Dorey !1 Awake. Struggle to focus. Heavy breaths. Where the fuck am I?
I feel around, but struggle to make sense of my surroundings. POP A blinding white light hits me and I raise my hands to shield my eyes. Once my eyes begin to settle, I squint to fight through the brightness. A bed With shackles, undone, attached at the sides and bottom. A hospital room Decrepit, out-of-date. Wallpaper torn, chairs overturned. A bedside table With only matches. My hands tremble. I sit up and am knocked back down by the violent vibrations in my head. What the fuck happened to me?
I rub my temples for relief, but none is found. Short, quick breaths. Deep breaths. Controlled breaths. Normal breaths. On the wall to my left, I notice a single word — MOVE — painted in big, bold letters. How the fuck did I get here?
I move. I lose my balance and stumble, hitting my head hard on the corner of the bedside table.
Dorey !2 Hazy. Feel around. Open wound. Bit of blood. Another painful shock sends jolts through the sides of my head. This one’s not from the table. I rub my temples for relief, but none is found. I stand up. Grab the matches from the bedside table. I don’t know why. I just feel like I should. What the hell am I supposed to do with these?
I stuff them into my pocket and try to control my shaking. Short, quick breaths. Deep breaths. Controlled breaths. Normal breaths. My hands still tremble, but less noticeably. The wall — MOVE — it haunts me. Who put it there? Why?
I regain my composure. I steady myself and head to the door. BANG Total blackness. I feel around, but struggle to make sense of my surroundings. Where am I?
Darkness consumes the room. My head throbs as I panic.
Dorey !3 I can feel my heart beating out of my chest. I rub my temples for relief, but none is found. I reach into my pocket. I find the matches. STRIKE
The halls, they’re ruined. Wallpaper torn to shreds. Overturned gurneys. A sour stench that I can’t quite put my finger on. Smells like it’s been lingering here for years Some doors unhinged, others missing. No lights, save for the match. It provides just enough light to shine a path directly in front of me. The hallway is dark enough that the lit match can suffice as the only source of light. The silence, deafening; the darkness, consuming. Freezing. I shiver. If it weren’t so dark, I imagine I could see my breath. It’s hard to walk when you can hardly see in front of you. But wait. THUD What the fuck is that?
CLICK I stop dead in my tracks. BANG I stop breathing.
Dorey !4
From the end of the hall… It’s coming from the end of the hall. I focus on the sounds. I can’t be sure, but I think I hear... laughter. Yes, laughter. It has to be. People. There are others here. They’ll know where I am. Or how I got here.
I hurry my pace. The match burns lower. And lower. And lower. A sharp pain runs through my head, knocking me to my knees. The flame struggles to compete with the wind as it singes my fingertips. Burnt out. I rub my temples for relief, but none is found. I reach into my pocket. I find the matches. STRIKE
I don’t know how to describe the scene before me. As I reached the end of the hallway, there was a loud BANG and the lights came back on, just like before. I raised my hands to shield my eyes.
Dorey !5
When they had properly adjusted, I opened my eyes to see that I was still in the same building as before. Only this time, it seemed to had healed itself. The entire room was sterile. Just like a hospital. Paint: White Clock: White Tabletops: White A banner hung across the far wall. It read — 100 YEARS OF IBLISCLIFFE — in big, bold writing. It, too, was white, with simple black lettering. Even the people that were seated at the benches, eating and drinking and conversing without noticing me, wore white. And here I currently stand, at the opening of the cafeteria, with nothing but my own bewilderment to keep me company. I study the room. A jolt of pain knocks me to a knee, and I cry out in agony. I rub my temples for relief, but none is found. When I am able to regain my composure, I notice a man at the far end of the room, seated right underneath the banner, is staring at me. Everyone else is unchanged, either completely oblivious to or purposefully ignorant of my presence. I nod in his direction. He waves me over. As I walk to him, the other patrons of the cafeteria don’t take notice of me. The rest of the seats at his table are empty. I take a seat directly across from him. Silence. I open my mouth, but he raises a finger to his lips and silences me.
