Uncleansed

Chapt. 1

"And when they heard of the Dead; some mocked.  While others said, we will hear thee again of this matter."           -- Acts 17:32

         Jamison Priest sat in the conference room of the small office building seated amid the towering sky rise of New York City.  He was well-dressed for the meeting he had this morning.  He waited alone in the dark, maroon colored room.  Old pictures of what looked like historic buildings dotted the walls.  He assumed those buildings were claimed to have been haunted; after all, he now sat in the headquarters of the business that verified those places to be haunted.  The American Paranormal Society (APS).  Jamison Priest had known about APS for the past few years.  They were a group of ghost hunters, traveling the nation, sometimes even the world to investigate suspected sites.  They started out small, but over the years they've grown to become nationwide, with their main headquarters based in Manhattan.  Priest himself was a an avid ghost hunter.  He has a remarkable record of lighthouses, plantation mansions, and of course the typical American home.  He was known throughout the world, and published two books in the past two years on his studies and findings, both of which hit the New York Times Bestseller. 
         Lately, however, he's been dealing with his own inner demons. He had become greedy.  Feeling as if he hadn't had enough, that he deserved much more than what was given to him.  He had gotten himself into a great deal of problems with the APS.  On one such occasion, he had lost a dear friend during an investigation.  The news spread like wildfire through the media.  The family of his deceased friend filed charges against him, yet even though a grand jury found him not guilty due to inadequate evidence, the guilt consumed him.  As a result, he found himself with a growing arrest record.  Everything from trespassing to disorderly conduct to multiple DUIs.  His friends' family, who at one point had considered him to be a part of, shut him out of their lives.  They had been displeased with the verdict and had called for an appeal that had never gone through.  His work was scrapped, his popularity declined, his followers grew distant.  Now he was looking to make a name for himself once again, and he would do that by taking on one last haunting.  One that had never been done before.  It had been deemed to dangerous to investigate since it was full of malevolent activity.  He had the picture of the place sitting beneath his briefcase on the table.  Penta Isle Sanitarium.  The name itself sent chills down his spine.  The photo was dated 22 September 1911.  There had been many rumors about why the sanitarium was closed and any remaining staff and patients transferred. The financial disaster was partly to blame for what happened.  As for the other half, Priest suspected differently.  This was the reason he had come to the APS Headquarters this morning.  He had come for permission to explore the forbidden grounds that housed the sanitarium.
         The door opened and in walked a short, stocky, old man in a well-tailored business suit. He excused himself to Jamison for running a little late.  After closing the door and tossing a wad of tissue into the trash can, the old man sat down, eager to get started with his visitor.  He had known about Jamison Priest, a fellow ghost hunter. He had enjoyed both of his books.
         "So, Mr. Priest, what can I do for you?"
         
         Jamison lifted the briefcase from the table, and slid the photo of the sanitarium toward Franklin Mergerman, CEO of APS. The elder man took a long glance at the photo, as if trying to remember the place. The look on his face said differently.
         "Penta Isle Sanitarium?"
         "Yes sir, I was hoping to be granted permission for an investigation there."
         "Mr. Priest, you do know that even the Pope himself has banned any involvement of the church at that place don't you?" There was a bit of concern in the older man's voice.
         "No, I never knew sir." Priest was in shock.  He never even knew the Pope could do such a thing.  Yet again, from the rumors he's heard of the asylum, he supposed it would've been best that the prohibition was implemented.
         "In 1921, two Catholic priests were sent to that island to cleanse the facility of it's seemingly demonic entities after numerous reports of strange activity. Within hours of arriving, a nurse found them hanging from the seventh floor window, bed sheets wrapped around their necks. When the asylum shut down, no one ever set foot on that island again. No one even dared so much as look in the direction of where it lies." Franklin Mergerman's voice seemed to grow colder with every word he said. Still, Jamison Priest was determined to play every card he had in order for the old man to agree. Ever since the sanitarium shut down, the APS has kept it under wraps, and had a no trespassing law implemented. In order to avoid criminal prosecution, Jamison Priest would need permission to walk the grounds of the foundation.
