Chapter 24 - The Asylum
St. Jude’s Psychiatric Annex loomed in the dark like a rotting, concrete monolith. The surrounding woods were dead and overgrown, the access road long since swallowed by nature. It was the perfect place for a ghost to hide his sins.
I crouched behind the rusted remains of an old ambulance near the front gate, staring at the facility through night-vision binoculars. Detective Grant knelt beside me, coordinating the silent approach of two heavily armed SWAT teams.
"Thermal imaging shows three heat signatures on the fourth floor," Grant whispered into his radio. "One is stationary—likely Charles. The other two are mobile. Guards."
"Where is Arthur?" I asked, scanning the perimeter.
"No sign of him," Grant replied. "He might be deeper inside, or he might have abandoned the site when the news broke an hour ago about his hidden study."
The order was given. The SWAT teams breached the lower doors with silent, hydraulic spreaders, flooding the dark, decaying hallways like heavily armored phantoms. I stayed close to Grant, my own weapon drawn, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
The facility was a nightmare of peeling lead paint, rusted wheelchair frames, and the lingering, phantom echoes of decades of suffering. We moved up the central stairwell, clearing floor by floor with brutal, terrifying efficiency.
As we breached the heavy fire doors of the fourth floor, the crack of a high-powered rifle shattered the silence.
"Sniper! Get down!" Grant roared, tackling me to the dirty linoleum floor as a bullet obliterated the concrete wall where my head had just been.
The SWAT team returned fire immediately, pinning the sniper down at the far end of the long, arched corridor.
"He's barricaded in the old hydrotherapy room," Grant assessed, peering around the corner. "We can't advance without taking casualties."
I looked down the adjacent hallway, a desperate plan forming. "The architectural plans Marcus pulled said there's an external maintenance catwalk that connects the south wing to the hydrotherapy room. If I can get outside, I can flank him."
"It's suicide," Grant argued. "The catwalk has been rusting for thirty years. It won't hold your weight."
May you like
"It has to," I said, already moving before he could physically stop me. "Keep him pinned."
I sprinted down the dark, secondary corridor, kicking open a rusted emergency exit door and stepping out into the freezing, howling wind of the night.
