"Dare You!"

“Dare You!”

By Laura Brady DePace

“I dare you!” Michael hissed.

“You’re just too chicken to go in yourself!” Jeremy shot back.

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Shh!” Benjy sputtered. “Somebody’s gonna hear you!”

“Who’s gonna hear us?” Michael snorted derisively. “This place is dead!” He poked Benjy, guffawing at his own joke. “Get it? Dead?!”

“That’s no joke!” Benjy shot back. “Everybody knows this place is haunted!”

“O’ course! That’s why we’re here!”

The boys peered through the bushes at the massive brick building that loomed before them. It was one of seven on the campus. Above the door they could still read most of the title of this, the biggest building: “L_ch_m_nt H_ll.” Someone had graffitied an “e” to convert “Hall” into “Hell.”

It seemed fitting. Hell it is, hell it was: after all, this had been High Meadow Institute for the Criminally Insane. The stories people told about this place were legendary. Horror stories of what had gone on here, when it was full of inmates with a wide range of maladies both mental and physical. Back in the days when a place like this offered free rein for all sorts of experimentation on the hapless, helpless occupants. It had been shut down years ago, but stories still circulated about things seen and heard here, especially on dark winter nights: screams echoing through the buildings, specters of blood-stained nurses and doctors walking the halls, ghosts of inmates rattling the bars in attempts to escape.

Like the others, this building was falling slowly into disrepair. Many of the windows were broken, and shattered concrete shards from fallen window frames littered the ground. Several cupolas, removed from the tops of some of the other buildings, were lined up in front of Larchmont Hall. They looked forlorn, grounded there, blank windows framing black emptiness.

A high chain link fence surrounded the building, appearing as a sturdy barrier until a closer look revealed several places where the links had been cut, the fencing bent back to allow easy access. Evidence of trespassers was abundant, from graffiti to broken beer bottles to piles of fast-food trash. It was a popular place for the youth of the area to prove their toughness and courage, daring each other to come here on a moonless winter night. Or, like tonight, to enter on a full-moon Halloween night and spend the night with the ghosts and ghouls.

Michael poked Jeremy. “So, you goin’ in or not? You chicken?”

“I’m not chicken! You are!”

Michael grinned daringly. “I’m not chicken!”

“Prove it! Go in with me!” Michael’s grin slipped. Jeremy seized on his expression, poking him back, and taunted, “See! You are chicken!”

“Am not!”

“Prove it!”

“Will you guys keep it down?!” Benjy whimpered. “I’m tellin’ ya, someone - or some thing - is gonna hear you!”

“Bring ‘em on!” Michael shouted.

“Nope! I’m outta here!” Giving his friends a last backward look, Benjy turned and crept away. “Nice knowin’ ya!”

Michael and Jeremy watched him go. The silence descended on them like a dark blanket, smothering their bravado. They looked at each other, both nervous, both too stubborn to give up.

“Let’s just do it,” Jeremy muttered quietly. “Together.”

“Fine,” Michael agreed.

The boys slipped through the cut space in the fence, ducking low. Enough trespassers had come this way that there was a visible path, and they followed it. It led to a gaping space where a window had once been. No bars on this one, so it was easy for them to slip through.

Inside, they looked around. Cracked pipes pointed to long-defunct radiators. Dust and piles of broken plaster filled the corners. The walls were lined with shards of glass from the broken windows above. Ceiling tiles sagged, stained brown with …

“It’s just mold… from… leaks,” Michael said, a little too loud.

“Not blood,” Jeremy agreed. “Not blood. Right.”

A broken door sagged open to their right, and the boys crept towards it. It was pitch black on the other side, and they pulled out their flashlights. The next room looked much like the first: broken bricks and plaster, shards from shattered windows. A sink, its legs long gone, hanging from a pipe, stained with…

“Rust,” Jeremy said quickly. “Just rust.”

A sudden sound made them both jump. They froze, wide-eyed and listening. They heard it again: a scraping sound, then a soft thump. Then a series of high-pitched squeaks.

“Rats,” Jeremy laughed.

Michael chuckled. “Scared the hell out of me!” he admitted.

The tension broken by their chuckle, the boys continued to the next room, and the next. What had seemed so scary when they first crept in began to just look…sad.