         "Mr. Priest, you are one of the most renowned hunters in this nation, better yet, the world.  I've enjoyed both of your books.  I know how smart you are.  You've had your fair share of both gentle spirits and poltergeists; however, what you're asking, I cannot jeopardize--"          "Jeopardize what?" Jamison spat out at the old man. He took it as an insult from the troubles he's caused over the years. He wanted those days shut out for the rest of his life.  He accepted that fate, and wanted it to stay way. He just wished other people would do the same.
         "Life, Mr. Priest." Franklin Mergerman grew concerned. "Penta Isle is no place for humans to be, regardless if you're experienced or an amateur. Many have died there, and many still suffer. This isn't just a peaceful walk in the park, this is standing before the Gates of Hell itself. The impact you get from just hearing that name, it's astounding.  That place is filled with agony, madness, suffering, and evil. It was full of the cruelest and maniacal individuals man had ever known.  Those individuals were sick, Mr. Priest, mentally sick.  They were sent there for a reason and that reason is insanity.  Some even went far enough off the edge to commit murderous atrocities.  I'm not trying to break your spirits, Mr. Priest. I'm doing this for your own safety."
         "This would put me back on the map, sir." Jamison leaned across the table, his hand resting on the photo, getting closer to Mr. Mergerman, as if to whisper a secret. Yet, in his voice, he noticed he started to sound desperate. "With all due respect, do you have any idea how much of a story this would be? To have someone finally unravel the mysteries revolving around this place? I want to be the one who does that. I know we've had troubles in the past, but I'm willing to let that pass. I can't get away from my work, sir. If this is what it takes to bring myself to the top again, very well. I'll do this on my own if I have too."
         "On your own? How do you expect to conduct an investigation on your own?"
         "I'll find a way, sir!"
         The CEO of the APS could only close his eyes and shake his head slowly.  This irritated Jamison Priest, as he already knew the answer.
         "I'm sorry Mr. Priest, I cannot allow it."
         "Please, sir.  I'd do anything. I made some mistakes, but give me the chance to be the man, the hunter, I once was."  Now Priest was really desperate.

         Franklin Mergerman's response was quick and to the point. He was making sure that what he said would be final, and that his answer was still no. "I'm sorry, Mr. Priest. Really, I am. But I will not let someone else's coffin rest on my conscience. Good day sir."
         With that, Franklin Mergerman rose from his chair and walked toward the door, coming to a halt as he opens it.
         "That place is a great evil, Mr. Priest. May God have mercy on your soul for even mentioning it."
         Jamison Priest was filled with sorrow and disgust as he heard the conference room door click shut.

         For the remainder of the afternoon, Priest spent his time in a coffee shop in Times Square.  His mind trailed off, reminiscing of the times he could remember when everyone gave a damn.  He missed how people used to appreciate his work and give him the credit he felt he had deserved, regardless if Franklin Mergerman and his ridiculing posse stripped him of that honor.  He gazed into the eyes of those who entered the cafe.  He was always gifted with the ability to read people's minds just by looking through their eyes.  Anyone could do it, it was easy.  The eyes truly were the windows to the soul.  He could distinguish despair behind the brightest despair and hurt beyond the blackest clouds of anger.  Some looked over at him, as if sensing he was gazing at them.  Yet, he never looked away.  He wasn't ashamed if they looked at him.  He found it understandable how he was blamed for what happened...how long had it been?  two years?
