This Haunted World Book One: The Venetian: A Chilling New Supernatural Thriller (14 page)

From having examined photos on the net, Louise knew that there were fields behind the asylum, the plague pits that Piero mentioned perhaps, the soft ground. As she walked, she had a vision of that ground opening beneath her, of falling as so many diseased hands reached upwards to drag her deeper into the darkness. When the asylum opened, did the patients know about the island’s history? And if they did, did it torment already tormented minds? It would certainly torment her – men, women and children torn from their families, incarcerated, for the good of society, but against their will. A death sentence incurred because you were ill, because there was no cure, because you’d infect others. What must it have been like, being steered across the waters of the lagoon, the doctors terrified too no doubt, the beaks of their masks stuffed with herbs in the hope they wouldn’t fall ill too? She asked Kristina if the masks were effective.

“
Medico Della Peste
is what the masks were called,” Kristina answered. “They are still used today, but of course in a more frivolous manner, especially during the Venice carnival. It is eerie to see men standing on lonely corners wearing them, especially at night, their eyes on you as you pass, but everything else about them hidden. I have lived in Venice all my life but never get used to that sight. Whether they were effective or not, there is no way of knowing. So many people were struck down, doctors included. Disease was rife.”

“But banishing the sick, was that really ethical?”

Kristina shrugged. “If they didn’t, many more people would have been at risk.” She mulled over Louise’s question further. “It was… an impossible situation I think.”

It was, and they could discuss the rights and the wrongs of it forever, but in the end it happened, it was part of history. No one could change it.

The middle building of the three had its front entrance boarded up with proibito signs plastered all over it. It jutted out slightly from the other two buildings and there was a side entrance, that particular door rotting so badly it might as well have not have been there. Piero led them to it but it was Kristina who stepped forward and pushed it open, using the rucksack she was carrying as a shield between the door and her body as she did so.

“This room,” Kristina explained once they were inside, “is where most people enter the asylum. Maybe we can have something to eat in here before we continue.”

Piero had mentioned in his text that they’d provide lunch. She hadn’t given it too much thought, but now the prospect horrified her. She had an impression she’d ingest more than just the food they were offering. Rob noticed the expression on her face and raised an eyebrow. Meanwhile, Kristina cleared a space on a desk that still occupied the room and placed her rucksack on it. A sturdy piece of furniture, it was not unattractive, made of some sort of dark wood with two columns of deep drawers running either side of it, some open, some closed. She peered into the drawers that were open, whatever was left in there – it looked like scraps of paper mainly – had not fared well over the years, now little more than mulch. Curious, she opened another drawer, but it was empty – if there’d been any remotely salvageable items they’d have probably been taken by those intent on retrieving a souvenir from the island. There was a tall cabinet too, perhaps used for filing purposes, the wood on it not as intact as the wood on the desk, but chronically splintered as if it had been kicked several times. All of its drawers were open or on the floor, their contents rotting too. It was an office, clearly, but whose? One of the two doctors the Benvenutis had mentioned, or other doctors that came after them? The room had such a derelict feel as if it hadn’t been used in centuries, let alone decades. And the air was thick somehow, cloying. With dismay she watched as Kristina opened the rucksack and retrieved four small plastic boxes, one for each of them.

Piero noticed her reticence too because he laughed, a big booming sound that bounced off the walls and flew right back at them. “Eat, eat,” he encouraged. “My wife is the best cook in Italy.” He took the lid off his box and proudly displayed its contents. “This is
arancini
, a very popular dish in Venice. Have you tried it before? They are rice balls, like risotto, and in the middle of them is my wife’s ragu, which she slow-cooks for hours in Chianti. They are delicious, truly delicious!” Picking one up, he bit into it, closing his eyes as if to savour the flavour. “
Perfetto!
” he murmured.

Rob returned his enthusiasm. “It’s very kind of you, you know, to go to so much effort. Louise, are you going to try one?”

