Asylum

This is a novella that I've been writing for over two years working on it on and off with quite long periods of inactivity.
Its an unusal story in the sense that it doesn't have a happy ending (or infact contain any happyness) and there aren't any likeable characters in it and it's basically what came out of my twisted imagination.
As I've only just joint writing.com I'm on the free membership so only have space for the first two chapters but if I get helpful reviews (I would like positive ones but thats pushing it a bit) then it will probably be worth me upgrading and so putting up more (it is almost finished).
All comments welcomed.
Hope you find it interesting.

Midnight Stalker

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The key turned and the lock clicked shut. He stuffed it into his pocket with one hand as his other shook the handle in an absent automated check. Burt stood at the top of the first floor stairs, he looked rough, his hair a tangled mass of intertwining straw, his chin covered with week old stubble. He looked out of the small window above the stairs out on the front driveway looking down on its grey, empty hopelessness with the weeds trying to take hold, at the end of the driveway stood the sign, its cold, grey back to the house but Burt could visualise the front its dark navy blue face shaped in the way all important signs trying to impress seem to be, looking like someone bit off the corners, it had the standard gold farm set a few inches in from the edge. In the middle in big gold letters it read "RESEARCH IN SEVERE SCHIZOPHRENIC PSYCHOSES". Then in slightly smaller letters "Dr D Morris" followed by a string of letters. Dr Morris probably didn't like the idea of using smaller letters but not even his pomposity could make him portray himself as important as his 'selfless venture for humanity'. Unless he showed some modesty in his work he would not get the attractive news coverage he wanted.
Burt had grown to hate Morris almost as much as the institute, his pomposity and rigid nature made him impossible to get along with but the others revered him, his reputation demanded respect in the medical world, but Burt had worked with him for a year and knew his results were created by cruel, harsh treatment of his 'subjects' who received nothing for their help in gaining Morris further accolade and who afterwards would be returned to where they were found - even they deserved better. Burt had grown to despise him over the past year but it had only been in those two weeks with only himself and Mike working at the institute he realised how truly evil Dr Morris was; Burt imagined that in his chest lay a smouldering lump of charcoal, as black as night, burning his body turning more and more of it black, leaving him devoid of emotion, incapable of care or compassion. He could see it slowly twisting his body under the disguise of old age but really only making it conform, to make it expose the man's twisted mind and soul that hunted for perverse sick minds to explore and devour one by one till his lust for more drove him on to another crop of mentally perverse minds to feast upon but never satisfying him.
Burt laughed a short burst that seemed to escape him before he realised what was happening and stopped himself. He realised he was still standing at the top of the stairs looking out along the drive as if expecting to see a car, perhaps even Dr Morris returning a few days early from his holiday. He took the first step down the stairs, he had no need to rush about and during the past two weeks he had taken to ambling round the old house in a daze. As he made his slow absent minded way down the stairs his mind turned to Louise, Louise Bickly: Dr Morris' research assistant, she had left a time table somewhere that he and Mike were meant to follow. It was typical of her, she ran round after Dr Morris like a stray dog hoping for some scraps even after a year, unlike even the dumbest of dogs she refused to give up, she knew one day she could do something or say something that would make Dr Morris turn round and say "Well done" or "Excellent idea" or even just an "Okay Louise" rather that his standard "Very well Mss Bickly" in his monotonous voice. Burt always smiled when Dr Morris said that without even lifting his eyes from his clipboard or from a wall chart or monitor, he could not sound less impressed. That always made Louise cringe her face showing how she saw her hard work burst into flames and she watched the ashes crumble.
Louise was working on a thesis for a psychiatry PhD and all she had wanted was to quote the famous Dr Morris the foremost expert on psychoanalysis. However now her aim seemed to have changed. Burt wasn't sure when but sometime during her first 6 months working for him her aim changed from trying to get a quote to being recognised as a person, to be called "Louise" rather than "Mss Bickly" yet even this simple goal was obviously almost impossible, she persisted.
Finally Burt reached the bottom of the stairs, this was the point where he was reminded that RISSP was a cold harsh medical institute and nothing more, Mike and he always tried to create a 'homely' atmosphere on their small floor. The first floor was cold, barren, a colourless desert with grey cacti with black monitors or hanging wires, Looking round Burt realised the monitors didn't even have a shiny little logo or one of those multicoloured little apples anywhere on them they were just black holes framed in grey. Burt hated looking at them, their black hopeless look made his skin crawl yet every door that came off the landing was open, in each room was a monitor of some kind except the small toilet off to his left instead straight ahead of the door was a small window on the front of the house outside the sky grey and Burt realised that the small view of the overcast day the window showed was more bleak than the monitors for once.
Normally Burt would have expected the clicking of keys and beeping equipment as Clive was messing with something or other. Clive Marsden was the computer analyst and statistician but he was on holiday as well, he was a young black man just out of university, Burt often wondered if he tried to appear like the stereotypical black geek from all those American TV shows and the modern 'Teen movies' he particularly reminded Burt of the short one from "The Fresh Prince" called Carlton or some other typically dumb Americanised name. However Clive was tall he had that athletic type look despite doing no kind of exercise, Burt often thought if her were black he would be in better shape. It was his demeanour that made him appear short, the only thing he was sure about was his damn computers everything else he hid from, he left problems for other people cowering behind them.
