The Asylum . . . a "Tale as Old as Time." Part One.

Ready for something different? I’d like to share a Fairytale. This is a novella (20,000 words) that I entered into a contest for a collection of five retellings of Beauty and the Beast. I did not win the contest but did receive encouraging feedback from the judge—which I am always grateful to get! It seems like the winners thought waaaay out of the box, by the descriptions of the winning tales. This was my first try at such an endeavor and I enjoyed the 6 week break from working on my novel, which I’ve been doing for several years exclusively!

I plan to post two chapters, twice a week, so that you don’t have to wait too long between sections. I will likely make this a free eBook one day when I have time to figure it out! Hope you enjoy The Asylum and that you will let me know what you think about it in the comments below.

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THE ASYLUM

Chapter 1

Wendy Kaufman peered through the windshield, hoping to find a break in the trees that would indicate a driveway. Her blues eyes darted to the GPS on her dash, then to the printed map, pressed between her thumbs on the steering wheel.

“I’ve got to be close.”

She coasted to the shoulder and fumbled for her glasses. “Bad enough that I’m directionally challenged, now I can’t see the dot on my GPS without reading glasses.” She shoved them on her face. “And, I’m talking to myself. Maybe I should be the one locked up.”

Wendy huffed her bangs off her forehead and leaned toward the mounted screen.  “Of course. Just around the bend.”

She signaled and eased back on to the deserted highway. The drive made its appearance around the next curve, along with a wooden sign mounted on a scrolled, wrought-iron post. She rolled her eyes. Why hadn’t they told her to look for a sign? It stood out like neon after endless miles of trees.

Wendy turned onto the manicured driveway and scanned the sign as she passed. “Brantley Insane Asylum.” She shivered. “Time to update the name to the 21st century, people.”

The pavement meandered by ancient trees draped in dewy, Spanish moss. They glinted in the sunshine like a profusion of diamond necklaces. A rabbit darted across the road. Wendy relaxed and felt foolish about the apprehension that knotted her stomach all morning.

“Who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf? Not me. I’m a professional. And this”—she  eased her car to a stop in front of an imposing, granite manor—“is gonna be my big break.”

The two-story institution resembled a small castle. Charcoal stone adorned with white trim and columns made for an imposing entryway. Two round turrets extended to a third story and sat like bookends that anchored the home to a manicured, sloping knoll. The perfect palace for a reclusive prince. 

Wendy clipped her press badge onto her lapel, removed her glasses, and touched up her lipstick. “Prepare to meet the man that will assure you a place in journalistic history,” she told her reflection.

Briefcase in hand, she hopped from her Jeep. She took two steps and stopped. “And quit talking to yourself.”

***

“Hello, I’m Wendy Kaufman, Jacksonville Journal.” Hand extended, Wendy hoped she appeared confident to the elderly man who opened the door. Though, beneath his mop of grey hair, bushy brows, and mustache, it seemed doubtful she appeared to be more than a shadowy figure.

“Well, well. Glad to see you made it, dear.” The man’s voice sounded little used, like it needed to be oiled.  He wore a silver suit and white gloves with which he pumped her arm enthusiastically. “I’m Stanley, the butler. We spoke on the phone. Won’t you come in?”

He stepped aside and Wendy entered the impressive foyer. Her eyes explored the vast, well-appointed space. Two sets of stairs journeyed up and curved toward each other, combining into one staircase that led to a banister. Heavy draperies on two-story windows made it necessary to keep light fixtures burning, even in the daytime. Polished wood gleamed from floor to furniture to ornately carved ceiling, whispering of refined taste and old money.

The butler cleared his throat.

Wendy flushed to think how she must have gawked. “Such a lovely home. It certainly doesn’t look like an a-asylum.” The demeaning word didn’t feel right in her mouth. 

“No, indeed,” he said. “But I assure you that everyone here is quite . . . touched, as they say.”

“Where are the patients? The staff?”

“Tucked away in their rooms, for now.”

“Well, I do hope I’ll get to meet some of them, to get a feel for the institution. It’s important for my story.”

The butler’s mustache stretched in what Wendy supposed to be a grin. “M’dear, you haven’t a story just yet. Master Brantley must first agree to be interviewed.” He walked to a small table and straightened a stack of books. “I only shared the news about your visit this morning.”

“What?” Wendy saw red. “I’ve been talking to you—with the understanding that you were talking to him—for weeks. You greatly misrepresented this to me, sir.” She clenched her briefcase with both hands. “If Mr. Brantley does not agree to what I’ve gone to great lengths to make happen, you’ll hear from my . . . lawyer.”

Stanley chuckled. One brow lifted. “Your lawyer? Hmm, I don’t think there are grounds for legal action just yet. Come now.” He motioned Wendy to follow as he headed toward one set of stairs. “Our conversations over the last few weeks were merely to screen you thoroughly, before granting you permission to attempt to gain approval from the man himself.”

He stopped at the foot of the stairs. “This is not an insane asylum without reason, Miss Kaufman. I waited until you were on your way this morning to ensure he would permit your introduction. If I’d given him three weeks notice, I guarantee you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Wendy felt properly chastised. “My apologies, sir.”

Stanley nodded. “Quite all right. I knew that you’d arrive with expectations. That’s normally how these things work. But remember, my dear, here at the asylum, things are never ‘normal.’ Now, let’s cross our fingers and hope Mr. Brantley is in an agreeable mood this fine day.”

“Yes, let’s.” Wendy marveled at Stanley’s energy. He bounded up the stairs, while she lagged behind, breathless. Perhaps he’s younger than all that crazy hair makes him out to be.