“Erm… of course.”

Taking her box from Kristina, she unwrapped one of the rice balls. She could barely swallow, but she appeared to be the only one having difficulty. Piero was eating, Kristina too, Rob was on his second already, and all eyes were on her, expectant: she’d have to eat at least two of the four balls that had been given to her, it would seem rude otherwise. Gingerly picking up an
arancini
between her thumb and forefinger she bit into it, the rice slightly sticky between her teeth. Despite her misgivings, it was, as Piero insisted, very tasty. She ate the rest of it and then selected another, feeling slightly hungry after all. Smiling her thanks at Kristina, she was about to compliment her too when an almighty bang from above startled her so much she dropped the box.

“What the hell…” she exclaimed, rice spraying from her mouth.

All eyes had flown upwards but no one answered. Silence, stark silence, followed the bang, lasting a good few moments and then Piero started laughing again, although it was not as assured as before. “A chunk of masonry must have fallen,” he said. “As I say, we must be careful, the building is not sound.”

Louise was as horrified at that as if it had been a ghost responsible. “A chunk of masonry? You mean the roof could cave in on our heads?” Good God, what were they doing here? She turned to Rob. “I think we should go.”

“Louise—” he begun.

“It’s dangerous here!”

Piero intercepted. “It’s fine, we’ll be careful.” With regret he looked at his food. “But perhaps we should eat and be on our way. It’s best to keep moving.”

Picking up her box from the floor, she stuffed the two remaining rice balls back into it and closed the lid. “Sorry.” She handed the box back to Kristina. Obviously, she couldn’t eat them now, couldn’t be expected to.

“I’ve drinks in my rucksack,” Kristina said, exchanging the box for a bottle of water.

Thirsty after the food, Louise opened her bottle and then a thought struck her. “I’m sorry to have to ask this, but where do we go if we need the loo?”

Kristina frowned. “The loo?”

“The toilet.”

“Ah,” Kristina looked at Piero and then smiled ruefully. “There is no working toilet of course, you will have to use the bushes.”

“Great.” She was muttering again, unable to hide how uncomfortable she was. She took a sip from the bottle and then replaced the cap. “Better not drink too much then.”

Rob leant into her. “We’re not going to be here long. Just relax, enjoy it.”

Enjoy it? Was he serious? How could anyone enjoy this? “Let’s get it over and done with,” she hissed. “I want to leave by three at the latest.”

“Three? That’s a bit ear—”

“Rob!” Although her voice was low the sentiment was clear.

“Okay, okay.” He looked at his watch. “That gives us a couple of hours I suppose.”

Two hours – one hundred and twenty minutes – it wasn’t a lot of time, but it stretched ahead like a yawning chasm.

Retrieving a couple of torches and handing them to her husband, Kristina decided to leave the rucksack behind; they’d fetch it on their way out, a sensible suggestion that everyone agreed with. She also left her water behind, and Louise followed suit, not wanting to be weighed down by any more than she needed to be. As Piero led them out of the room that was once an office, Louise asked him what he knew about the layout.

“I have not seen floor plans, I don’t even know if they still exist, they probably do, locked away somewhere, but quickly you will get a feel for it. In this building, the ground floor is where the recreation rooms were; the wards are on the upper levels. When we explore it will become obvious what some rooms were used for, there are still giant mangles in the laundry room for example, and in the dining room there are long trestle tables, even a few plates and cups from what I remember.” Before continuing any further, Piero handed Rob one of the torches his wife had given him. “But only use it if we need it,” he instructed.

The corridor was long, narrow and gloomy, with plaster crumbling and pipes dangling precariously. Louise tried to imagine it as it once was, with young doctors and nurses hurrying along, tending to their patients, but she had difficulty – the atmosphere was just too dead. Piero led them into various rooms, vast open spaces, most of which were empty. She wondered if she’d recognise any of them from the photos she’d seen and certainly there was a hint of familiarity but no more than that. Vines grew in through broken windows, a welcome if strange sight – they lent a much-needed splash of colour.