Dorey !6 I notice he hasn’t touched his food. He looks at me with a look of concern. I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. I notice his food is rotten. It smells as though it’s been sitting here for years. I gag from the smell. I open my mouth once more, but once more he raises a finger to his lips and silences me. I notice his food is gone. He stands up and lets out a deep sigh. I look around the room and notice that everyone has taken notice of me. They stare, unblinking, unmoving. Cold sweats. Short, quick breaths. They stare. Deep breaths. They stare. Controlled breaths. They stare. Normal breaths. They stare. He opens his mouth. With a deep bellow, he says: “MOVE” I open my mouth, but he raises a finger to his lips and silences me. He walks over to where I am seated and kneels down beside me. He lets out a small sigh this time. He whispers in my ear: “now”
Dorey !7
I don’t understand. The vibrations in my head return. They knock me out of my seat and I fall to the ground. I rub my temples for relief, but none is found. I struggle to stand up. As I look up, the man before me, expression unchanged, holds his hands out in front of him while his skin melts from his bones. He doesn’t make a sound. It starts with the area around the eyes and extends to the nose and, finally, his chin. He melts into himself and crumbles to the floor in a heap of bones, in complete and utter silence. The room begins to shake. The pristine, sterile walls begin to crumble. The wall-mounted clock cracks down the middle and splits in two. The banner unhinges itself and floats, ever-so gracefully, to the cafeteria floor. All at once, screams of agony fill the cafeteria as the rest of the patrons begin melting into themselves. Some claw at their bodies, ripping out chunks of skin, and collapse to the floor in an effort to save themselves. Others reach out for me in torment as their bodies tear themselves apart, contorted limbs ripped from their sockets. Mangled corpses, entwined with one another, line the cafeteria floor. The moans subside. A strange silence consumes the room. Frozen. I can’t bring myself to move. Transfixed. I can’t look away. Freezing. I shiver.
Dorey !8 Nothing is left except me. BANG Total blackness. I feel around, but struggle to make sense of my surroundings. What is happening?
My head throbs in the deafening silence. I rub my temples for relief, but none is found. Short, quick breaths. Deep breaths. Controlled breaths. Normal breaths. I reach into my pockets. I find the matches. STRIKE
This hallway, though similarly dilapidated, is different than the one before. Wallpaper torn to shreds. Overturned gurneys. A sour stench that I can’t quite put my finger on. Smells like it’s been lingering here for years The only difference is the doors — though completely intact, all are closed. Well, except for one, at the very end of the hallway. This door is open. I can hear a faint humming coming from it. As I stare at the open door, a light — very dim, but nevertheless there — turns on from inside the room. I know I have to go there, though I don’t know why. It’s inviting me.
Dorey !9
This hallway is even colder than the previous ones. I shiver as I stand in place. I’m positive I can see my breath now. I turn around, but only see darkness closing in on all sides. Short, quick breaths. I don’t notice it at first, but I’m getting closer to the room. Deep breaths. My feet carry me, though I do not guide them. Controlled breaths. Time fractures, and I know not how long I’ve been walking. Normal breaths. I am at peace. The match burns lower. And lower. And lower. The flame struggles to compete with the wind as it singes my fingertips. I’m overcome by an intense pain in my head, worse than all the others. I’m in a daze. No focus. No concentration. No control. Through my haze, I can just barely make out the plate on the door. I rub my temples for relief, but none is found. The door is marked: 121-A. Dr. Madson, MD, Ph.D Darkness closes in. Burnt out.
I reach into my pockets.
Dorey !10 I find the matches. STRIKE
I open my eyes to find myself strapped to a hospital bed. Unlike the one before, these shackles are tightened around my feet and wrists. My head is strapped to the bed, in a semi-upright position. The pain in my head is more intense than ever. It causes me to drift in and out of consciousness. A man — a very sophisticated-looking man — dressed all in white, with round, wire frame glasses and white hair, stands in the corner of the room. He turns his back to me and starts fiddling with a machine that I can’t quite make out. Is this a dream?
--No, this isn’t a dream. Did I say that out loud?
--No, you didn’t say that out loud. He says this to me without turning to look at me. --You’re confused, aren’t you? I say nothing. Deep sigh I think nothing.
--Well, let’s just say this was all an activity. A way to attempt to control your thoughts. An attempt to finally make you better.
I say nothing. The pain grows worse and worse.
Dorey !11
The side of my head feels like it’s on fire. I think nothing.
--I know you’re scared, but trust me. I’m here to help you. I’m the only one that wants to help you.