Although Burt hated the cold clinical atmosphere of the first floor he always wanted to loiter on the landing for as long as possible putting of his descent into the insanity of the world beneath. At least this time he didn't have to use the lift as he did when taking patients back down after tests. The lift sat next to the stairs, although it was really nothing more than a fenced platform big enough to hold himself and a patient in a wheelchair.
Burt hated using the thing, as he closed the waist high gate he would feel his heart quicken and his lungs tighten, it would take all his will to push the descent button. Then panic would grip his whole body, he would hold the rail that ran round him tight with his arms stiff, surges of blood making his veins stand out and his muscles bulge. It always creaked as it slowly made its way down the journey seeming to last a lifetime inside his own head Burt would scream and his grip would tighten to stop himself from clawing at the floor above as it moved up away from him till it was out reach and the panic would be replaced with utter despair that made him want to sink to his knees and sob as the platform sank into its hole. Then he would be level with the floor, level with those sick twisted things laughably called people. Such things should not be allowed to mingle with others to spread their disease it was his job to stop them from infecting others he knew his responsibilities and Father David had told him he would be safe that his faith would keep him sane but when he got close to them he would feel them in his mind he would repeat what Father David had said to him over and over: "Treat them with respect, like you would treat a trapped wild animal and they can do no harm."
He looked up from the lift to the stairs with the stud wall on the one side turning it into a shadowy sliding passage with dark wooden handrails on either side. The stairs turn a corner, not a grand curved staircase just a sharp turn, the corner normally lit by a bulb that swung on its wire from the breeze of a small window. Now the bulb was dead swinging like a hanged man, an ominous sign for the desolate, lawless land the hanged man swung on the threshold of. The stairs originally were part of the two-story hall looking out over the ground floor; the stud wall had been put in as a cheaper alternative to a waist high barrier that would meet safety standards. The only light came from the ceiling and fell upon both floors making ground floor lighting unnecessary. However, the tunnel of the stairs made it look like a descent into darkness, into a gloomy evil world.
Burt started down the stairs travelling into the darkness until he reached the flat of the turn. Looking over his shoulder he saw the heavenly light of the sanctuary of the first floor. Below him was the end of the tunnel the same light fell upon the ground floor it was dim, the light dulled by the mist of insanity that swamped the ground floor. Burt hated the final descent his hand instinctively clutched at his necklace, a small flame like symbol in white gold with a black centre that hung down from a strong silver chain, as he stepped from under the hanged watchman into the fowl land. His footsteps echoed as if the passage tunnelled underground rather than only a few more steps.
At the bottom of the stairs hung a list; it contained a detailed schedule of what they were meant to have done for the patients. Burt looked at it not reading the words but rather taking in the concept it represented; the care and consideration he was expected to show. Marcy had left the list, replacing Dr Morris' brief outline with a 14 page day-by-day schedule. Burt's impression of Marcy was one of a cross between an overzealous young nursing teacher and an overachieving cheerleader tanked up on Prozac. She was a great philanthropist with the ability to forgive anyone when presented with the flimsiest of excuses, she has a 'society is to blame, not the person' attitude that sickened Burt. Father David said it was the person that poisoned society that evil grew within society like a cancer. Burt didn't really know Marcy's official position he just saw her as a general busybody and do-gooder probably essential for government grant founded research just to look after the human aspect of the work. She cared deeply about her job and the patients which possibly angered Burt the most, he cared about his job, his responsibility, his duty but that was separate from the patients they deserved no care. They were the things his job was about. They were not his job.
Burt crossed the entrance hall over to the heavy metal door designed to stop the more active patients, the other doors off the hall were oak giving less of an asylum feel to the place. There was one door by the bottom of the stairs that led to the large kitchen that was Mike's territory he was partly hired for his kitchen talents, Burt never saw the appeal of cooking for a group of more than 10 especially with Louise not eating red meat and Marcy, a vegetarian of course. Under the stairs where there had once been a toilet was a small set of steps down to the working of the lift. On the other side of the lift was a small door to the entry alcove, a small central window allowed people to view anyone standing in the entrance, now it showed the greyness of the outside world, the grey world trying to get in the house, the grey world that had already got through the front door. Opposite that door was another plain oak door that lead to the back rooms, both of which were set up for talks or interviews that Dr Morris randomly decided to give, one with a renovated fireplace that had previously been blocked up, the other had huge glass patio doors leading out to the patio above the croquet lawn. They were Dr Morris' attempts to look human, to give the idea he felt the cold or enjoyed staring at the lovely countryside, the occasional summer interview given outside when the small swimming pool by the tennis courts would be specially filled for the occasion.
Burt stood at the metal door his one hand flat against it with his fingers spread as if trying to sense what was happening with some special ability. His other hand went into his pocket to fetch out the key and as he slid it into the lock his other hand pulled back from the door and went again to his shimmering flame about his neck. The lock clicked back and the door appeared to groan as if knowing it were to be opened and resenting that fact. His hand squeezed the shimmering flame as his other pushed down on the handle and slowly pushed the door open.