As a developer attempts to bring new life to an old building formerly used as a home for the insane, it seems that old demons still remain.
"I don't want to be attacked by things I can't fight back against," he said in a slow, southern drawl.
I had only been speaking to Kyle on my cell phone for about 10 minutes, but I already liked him. Perhaps it was the sense of automatic kinship that I felt for those who spoke with a deep, southern accent like my father did. It was "furry" instead of ferry, "lot bub" instead of light bulb. Or perhaps it was the ease with which he laughed and joked--another of my father's qualities.
"Well that's perfectly understandable," I responded, staring out the windshield of Jeff's Ford Bronco at the interstate pavement as it rushed toward us and slipped beneath the front end of the vehicle. Our headlights pulsed against the trunks of the pines, maples, and other trees that flanked the road. "You said it wasn't until you returned to the camper that you felt it, though?"
"Yeah, I'd been watching a movie when I went to get my laundry out of the apartment. So when I came back to the camper, I sat down on the sofa and started playing the movie again. That's when I felt the burning, like hell fire all the way down my side."
Kyle was the property manager for a two-story, colonial-style building that stood in a run-down, industrial area on the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia. His boss had recently purchased the building and was converting it to apartments upstairs and a leasable business on the lower floor. Even though renovations to the apartment Kyle would soon occupy were already complete, he had been reluctant to move in. The heaviness of the air in the apartment was only the secondary reason. The primary reason was the persistence of vandals who had come onto the property and broken in through ground-floor windows to gain access to the building. To protect the property, Kyle had pulled his camper up in front of the building and was staying in it while deciding whether or not he could handle the paranormal activity he had been experiencing. He still wandered up into the apartment to use the bathroom and to do his laundry though, and it was during one of these times that he had been attacked by an unseen entity. The attack resulted in 3 bloody, hairline scratches running from his right armpit all the way down to his hip. The shirt and leather coat he had on at the time were still intact and devoid of blood.
"The man who owns the transmission shop across the street told me it used to be a home for crazy people," Kyle had said. "There was a woman that lived here who--excuse my language here--used to strip down naked and, well, hump the fire hydrants."
Laughter burst out of me before I considered whether or not it was politically correct to do so. This happens more often than it probably should. I suppose the older I get, the less restrained I am in expressing myself. I was relieved when I heard him chuckle on the other end of the line.
"What the hell?" I asked as my laughter subsided.
"Yeah. Well she used to walk down to the local dollar store and beg people for money. One of the people she was begging one day was a social worker with the county, who told her she was going to take her back home. When the social worker walked into the building, she found out the owner had been feeding the residents with food that he'd gotten from dumpster diving. There was no running water, no heat or A/C. And the owner of the transmission shop said they were pulling dead bodies out of there."
I gasped. "Holy shit. Are you serious? There were dead people in there?"
"Yep. They shut the place down."
My mind immediately began pouring over all of the possible reasons why these people had died. Severe food poisoning? Exposure to frigid, winter temperatures? Physical abuse? Or perhaps something less predictable, like a drug overdose?
No matter the circumstances of their deaths, the idea of people living their final days in those conditions sent an icy shutter through me. We had to investigate, and fast. Kyle was trying to move into the apartment in the next week or two. He would either be residing with unsettled human spirits, or with a dark entity that had already revealed itself as a valid physical threat. It was imperative that we find out the nature of what Kyle would encounter before this spirit revealed just how dangerous it could be.
The Interview
The building stood only a few minutes from the Interstate 295 off-ramp, down a quiet highway lined with older buildings and warehouses. A few run-down, 40s-style homes sprang from the garden of corrugated metal, broken asphalt, and chain link fencing, stubbornly refusing to succumb to the environmental changes that time had thrust upon the area.
"Turn right onto Birch Street," the GPS commanded.
Jeff slowed the Bronco and did as he was told. The Bronco bucked and swayed as he crossed over railroad tracks that ran parallel to the highway. I hadn't noticed the tracks before, but made a mental note of their presence. Railroad tracks conducted energy, and tracks so close to the building we were investigating could've been lending to the paranormal activity.
Prior to an investigation, I always went to Google Maps to research the location. I wanted to get the lay of the land, to see if the building stood close to the street or down a long lane shrouded by trees in Google's satellite view. I also looked for nearby rivers, highways or interstates, airports, or other locations that could either be sources of energy or which could cause a noise disturbance during the investigation. Satisfied with my analysis of the satellite view, I would then go into Google Street View to get a look at the building from the front if possible. This type of research was normally assigned to the Environmental Specialist. David had taken on the role for a while, but since leaving the team to take a job in North Carolina, I had begun to fill the role.
Having researched the location a few days before, I knew before Siri announced it that we had arrived at our destination. I pointed out at the street ahead. "Just beyond that clump of trees, on the righthand side."
Jeff and I peered out the windshield in anticipation of the building's appearance and were somewhat startled when Siri spoke. "You have arrived."