Short, quick breaths. --They’d all rather leave you to die for what you did to those people. Deep breaths. He chuckles.
--You don’t remember what you did, do you? Well, the only thing that’s important right now is that you understand that I’m here to help you. I want to figure out what’s wrong with you. What makes you tick. And I want to get rid of it.
Controlled breaths. --I want to fix you. Normal breaths. --You have my word: I will fix you. He turns to face me, holding two spherical paddles. He sets the paddles down on a cart that also holds some kind of machine with various buttons and dials on it, though I can’t quite make out what each one does. He wheels the cart towards me and parks it beside my bed. He picks up a circular piece of wood and, despite my best efforts to rebuff it, stuffs it into my mouth. --Trust me, you’ll need it. The first time is always the worst. He adjusts the dials on the machine beside me. The circular paddles begin to hum.
Dorey !12 --You’re gonna want to bite down on that thing. Hard. I bite down on it. He picks up the paddles and rubs them together. --I’m going to fix you. My head throbs in pain. He brings the paddles to my head, one on each temple, and presses down. I bite down harder. No relief is found.
Ibliscliffe Home for the Criminally Insane - A Report Filed to the State Department, 2016 On the evening of 31 October 1963—the building’s 100th anniversary—the infamous Ibliscliffe Home for the Criminally Insane (formerly Ibliscliffe Manor) burnt to the ground, killing all patients and staff members that were present at the time. Though the battered frame still stands in place, there is virtually nothing left of the building proper, and nature has begun to run its course in the area. Originally founded in 1863 as Ibliscliffe Manor, the once-esteemed asylum operated under questionable conditions for years after it fell into the hands of Dr. Richard Madson, MD, Ph.D, a State-sponsored psychiatrist that took particular interest in the minds of the criminally insane. In the Spring of 1947, Dr. Richard Madson, with unanimous approval from the State, transformed Ibliscliffe Manor into Ibliscliffe Home for the Criminally Insane and assumed solitary control of the institution. Aside from electroshock therapy and trans-orbital lobotomies — which were still considered standard practices at the time — Dr. Madson was a champion of the now defunct Simulated Immersion Therapy (SIT). SIT was typically used to treat patients with what we now consider panic or anxiety disorders and major depressive disorder, and consisted of three steps: (1) learning a patient’s deepest fears; (2) immersing them in a simulation of that fear; and (3) replaying that simulation over and over, until the patient was cured or left in a near catatonic state. SIT was deemed inhumane under the Fair and Ethical Treatment Act of 1968. Based on the few lasting blueprints we have of the Estate, coupled with (albeit conflicting) witness testimonies, it is safe to assume that the fire started in the back end of the asylum around
Dorey !13 11:30 p.m., which housed the patients’ living quarters. Because of state records, we know that this area of the building was often left unsupervised at this time of night. The living quarters burnt instantaneously. The fire then spread rapidly throughout the hallways and into the cafeteria, where the majority of the staff members’ bodies were found, before rampaging throughout the rest of the building. Because of a lack of state supervision, there was no plan in place for emergency evacuation due to fire. One particularly horrific sight was the body found in room 121-A, where Dr. Madson personally performed his Electroshock Therapy (ECT) sessions. It is here that charred remains were found strapped to the bed at what would have been the ankles, wrists, and head. Given the state of the remains, it is safe to assume that they belonged to a patient who was getting prepared for, or perhaps in the middle of, an ECT session when the fire spread to this section of the building. The doctor performing the session attempted to flee the room, leaving the patient alone, strapped to the bed. We know this to be true because of the remains that were found mere feet from the room, which were positively identified as none other than Dr. Richard Madson. The patient was never identified. It is thought that the fire was caused by faulty wiring in the back of the asylum, though locals adhere to the story that it was started by a group of radical protestors rallying against the rumoured inhumane treatment of the asylum’s patients. Regardless of the multitude of competing theories, the exact cause still remains unknown. With the finality of this report, it is of our opinion that the remains of Ibliscliffe Home for the Criminally Insane should be torn down. In its place, we would like to put forward a motion that a new hospital be built, specializing in mental health research and treatment, to meet the Stateordained quota of mental care facilities.
Awake. Struggle to focus. Heavy breaths. Where the fuck am I?
I feel around, but struggle to make sense of my surroundings. …