“The laundry room is interesting,” Piero was saying as they entered it and she had to agree. It was still home to giant drums you could crawl into and a mass of copper piping, intact but heavily tarnished. There’d been graffiti on the walls of the rooms where they’d been, but here someone had drawn two life-size bloated figures, outlined in blue, one with a gun in his hand and the other with his hands to his face, his jaw excessively long, his mouth screaming – an Edvard Munch inspired illustration if ever there was one. She found it disturbing, violent and hopeless at the same time, summarising the way that life had been here perhaps. It disturbed her even more to think that teens were the most likely to have drawn it, their minds feeding on the mood that was prevalent, not just capturing it but in their own way
understanding
it. At the thought of teens on the island, she frowned. How did they know they were the only people here, the only living people that is?

“Piero,” she asked, turning towards him, “how often do people come to Poveglia?”

He seemed to sense her nervousness.

“Don’t worry, where we are docked is where other people must dock too. There is no other landing jetty on the island. To be honest, hardly anyone bothers to come here nowadays. Not even the youngsters. When I was young, groups of us came over but today they get their excitement from computer games. They don’t need this.”

No one needed this, not really.
She
didn’t need it. She could read about it, certainly, but that didn’t mean she wanted to experience it. She was only surprised Rob did. With her fears regarding other occupants eased, they carried on exploring, Louise regularly glancing upwards, still afraid that the roof was going to fall down on them. They came to the kitchen next, a huge metal worktable dominating the centre of it, as well as ovens turned on their sides and a butcher’s block, blackened with decay. Over the worktable a huge light rig, its bulbs long since extinguished, began to sway gently, their entry into the room no doubt stirring it. The walls were half-tiled; a filthy grey instead of the white they once were and above them a green-like fungus seemed intent on spreading everywhere.

Louise couldn’t understand it. “It’s been like this since 1968 hasn’t it, forty-seven years. Why don’t they just knock the entire building down, get rid of it and what’s inside it? Why has it been left to stand, supported by scaffolding even? It doesn’t make sense.”

Piero agreed. “It is strange that it is standing still, as for what the developers are doing I don’t know. Sometimes, in Italy, things move slowly.”

Slowly? They hadn’t moved at all regarding Poveglia.

She looked at Rob. He was peering inside an old cooker, grimacing at how encrusted it was with rust. Kristina was picking up tiles that had fallen from the walls onto the floor and placing them on the worktable, as if she was trying to tidy up – an impossible task.

Traditionally kitchens were jovial places, somewhere to linger, but she didn’t want to linger here, it was simply another room to tick off the list. As Piero had said, it was best to keep moving, to keep counting the minutes and the seconds until she could breathe again – fresh air that is, once they were off the island. She’d fill her lungs with it.

They were back in the corridor, some graffiti on the walls at this end, words this time, in Italian; she hadn’t a clue what they meant and didn’t bother to ask for a translation.

“This way to go upstairs,” Piero said, walking forward a few paces and then stopping. He turned to face Rob and Louise, his dark features not as smooth as before, instead concern had creased them. “Upstairs is where the patients were kept, where the wards were. These rooms, many of them still contain beds, even sheets and blankets, personal effects too although most have been taken, but it is important to remember… the beds are empty now, no one remains. It is easy to let your imagination take over.”

What a strange warning! Of course it was easy to scare yourself in a place like this but they weren’t children, they didn’t need to be warned.
Children…
There couldn’t have been children at the asylum could there? She had to ask.

Piero looked surprised she’d brought up the subject. “Whatever sources I’ve read have never made mention of children.” He looked at Kristina for confirmation and she seemed to agree. “Of course the plague victims included children, many of them. Have you heard the legend of Little Maria who stands on the shore and stares across the water to Venice?”