           After the glances from the other people in the cafe, with some nodding to him in recognition, others looking away with disgust, he began to wonder if he even cared anymore.  With all that transpired this morning, is there really any significance in his work anymore? what is it about the lonesome sanitarium that drives him to continue?  He bent over to unlock his briefcase and pulled out the only photo he had of the asylum.  Generally speaking it was just a run-down building built over a century ago.  It was used to house the insane, contain them from the rest of society.  Some had lost their marbles after the First World War, others had snapped and went on a bloodlust of murder and mayhem.  Who in their right mind would want to go to a place such as that? he had been to many hauntings, experienced both the frightening and the ease.  He had been in numerous historical facilities.  The Lemp Mansion in St. Louis, Missouri.  The Lincoln Theatre in Decatur, Illinois.  Waverly Hills Sanatorium in Louisville, Kentucky, along with other places.  Each of them had given him either a satisfied feeling of accomplishment, or left him in the dark.  However, these facilities were not Penta Isle Sanitarium.  It wasn't a mansion, theatre, lighthouse or a home where murder was committed.  If anything, Waverly Hills closely resembles what Jamison Priest imagined the asylum to be like.  He looked down to admire the black and grey film.  Penta Isle was bigger, took up more square footage.  The front entrance was protectively surrounded by columns, similar to ancient Roman buildings.  Large domes covered each corner of the wings as well as the lobby.  Gothic spires twisted into the air from the rooftops, looking like a cluster of dead trees growing from the ceiling.  The sanitarium was seven stories tall; although the top two floors were left unfinished, most likely due to the asylum folding up.  From the second floor up, the windows were nothing more than thin slots cut into the brick.  The first floor housed the staff quarters.  So much as a sliver of sunlight crept into the inmates' cells.  They had been driven insane for an odd reason, and they had been kept that way.  Their minds lost in the darkness for all eternity.  Statues of both gargoyles and cherubs decorated the walls of the magnificent facility.  The site was truly breathtaking, one worth a picture to display in an art museum.  Still, the secrets the asylum held were far too disturbing for those who lived on the mainland to ever know. 
           The APS had denied him of what he believed to be his stepping stone to self-righteousness.  Regardless of having been told to stay away from Penta Isle, Jamison decided to go anyway.  He needed this more than anything, he only cared about getting there, conducting his investigation, writing about his findings, and when it was all said and done, he would become an icon in the public's eye yet again.  He would be the next Stephen King, the new Dean Koontz.  All he needed was a team of people to accompany him on the hunt.  At first he thought it was absurd and would never endanger anyone on an investigation.  But deep down, he knew that he would not be able to survive Penta Isle Sanitarium alone.  Still, he didn't want the general public.  He needed someone with experience with the equipment, someone who had witnessed a haunting, and yet someone who would do it for the thrill of excitement and not just money.  The only way he felt he could do that was through the APS.  They had contact information for every Society member.  But due to his unsatisfactory standing with them, it would be difficult for him to even talk with them.
         That's when the light bulb in his head turned on.  He could use what's left of his bank account to broadcast his search for members of an investigation party.  Television and radio ads, online postings, the list seemed to go on forever.  He just couldn't reveal where it was he planned to go.  It was a good thing he was still a familiar face in the media world, and he was sure he could be able to entice some people.
         He needed at least five other people besides himself.  Each one needed to have had a paranormal experience.  They didn't need to be like him.  He could show them all how to work the instruments needed on a hunt.  A demonologist would also be of good use.  He finished his coffee, slid the photo back into the briefcase, snapped it shut, and walked out of the cafe immediately, as if an emergency had arisen.

            
         In a matter of two weeks, Jamison Priest had called every single radio and television station in Manhattan, and to get his word out to the rest of the nation, he uploaded websites and ensured they could all be easily found by someone surfing the internet.  He now lay in his bed, rubbing his sleep-deprived eyes.  He only got a total of roughly five to six hours of sleep during his campaign.  Every single hour for every single day he was either at his computer or on the phone.  An abundant amount of large Starbucks coffee mugs were strewn around his cheap, one bedroom apartment on the lower side of Manhattan.  He had stayed here since he was sixteen after he moved out from his parent's place.  He worked two jobs to support himself.  He had a paper route in the morning and finished the day up by driving cabs.  Even then, he knew he never really had much sleep.  It's been eight years since he moved in here.  Eight years since he last remembered a good night's rest.  It's been two years since the accident, and not a day goes by where the nightmares don't plague his mind.