At the top of the banister, Stanley turned left. The wooden floor met up with a plush, carpeted hallway, wide enough to drive a car through. An occasional table and lamp dotted the periphery between a half-dozen doors, all latched from the outside. A brass bell dangled near the top of each door.

“These are the patients’ rooms?”

Stanley nodded. “Some of them.”

“Well, they have a lovely place. I was expecting things to be much more . . . sterile.”

“The residents have been here many years. They’re all treated well and are quite content.”

An arched, wooden door bolted with a heavy, iron shaft blocked the end of the passage. Wendy noted that such a heavy-duty lock on the outside was meant to keep someone—or something—secured on the inside. With a clunk, Stanley slid the bar from the lock.

Wendy’s adrenaline cranked. She followed the butler through the door and up narrow, dimly lit stairs. Each step brought a barrage of thoughts to assault her resolve. I’m in the middle of nowhere, in a house full of crazy people. No one will find my body in this quarantined stairwell. I may not live to tell about this visit, let alone write my story about this famous werewolf.

Werewolf. The word stopped Wendy mid-stride. She had not allowed herself to use such coarse slang for the medical condition known as hypertrichosis. Drake Brantley could not help having a disorder that caused hair to grow all over his body like fur. Rumors circulated that Mr. Brantley was a self-imprisoned werewolf, which Wendy dismissed as ignorant and cruel.

But now, as she and Stanley approached yet another locked door at the top of the stairs, she had a hard time pushing such ideas aside.

“Werewolf Brantley Kills Naive Journalist.” Wendy could imagine the headlines even as the bolt slid open.

Chapter 2

“Wait here.” Stanley slipped through the doorway.

Wendy stared at the polished wood and contemplated running back to her car. It might be her only chance to escape. No. This might be my only chance at the story of a lifetime.

“I told you, no visitors!” A gruff voice made Wendy step away from the door. “This is another pointless endeavor on your part, Stanley. You know how this will end.”

She swallowed and tried not to think about how things could ‘end.’ Stanley said something in reply, but his voice didn’t carry. In a moment, the door opened enough to reveal the butler sporting a nervous smile . . . a characteristic discerned because he had brushed his hair away from his face. His brown eyes crinkled on the edges in a reassuring way.

“Master Brantley would be delighted to meet you,” he said with a nod.

Wendy scoffed and whispered, “I’m not deaf, ya know.”

The butler winked and pulled the door open.

She stepped into an enormous room, a juxtaposition of finery and flaws. Elaborately carved furniture with shredded upholstery gathered in clusters near the fireplace and in front of large bay windows. Besides a few Tiffany-style lamps, the windows served as the main source of light in the dismal space.

“Master Brantley, allow me to present Wendy Kaufman from the Jacksonville Journal.” Stanley spoke towards a wingback chair that faced the windows, opposite the door.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Wendy waited a moment for Drake Brantley to rise and greet her but nothing occurred. She decided to take the initiative and head around the side of the chair, but Stanley stopped her with an emphatic shake of his head.

“Best to stay here and wait for instructions,” the butler said in a low voice.

“Instructions?” Wendy’s brows furrowed and she turned a stubborn chin toward the chair. “I’m here to ask some simple questions, Mr. Brantley. Why do I need instructions on how to do my job?”

Stanley looked pale and gave Wendy a nervous pat on the arm.

“Ask her to leave, Stanley,” the man in the chair growled.

“I’m standing ten feet away. Ask me yourself.”

“I told you this wouldn’t work. Ask her to leave.”

Wendy cut her gaze to the butler who looked like he might pass out. She rolled her eyes. “How can you say this won’t work when you haven’t given me the courtesy of an introduction—let alone a conversation? Isn’t it time to dispel the nasty rumors about you, sir? Don’t you want to help people understand your disease and lend some hope to children that suffer from it as well?”

The silence yawned deep.

Wendy could dish out a helping of obstinate as well as Drake Brantley. Especially for the sake of her high profile story. She spied a shredded chaise lounge against the wall behind her and perched herself on the edge, determined to hold out for her cause. She made it a point not to think about how the sofa may have been torn to shreds.

After a few nervous glances from Stanley, and a few more minutes of silence, Wendy saw movement from the chair where Brantley sat. A bulky arm, sporting a purple, silken sleeve, reached toward a glass of water that sat on a table to his right. Chestnut hair covered his extended hand, while pale, gnarly claws snatched up the goblet.

Wendy tried to suppress a shudder.

“Is she gone, Stanley? Why are you standing there like a dumb dog?”

Stanley didn’t appear phased by the rebuke. “She did not leave, Master. It would seem Miss Kaufman may be as stubborn as you, sir.”

More silence.

The patient butler stood, hands clasped behind his back, mustache hair softly adrift with each exhale. Wendy sat, arms wrapped around her briefcase, making mental descriptions about the room. The mysterious man in the chair made no attempt to move or be cordial.

Gong! The grandfather clock chimed. Wendy jumped and released her briefcase with a thud.

“If a clock leaves you that jumpy, Miss Kaufman, I dare say what a glimpse of my condition might do to you,” said Drake Brantley.

“Sir, I’ve done a lot of research on hypertrichosis. I’ve looked at numerous pictures and am well aware of what the condition does to a person. I have a good idea of what you look like, though I daresay that I don’t understand how profoundly it has affected you. That’s one reason I’m here. I’d like to understand you better.”

The clock ticked and taunted her.

“I will agree to your interview on one condition. It is non-negotiable.”

“Anything. Name it.” Wendy stood, prepared to shake on the deal.

Stanley wrung his hands and gave Wendy a look she couldn’t quite decipher.

“I will grant you access on the condition that you agree to stay here for the next month. The month begins today. And it begins right now.”