in the video.

Run Sid! Chick’s crazy!

The woman snapped her head around, and lunged towards them, the camera shaking as they tried to run. As it panned round, it caught the woman straddling the young man’s friend, who was now lying on the floor, and she was repeatedly punching him in the face. With each heavy blow, more and more of his features disappeared, the blood spraying against her own clothes and face.

It was at this point that she stopped, stood up to her full height and headed towards the store entrance. Another member of the public had come into the store, and before he could even survey what had happened, she was upon him. He resisted at first, attempting to draw a knife out of his jacket pocket, but she grabbed the instrument and used it to puncture his chest five times, before he dropped to the ground.

What happened next bemused Frank. The video had been horror filled almost from the start, but this was unholy. The woman dragged each body into a different position in the store, and moved her way towards the lighter fluid behind the counter. The young man filming was clearly still hiding, unable to move. The camera was still shaking, and his heavy laboured breath could be heard in the microphone.

As Frank watched the video, she poured the fluid onto each of the bodies in turn, before returning to them in sequence, and lighting a match tossing it onto the victims. She then moved directly in line with the camera and stopped, and it was like somebody switched on the light in an empty house. All recognition came back to her face, and as she looked around at what she had done, still clutching the knife of the third victim, she dropped to her knees and let out an earth shattering