Update
For today, I got to the bulk of the Fata Morgana story, where Morgana's dealing with Johan Levi, and the unexpected guest in his head, in the depths of Arkham Sanitarium. Remember, people, this is using the Lovecraft mythos, not DC comics.
Current Word Count: 4,652
Scene of the Day
Nothing’s quite as unpleasant for psychics as dealing
with crazy people.
The stronger, or more magic-blooded, we are, and the
crazier the people or creatures we’re dealing with, the worse the overall
effect is.
Which is why walking up the gravel parking lot towards
the Arkham Sanitarium was possibly one of the worst things I ever felt, and I have ways to keep the crazy out of my
own head.
Echoing, guttural screams of madness filled the air and
became exponentially louder with every step closer I put myself.
The cold, grey Massachusetts air pressed hard against
the leather wrapped around me, my slight defense doing almost nothing to keep
me warm.
Even the rain seemed to get worse the closer I got,
making the whole monstrous, Frankenstein’s castle mood of the scene before me
that much worse.
All of the sensations came together to form one
cohesive, rusted-razor-against-skin feeling that constantly probed for ways to
dig that much deeper past my psychic walls.
By the time I had actually gotten to the doors, the
screams were nearly loud enough to drown out my own thoughts, and with
resignation, I let my mental barriers have more power.
With a sigh just inside the lobby, I closed my eyes and
imagined a fortress of silver light around myself.
The noise grew nearly silent in an instant, taking my
building headache with it, but in its place came the knowledge that I was
broadcasting my presence just that little bit more to everything with interest
in the building’s shadows.
And Arkham Sanitarium, the nice way of saying “prison
for supernaturals,” had a lot of
shadows for monsters to choose from.
I finally came upon the reception desk, where a tall,
exceptionally pale woman was hunched over a magazine several decades out of
publication.
For a brief moment, it seemed like her eyes were lenses
of pure green, but after a quick blink, slightly brighter than average grey
eyes were locked on me, instead.
Her rat’s nest of dyed-black hair seemed strangely wet
for someone who was inside all day, and for a moment, the wraith flashed to
mind.
“Can I help you, miss?” she asked, breaking me from the
thoughts.
Her voice was surprisingly high-pitched, almost as
though she’d inhaled a small dose of helium.
A quick dig through my duster got me my badge, just
beneath the pile of equipment I hoped I really wouldn’t need, and knew I
probably would.
“I’m a private investigator, lookin’ fer a recent… patient,” I said before handing it over.
She stared at the badge for a moment, before she smirked
and raised her eyebrows in such a way that suggested she was trying for moving
one but couldn’t pull it off.
“Morgana Lugus? Really?
Isn’t that a little… comic booky?” she mused.
“Haven’ ‘eard that before. Anyway, like I’m sayin’, I
heard ya’ recently got a new guest. Tall, has black hair, abnormally bright
eyes, got a thing fer foamin’ at the mouth an’ bitin’ yer dogcatchers by Ponte
Crossing?”
Her pale complexion, if possible, seemed to whiten even
more.
I wasn’t sure if I imagined the slight shake to her hand
as she slipped the badge back to me, as though it’d flashed fangs and asked for
a pint.
“That’s one seriously screwed up guy. Totally human, as
far as we could figure, but you sure as hell wouldn’t know it. He almost took
Mickie’s arm off when she brought him in!”
Sighing, I felt my hopes that this wouldn’t be any more
of a disaster waiting to happen die as I slipped the badge back.
I had an uncharacteristically difficult time not
grabbing one of the other things in the pocket, and forced myself to take a
centering breath.
“He didn’t, right?”
“Huh?”
“Bite them,” I elaborated. “That Mickie, she alright?”
“No, she and two others managed to lock him down before
he managed,” she said while looking nearly translucent. “He’s not a vampire,
right? Do we need to check the team again?”
The receptionist was a native, then.
Which made sense, since sticking someone who doesn’t
believe in the supernatural in that place would lead to tragedy via stupidity,
before long.
Unfortunately, I doubted I was lucky enough for this to
be something as mild as Johan becoming one of the photophobic and fanged
denizens.