         The phone rang before Priest could fall deeper into the darkness of the nightmare.  He sat up with a rush, as if the ring frightened him.  He rolled out of the bed and tripped over a heap of dirty laundry.  After cursing himself for doing it, he calmly walked over to the kitchen.  The clock on the microwave read 4:30 a.m.  Plates were piled in the sink, traces of soap bubbles still on them.  He had meant to wash the dishes, as well as clean the rest of the place, but with everything he had done for the past two weeks, he resorted to procrastination.  The phone rang a fourth time, yet Priest was in no hurry.  For all he knew, it was probably the landlord again, complaining about the rent money.  He opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Bud Light.  After popping the cap and taking a swig, he looked over at the ringing phone and took it off the hook.
         "Hello?" he asked with a tired voice.
         "G'day, mate, sorry to wake you up."  The voice was Australian and young.  Priest guessed the man was probably around his age.  After rubbing his eyes again, he answered softly.
         "You're all right, I wasn't sleeping.  Who is this?"
         "Oh, apologies.  My name is Cole St. James, and I heard about your ad on the radio yesterday.  To make a long story short, I'm interested mate."
         Jamison suddenly felt a rush of adrenaline surge through his body.  His eyes fluttered open and his heart began to race with excitement.  He just hoped this wasn't another call from some college student asking if a paycheck was involved in them giving up what they cherished most for a week in a spook house.  Something told him that this wasn't the case with this man.  Still, annoyed with all the others, he had to ask.
         The Australian man laughed on the other end.  It was cheery, filled with a lot of joy.  Jamison could tell this was one person who lived to see the brightest days life had to offer.
          "I make plenty of money on my own to get by."
  To Jamison's surprise, Cole continued to sound delighted, even though he was sure that question would've offended him.  After the first few calls he received, every time he asked, the person on the other end cursed him and hung up immediately.  He was glad Cole was understanding.
          "Good to hear.  You have any experience at least?"  Jamison crossed his arms and leaned up against the wall.  He held the phone between his head and shoulder.
          "I've been involved in demonology for the past four years.  I've journeyed to many places to identify spirits in hopes of "cleansing" the facility as they say.  I've been on a number of investigations with paranormal societies and answering cries for help from random people."
         Jamison set the beer down on the counter and walked over to sit on the couch.  This was just the news he was waiting to hear.  A demonologist on his case.  Now if he could just get four other phone calls, he could begin preparing for the trip to the asylum.
         "So is there a way we can meet somewhere and discuss this further?" Jamison asked.
         "I don't see why not.  How's Celiano's sound to you?"
         "How thoughtful of you to ask me out to dinner," Jamison said with a chuckle, "been awhile since I've been there.  One o'clock?"
         "Sounds all right by me, mate.  G'day!"  Jamison heard the click at the other end.  It took him a few minutes to hang the phone back on the hook.  His mind trailing off to a few years before.  When the accident had occurred.  Almost instantaneously, the nightmares returned.  As he thought of Cole St. James, the first person on his new investigation team, a young demonologist from Australia, he squatted and cowered against the wall.  Holding his head in his hands, the feeling of guilt seeped out from within him.  It was an all too familiar feeling.  One that he wished would vanish, like the spirits that inhabited Penta Isle Sanitarium.


         Celiano's was an Italian fine dining establishment.  Everything from the richest pasta dishes to brick-oven cooked pizza and some of the most refreshing wines this side of the Big Apple.  It was an expensive restaurant, filled with the most luxurious of New York's bigwigs and their friends and families.  Cole St. James stood at least six feet tall with an athletic build.  His short, dirty blond haired was neatly combed in a gentlemanly manner except that the bangs were spiked up.  Jamison silently applauded himself when he guess the Australian to be around 24-years-old.  The demonologist had already taken a seat by the time Jamison walked in the door.  He didn't utter a word, only sipped a glass of Chianti.  He seemed to know Jamison Priest as soon as he saw him through the front window.  It was no surprise to Priest, seeing as how everywhere he went people called his name out.  Either looking for an autograph or to display ridicule.  The waitress was about to seat Jamison before Cole waved him down.  He gave a smile to the waitress and thanked her before heading over.
         "How's the wine?" Jamison asked as he took off his coat.
         "I've tasted better.  Not bad though.  Good of you to come, sir." Cole pressed his back up against the red leather cushion of the booth.  He finished the glass and set it down before lighting up a cigarette. 
