Free Whispers of Bedlam Asylum (Sigmund Shaw Book 2) by Mark C. King

but to try and relieve some of the pain. The sound of Arthur, the blue-eyed constable, driving away was still in her ears as she was dragged into the lobby of Bedlam Asylum. The surroundings inside the building were not much more inviting than the outside. She found herself in a large open area that had several doors along the back wall, a set of double doors to her left and right, and twin staircases that looped up to a second floor landing. The old tile floor was dirty and cracked and made crunching sounds beneath their feet from crumbled pieces of mortar. There were couches that rested on the side walls of the lobby that looked like they were once expensive, but had fallen into disrepair many years back. The only light seemed to be the greyness that the front windows allowed in, which made the drab walls even more sorrowful. There were a few paintings, portraits of unknown men, that added an uncomfortable feeling of watchfulness. Charlotte shivered and realized that the temperature was not much warmer than it had been outside.
     
    With his hand still painfully gripping her arm, the orderly kept walking and pulling her along. After only a few steps, Charlotte froze in fear at the sound of a horrifying scream. The orderly ignored it and yanked her forward. That first terrifying cry was followed by others. Mournful wails echoed through the lobby, sending terror through her own mind and body. Hysterical laughter accented the wails and frightened her even more. The utter pain and lack of inhibition in these calls were unlike anything she had ever heard. It was her very first experience of insanity.
     
    The orderly pressed on, dragging Charlotte across the lobby and stopped at one of the far doors, opposite the entrance. Inside was a small, bare room that contained two chairs, a small wooden cabinet, a lit oil lamp, and nothing else. The only décor to speak of was the yellowing white paint peeling from the large brick walls. Without a word, the orderly pushed her in the room and into a chair. He stood over her and asked, “What is your story? You don’t look familiar to me. You are not faking are you? Trying to get a free place to stay, perhaps?”
     
    Charlotte didn’t respond, she looked forward as if she were alone in the room.
     
    “Alright then,” the orderly said and walked over to the small cabinet. When he turned around, he had a small flask and a box of matches in his hands. Charlotte saw this out of her peripheral vision but still did not acknowledge his presence.
     
    He approached her and grabbed her right wrist and pushed back the sleeve to expose her arm. Inwardly she was quite alarmed, but showed nothing more than a casual glance. The man poured a little bit of unknown liquid from the flask onto her wrist. It took a moment, but then the smell reached her nose. It was lamp oil. As unthinkable as it should be, the meaning of this act seemed clear. Terror grew inside her as she fought to keep a calm demeanor. He wasn’t really going to go through with this, was he?
     
    “I’m going to be very clear,” said the orderly. “If you are faking, let me know, otherwise I will set this oil on fire.”
     
    “Faking what, sir?” Charlotte responded casually, hoping to project enough insanity to convince this man. Somehow, she continued to look calm on the outside, but inside, her heart was beating fast. This was only a test. She told herself. He was bluffing.
     
    “Miss, one last chance. Are you faking?”
     
    No response.
     
    “Suit yourself,” he said and awkwardly placed the box of matches in the hand that was holding her wrist and fumbled with it until he got a match out. The orderly’s stare could be felt as he looked for signs of awareness. She gave him nothing, but she was beyond scared now.
     
    The sound of the match as it struck against the box was as frightening as any of the sounds she had heard so far. Whereas the other sounds scared her for the sadness and the unknown they represented,