“Chances are good she’s fine. Spirits were payin’
attention ta’ ‘im, an’ they rarely give a shite about vamps. Good to be
cautious, though. Cell… err, room
number?”
“We put him in holding, down in the basement.”
“Keys and room number?”
A quick fumble through a box in her desk brought me a
small, silver key.
“We, uh, stuck him in 4355, ma’am. I think you know
where-”
“Down at the end of the hall, ya’ probably still call it
the Hell Room. Cute. Did they ever get all the blood out from last time?”
She paled even more as she shook her head.
“T-there’s still some spots. Should I, uh, call our
cleaner, just in case?”
The key sent frigid, psychic fingers crawling up my arm
after I grabbed it, before I managed to push the residual energy back into the
metal.
“Might be a good idea. Let’s hope not. I’m gonna’ go
check if he’s just insane or not. Ta’ be on the safe side, make sure nobody
interrupts, got it?”
“Y-yes, ma’am!” she stammered.
With a brief nod, I headed for the large, metal doors at
the other side of the desk.
The tiles gave echoing clicks with every step I took
down the hall, quickly getting on my nerves.
Like the last time I’d been there, I found myself
wondering if the ancient, rusted box of iron elevator at the end of the
corridor was actually the most dangerous thing in the sanitarium.
It began its descent with a series of horrific, metallic
screeches, which became only slightly more tolerable as it got lower in the
brick shaft.
Making the experience all the more enjoyable, the second
the screeching ended, screaming and shouting filled in.
Unlike the building’s exterior, these sounds were just
as physical as they were psychic, making them that much harder to ignore.
The misery and insanity beat like fists at my mental
defenses, searching for any way to rip their way into my mind and do more
horrific things from there.
After a small eternity, the car finally stopped moving,
and I found myself facing a poorly lit hall lined with heavy, steel doors as
far as I could see.
Memory sent me down the hall without missing a beat.
The sounds dimmed the closer I got to the end of the
hall.
My misery lasted all of a second, before dread set in.
Whatever was at the end of the hall, it was bad enough
to quiet the mania and living monsters that resided in the basement of a
centuries-old house built around insanity.
As I’d expected, the room with a black number 4355 on
its door literally leaked darkness.
Shadows and indistinct smoke swept against my ankles,
sending a distinct chill down my spine that was directly contradicting the damp
warmth in the air.
Touching the door itself, despite my girding myself for
it, was also horrific.
The metal felt like it was made of fire, and with a
hiss, I shoved as fast as I could.
The door swung open without a sound, and a blast of heat
slammed into my face, the cold being leeched from me like I’d jumped into a
blast furnace.
I let even more energy flow, until my mental defense was
so thick it was very nearly a physical shell.
Once I stepped inside, the heat vanished, being sucked
deep into the room, and seemingly into the occupant himself.
A quick glance let me take in what little there was of
the cell.
Cold, concrete floors left much to be desired and made
the sole occupant seem even less impressive.
Johan Levi sat stock-still on a small, hard protrusion
that was used by the sanatorium in what it liked to think of as its “temporary
problems” floor.
Heavy, taut chains kept him bound too tight to move more
than a twitch on the cot.
The black metal made him seem even sickly pale, though
an unhealthy sheen of sweat and slight green tinge covering him likely didn’t
fix the image.
Greasy, jet-black hair hung down in an unkempt mop,
sticking to his face in a way that the pretty boy from his photos would be
unlikely to tolerate.
Either the Levis had given me a really old photo, or he’d been put through the wringer in his
absence.
A pair of emerald-green, glowing eyes moved to stare up
at me, letting a bizarre intelligence shine through their depths.
He definitely wouldn’t strike the unaware as a “rich kid,”
in his baggy, hole-ridden black T-shirt that was two sizes too large and
shredded, grease-stained jeans.
I advanced into the room, sliding the door shut behind
me without breaking eye contact for an instant.
If he was truly possessed, which seemed likelier by the
second, those chains could be as thick as his head and made from reinforced
steel, and they still wouldn’t do much good holding him if he decided he’d
napped enough.
“Hullo, Mr. Levi. I’m Morgana. I’m… a doctor, of sorts,”
I said in introduction.
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