A rickety staircase appeared out of the gloom, about halfway through the building. The beam of Jeremy’s flashlight, dimming a little, vanished into the darkness as he shined it up the stairs. The boys exchanged a look, shrugged, and began to carefully climb, avoiding gaps from cracked and broken steps.

The hall upstairs was wider than the downstairs hall. Doors opened off of both sides, some open, some closed, some hanging on one hinge or broken off entirely. They poked their heads inside one or two of them. These rooms were tiny, cell-like, with bars on the windows. Most had the remnants of a sink and a toilet, and a few contained a rusty bed frame.

Michael stepped into one room and gasped. “Whoa!”

“What?” Jeremy asked. Michael motioned silently, beckoning Jeremy to join him. Jeremy stepped through the door and echoed Michael’s gasp. What a room!

Every inch of every wall in the room was covered in drawings, made in a charcoal gray. Some were beautiful, some were hideous. All showed tremendous talent. There were animals: birds and lizards, butterflies and beetles, lions and tigers, turtles and fish. There were trees: pointy evergreens, graceful birches, massive oaks bearing clouds of leaves and acorns. There were flowers: roses and daisies, tulips and lilacs, bluebells and violets.

And there were people. Nurses with bloody caps and angry eyes. Doctors with strange implements in their hands. Orderlies bearing ropes and chains and shackles. And others who must be inmates, patients, victims; these were vivid in their fear and horror and desperation.

Michael and Jeremy, stunned speechless, tried to tear their eyes away, but found they couldn’t. The drawings were so vivid, it almost looked like they were moving. Almost…

The drawing Jeremy gaped at, a woman with long, beautiful hair…winked. She moved. She stepped out from the picture. Frozen in place, Jeremy couldn’t move. She drifted closer.

“Do you like my art work?” she asked, in a wispy, soft voice. She turned, waving her arms gracefully around the room. “All my work. Isn’t it beautiful?” Her voice became stronger, demanding an answer. “Isn’t it?!”

“I - i - it - i - i - is!” Jeremy stammered out. “Beautiful!”

She frowned. “Your friend doesn’t think so,” she murmured plaintively.

“Yes! Yes, he does!” Jeremy gulped. “Right, Michael?” He poked him. “Right?!”

Michael shuddered and blinked. “Right,” he managed in a whisper. “Beautiful! Right!”

“I’ve spent years working on my art here,” the woman continued. She floated gently around the room, pointing to one drawing after another. “They’re my memories,” she said, smiling softly. “The birds…I could hear their song, even here. The flowers I could no longer smell. The beautiful butterflies.” She stopped, looking at the boys. “You can take pictures, if you like,” she offered with a smile. “Take pictures of my art work!”

Obediently, Jeremy and Michael pulled out their phones. A quick peek showed that they had no signal here, but they could still take pictures. They took picture after picture of the decorated walls, as the spirit described her drawings.

While she described her work on the outer wall, with her back to the door, the boys exchanged a look. They began to slowly, silently back towards the door, careful not to make a sound. The woman paused in her narration to peer through the bars of her cell, out at the world she could no longer reach. The boys slipped out the door.

Trying to move silently but quickly, they made their way down the hall towards the stairs. Then Michael tripped on a broken brick, making a clatter that was sure to wake the dead. Exchanging a panicked look, they broke into a run just as they heard an outraged shriek behind them.

“How dare you!” the woman raged, suddenly emerging from her cell. At incredible speed, she raced after them. “How could you!” she screamed. “How could you leave me?”

The boys had reached the top of the stair and began a mad dash down the broken steps.

“NO!” she shrieked.

Feeling an invisible push, a hot gust of rage, Michael and Jeremy lost their footing and tumbled down the stairs. Everything went black.

The next day, when the boys’ beds were found to be empty, their parents called the police. When Benjy’s mother heard that his friends were missing, she demanded an explanation from her son.

“You were with them Trick-or-Treating. What happened?” she demanded. The story of the dare came tumbling out. Mrs. Evans marched Benjy over to the policeman to repeat what he had just told her.

A police car was dispatched to High Meadow, and the broken bodies of Benjy’s friends were found at the foot of the staircase. There was nothing to be done; they had been dead for hours.

One of the police officers picked up their phones. He felt a sudden chill as the phones came alive in his hands. Each phone was filled with picture after picture of incredibly beautiful artwork.