The Bronco turned to the right and emerged into a small, unlined parking lot dominated by Kyle's 32-foot camper. It stood parallel to the front of the building, mostly obscuring the first floor and a bit of the second. The two-story, brick building behind it, with shadowy windows on both floors, stretched to peek over the roof of the camper at us as we maneuvered past the end of the camper to fill an empty parking space.
With the front of the building in full view before us now, I leaned down to gaze up through the windshield at it. "Creepy," I muttered, thinking back on the stories Kyle had told us about the place.
The stories weren't the only reason why the building was a bit unsettling, though. The structure seemed out of place among the dilapidated homes, warehouses, and auto repair shops surrounding it. It stood about 50 feet off the road, snuggled into its cloak of pines and sweet gum trees as if attempting to hide from the world. A dim, golden glow from fixtures mounted to either side of the double front doors, and amber light that sliced its way through the cracks between the camper's window curtains, proved to be the only sources of illumination bold enough to fight off the army of shadows were encamped in the front lot.
I opened the passenger door and slid off the seat, stepping out and shutting the door behind me. My attention remained on the front of the building, switching from window to window. I expected to see a dark figure standing in one of them, staring back. But the only thing staring back was a blackness that seemed to press against the inside of the glass panes in an attempt to escape.
When Jeff and I met at the front of the Bronco with our paper coffee cups in hand, our attention was drawn away from the building by a sound to our left. The quiet click was followed by a creak, and the front door of the camper swung open. A surge of light rushed out to join the fight between light and shadows in the lot around us.
If Kyle hadn't mentioned on the phone that he had served in the Marine Corps, I still would've known without a nanoparticle of doubt. Having grown up in a town where you could throw a stone and hit one branch of the military, I had developed the ability to identify whether someone was military or a veteran, and which branch he or she had served in.
Kyle wore the typical high-and-tight cut. His face was devoid of stubble and seemed to have been chiseled from stone. Each line etched into his granite face told a tale of strength, victory, courage, or of deep-seated pain he kept buried within.
"You must be Kyle," I said, walking to meet him. I expected nothing less than the firm handshake I received as I greeted him. And even though his large, firm hand seemed to envelope mine, I returned the firm shake as my mother had always taught me to do. A weak hand was a sign of a weak mind. And when meeting a stranger for the first time, you never showed weakness--especially when meeting someone who appeared capable of snatching you up with one giant hand, squeezing you until your bones turned to dust, and sprinkling you over his eggs in the morning.
When the initial greetings were over and when I was sure I wouldn't become a seasoning on this Marine's breakfast, Kyle led us into his camper where we sat and talked for a bit about the activity he had experienced in the apartment. A few steps led up to a concrete front porch that ran the width of the building. To the left were newly built wooden steps leading Kyle's apartment door on the far right end of the second floor. In the center of the first floor were the set of doors leading into the first floor.
In addition to the overwhelming heaviness in the apartment and the scratches Kyle had incurred, there was also an instance where he had been descending the steps to the front porch and felt as if someone pushed him. Still, I wondered if this could be an angry human spirit. It's never good to jump to conclusions about the nature of a haunting until you've gathered evidence and given whatever it is a chance to speak.
After sitting and discussing his experiences for 15 minutes or so, Kyle placed his hands on his knees and asked, "Well, should we get to it?"
"Sure," Jeff responded and stood up from his chair.
We followed Kyle out the camper door and down the shaky metal steps, which felt like they might give way under my weight. It was a reminder of my goal to start getting more exercise.
The liftgate of the Bronco revealed a neatly stacked pile of toolboxes and bags. It wasn't the full arsenal this time, but certainly enough to get the job done. I stood to one side as Jeff pulled some of the equipment out of the bags, but my sight was drawn again to the front of the building and to its dark windows. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was standing just inside one of them, staring out at us. Glancing from window to window, I finally pinpointed the one from which I felt watched. To either side of the front doors was a large window, at least 4 feet wide and equally as tall. I would bet my life that something was standing in the one just to the left of the doors, watching us. Of course, these feelings that I get could simply be the product of an overactive imagination. After voicing these feelings enough times and then later finding some evidence to support their validity, I'd begun to feel that it wasn't a matter of imagination so much as the honing of my sixth sense.
When Jeff handed me the digital voice recorder and one of my umpteen million flashlights, I tore my attention away from the window to receive them. As he shut the liftgate and we made our way up the front steps, though, I couldn't help but to take another look at the window.
Who was it standing there watching us? I couldn't see anyone. I could only feel them. It felt like a male presence, but I could sense nothing else. Was it the angry presence that had scratched Kyle, standing there sizing us up and trying to decide what it could do to us? Or was it a lost spirit of someone who had died within the building on a frigid winter night after eating a half-rotten taco from the nearby Taco Bell?
There was only one way to find out.
As twilight gives way to darkness, my eyes have grown weary and my fingers have begun to stiffen. It's time for a hot shower, an episode of Star Trek, and then bed. But if you liked reading the first part of this investigation series, be sure to return next week to read the second part, where we enter the building to discover what lurks inside.
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