         "So tell me, where have you booked our little vacation?"  Cole asked him with a smirk as he blew smoke from his lips.
         Jamison was careful not to mention the sanitarium when he announced his search on the media network.  If someone like Franklin Mergerman ever found out where he was going, he'd be writing his next book about life in a prison. 
         "Penta Isle Sanitarium.  It's on an island, about 13 miles off the coast of Maine."
         Cole took another drag from his cigarette.  "Unique name.  Can't say I've heard of the place though."
         "From what I understand a majority of the records were burned before the place shut down.  As to why, I have no clue.  After it folded up, the APS made sure no one ever set foot on that island again.  No trespassing laws were enacted.  It's almost as if they wiped it from the face of the earth."
         "They have the authority to do that? I thought it was just a bunch of people going around looking for spooks."
         "They bought the property a few months after it closed down.  Something must have scared the original owner so much that he actually offered it for a cheap price.  He really didn't want to be there.  Still cost the Society a pretty penny though; and I guess it's their way of 'keeping people safe'."
         A waiter came by their table, notepad in hand, ready to take the gentleman's orders.  Jamison was a little surprised since he never even bothered to look at the menu.  Cole just snickered and placed his order.  After a few moments, Jamison placed his and they went about their business.  Jamison continued on.
         "No one else has gotten a hold of me.  I'm hoping for at least four others.  I was actually surprised when you called."
         "You're no stranger in this country, mate."  Cole said as he snapped his fingers to get the attention of a waiter and pointed to his wineglass.  "I know your work just as much as anybody else."
         "You from Sydney?"
         Cole shook his head.  "Melbourne, born and raised.  Came to the States when I was six.  Me father looked for work out in California.  Came from a poor family, so mum couldn't come with us at the time.  He got caught up with the nightlife however, and as soon as we returned home, the divorce came soon after.  I lived with me mum until I finished school.  By that time we both had enough money to try and make a living in the States.  She had a job offering as a nurse up in Albany and so we made our way here.  Been that way ever since."
                       "Impressive.  I'm surprised you haven't lost the accent."
         "I don't feel the need.  I love being an Aussie.  Would you want to lose yours if you lived in some other country for so long?"
         Jamison nodded his head in agreement.  He was glad to see Cole be so open with him.  He's known the guy for only a few minutes now and already heard his life story.  Jamison felt he should express his, but held back somewhat.  Partly because he was shy, the other half just not really comfortable talking about it.
                The two of them spent the next hour and a half in the restaurant, sharing their life stories and paranormal encounters, although Jamison was careful not to go into too much detail.  After they were finished, Jamison offered to pay the bill and the duo made their way outside.
              "Once again, good of you to come by mate.  I look forward to working with you on this."  Cole said as he lit another cigarette.
              "Pleasure's all mine, sir.  I'll definitely keep in touch.  Get back to you whenever I find out something new cool?"  Priest asked.
              "Sounds good to me.  All right then, appreciate the dinner and all."
              Jamison and Cole shook hands briefly before going off their separate ways.  Jamison put his hands in his coat pockets, taking in the brisk October air.  He strolled through the mass of New York's citizens, imagining himself to be Moses as it seemed like the crowd parted like the Red Sea when he walked through.  It was a self-pride that he still held onto all these years.  His ego was all that prevented him from completely breaking down and going insane.  Still, all this thinking, all the planning for the upcoming expedition, it made his head hurt.  That kind that sits right behind the eyes and just won't go away.  He's had frequent migraines ever since the accident.  They have dwindled down since then, but every now and then, especially in times of stress, they have a recurring pattern.  He decided to take a short detour and stop in at a small convenience shop.

