And There He Kept Her Very Well
by Tempa Pagel
(excerpt continued...)

I ran in the direction from where we had originally come, thinking that Sandy must be leading everyone back to the window we’d entered. I was one hallway away from our entry point, priding myself on being able to retrace my steps, when I sensed movement up ahead. Instinct telling me it wasn’t anyone from our group, I ducked into one of the tunnels we’d passed earlier, one which disappeared into the inky underground. I listened long enough to determine that whoever was ahead in the hallway was making no effort to muffle his or her sounds, leading me to believe it was either a bold ghost or a guard, neither of whom I cared to encounter.

Much as I didn’t relish the thought of following a pitch-dark tunnel under a deserted, potentially haunted insane asylum in the dead of the night, I plunged downward. In the close quarters my breathing was audible. When the dark swallowed me up I paused, listened for sounds behind, heard none, then dared to turn on my flashlight. It illuminated about ten feet ahead, which was a small comfort, and I took in my surroundings. The plaster on the walls and ceiling of the tunnel were buckled and mildewed. Underfoot, the cement flooring was littered with broken pieces of plaster and other indiscriminate rubble, but was otherwise pretty clear, which gave me hope that it led somewhere. About fifteen feet further, however, it bisected another tunnel, and I halted, in a quandary as to which direction to take. I decided to stay on the original path, but within a short distance the rubble became larger, more difficult to navigate around and over before ending in a dirt wall.

With a cry of frustration, I whirled around, whimpering as I scrabbled back over chunks of cement that scraped my hands and turned an ankle. What if all of these tunnels ended? What if I got lost down here? A verse of “Charlie on the MTA” played in my head and I restrained a hysterical impulse to laugh. When I regained the tunnel crossroads, I forced myself to pause, take some deep breaths, and reign in the panic. I took stock of my choices: I could return the way I’d come, down the tunnel the opposite way, back to an open area (back, also, to where I’d most certainly run into a guard) or I could push on, hoping to exit somewhere without getting arrested.

I’d read that some tunnels ran between the buildings, so I decided to continue on, trusting that I would eventually come up out of this nightmare. I shined my flashlight both ways. To the left looked decidedly clearer—more traveled, I wanted to think—so I chose it.

Not far down, I saw a door. I cried out in relief, fell upon the knob, and twisted it. Locked. I ran on, and another door appeared. Again I attacked the knob, and again that knob didn’t give. I banged on the door, in sudden recurring panic, no longer caring who might be on the other side. Indeed, had an angry policeman opened that door I’d have kissed him before holding out my wrists for the handcuffs. But nobody opened the door, and I ran on, dry sobbing, sucking in stale dusty air, desperation at getting above ground now driving me more than getting away from the guards.

In an effort to staunch my panic I tried to remember what Sandy had told me about the tunnels. One, I recalled her saying, led to the shock treatment room. Great. Something else to stimulate my already over reactive imagination.

Two more times I found doors that were locked, but now I began to see a pattern: one came every certain number of yards. This, plus the fact that the tunnel continued to be somewhat clear of debris, gave me hope that I would find a way out.

As soon as I calmed a little, I saw the door that would open. In fact, it was actually cracked ajar a few inches. In joy, I ran to it and burst through, exiting the hated tunnel, but entering an equally black space. Weak with a mixture of expended effort and relief, I leaned against a wall and shined my light around. I was in the basement of a different building, one that was in rougher shape than the Kirkbride, judging from the wreckage and trash.

Wasting no time, I determined the safest direction with the least obstructions, and began maneuvering around and over mounds of fallen plaster, broken chairs, and old mattresses, looking for an exit. When I came to a set of stairs, I took them. I ascended along the outside edge of the treads where it looked the most secure, holding tight to the rail should the wood underfoot give way.

Gradually, I realized that I was breathing fresh air, which must be coming from open or broken windows or doors. Sure enough, the gloom receded as I climbed, bypassing the first floor, which was blocked with wreckage, and continuing up to the second floor, where I saw light at the end of a hallway. Even though this floor was the least trashed of the three, and looked pretty stable, I played it safe and stayed close to the wall as I headed toward the light. Then a shadow separated itself from the side just ahead of me, and I let loose a sharp cry.

“Shhh!”

The shrill directive was music to my ears. I stumbled forward into Sandy’s arms. “God, girl!” she whispered, pushing me off of her. “Where you been?”