      Priest was a little disappointed when he had to settle with Tylenol instead of the deliciousness of the candy-coated shell of an Advil.  It was a slow night in the shop, so there wasn't much of a line to wait in.  After snagging a bag of beef jerky and a quick cup of cappucino, he laid out his items at the register.  Two young, attractive ladies ran the store.  The one behind the register was a blonde in her early to mid-twenties, college student perhaps.  She stood around 5'5"-5'6" with a slim build.  She looked like she just got back from a nice vacation in Florida.  The other girl mopping the floor was Hispanic with dark brown hair tinted with shades of red.  She was a bit shorter than the blonde with an average build.  As his items were rung up, the blonde behind counter kept giving him quizzical looks.  He smiled at first, but when he became to get annoyed at the situation, he finally broke the silence.
      "Can I help you?"
      The blonde was a little startled, but quickly regained composure.  She had been lost in a daydream. 
      "Not at all sir.  It's just that you look so familiar."
      "Aren't you that author or somebody that broadcasted a contest over the radio?"  The brunette had finished mopping and casually strolled over to his side.  Jamison could only raise an eyebrow and questioned himself.  How could I be familiar to someone if they've only heard my voice?
      "I've read your book.  Photographic memory, sweetie.  Hard to miss the picture in the back.  I could recognize you ten years from now."
      "I wouldn't necessarily consider myself an author.  I'm no one special."  Jamison could tell he already sounded nervous.  His voice was slightly soft and a little shaky.
      "And it's not a contest.  I'm just looking for...now four more people to accompany me on an investigation of a haunting."
      "Ooh, interesting!  Where is it?"  the blonde leaned in a little closer.  Jamison was hesitant at first.  He didn't want to subject such angels to the horrors that awaited on that god-forsaken spit of land.  Even though he tried his best to contain it, the words spilled out. 
      "An island...an asylum...off the coast of Maine."  Jamison cursed himself for saying it.  His heart had sunk, as if he just realized a personal tragedy had happened.
      "So is there a sign-up sheet or do we just ask you if you mind if we come along?"  the brunette eyed him intensely.  Still, she said it with a smile on her face, and Jamison could tell she was serious.
      "I'm trying to narrow it down to just people who've had an experience."
      "Like we don't?"  the girls somewhat took offense at the comment.  Jamison didn't mean for that to happen and he quickly apologized. 
      "I lived with my grandfather's spirit for 16 years.  That may not seem like much but it still counts.  He was a prankster sometimes."  The blonde began to look sincere, and there was a hint of concern in her voice, as if she didn't want to find herself in a world of trouble.  Old memories began to filter through her head.  Still, she had no problem showing a courageous heart. 
      "And I used to go to Ohio University.  Let me tell ya buddy, if you want a definition of things you can't explain, try living in that place."  The brunette smirked.  Jamison had noticed she had more of a cockier attitude than her companion.  He nodded his head in agreement, pleased to hear this.  Both of the girls had that look in their eye that this was no joke, which made him smile to himself even more.  There had been many that have made up stories just to get close to him.  But with his ability to read people, he could separate the liars from the honest folk.
      "All right then.  Question is would you be committed to this?"  Jamison looked at the two of them.  The brunette answered for them both.
      "Absolutely.  I think it'd be fun."
      Jamison gave a slight laugh and a small smile crept from the corner of his mouth; although he noticed the look of annoyance in the blonde.  Fun was clearly the last thing on his mind about this.  But now with the girls giving him the honesty and determination he desired, he set a date for the weekend.  A night of which to discuss this.  If he could acquire two more people, he hoped to have a gathering with everyone before finally shipping out.
      "Very well then, oh where are my manners?  I'm Jamison Priest."  He held out his hand and the brunette took it.
      "Juliana Wilkinson and this is Lynn Xavier."  Jamison shook the blonde's hand as well.  Lynn handed him his bag of items and after a brief goodbye, Jamison walked out of his shop and headed back home.

      And now he sat alone, once again in his dark and lonesome apartment.  Jamison was locked in a world of silence, save for the small patter of raindrops clapping against the window.  He held his head in his hands, brushing them back through his thick, brown hair.  Even with the air conditioner on, he was starting to sweat.  It was like living a nightmare, only when you're wide awake.  His mind had gone off somewhere else, while his physical being was safe and sound in the comfort of his own home.  Gradually, he began to sink lower into the darkest depths of his subconscious.  He began to remember....