I. ASYLUM.

I am not crazy—there is something to be learned here, though others would say differently, by mere virtue of my name alone.

“My name is Hieronymus Arkham.”

It is a name I bear with pride and resignation. “Hieronymus” is not socially conducive by any means. By sixth grade, I had learned to truncate it to “Harland,” a less emasculating alternative to “Hymen,” which my peers preferred to call me. But it was “Arkham” that brought me the most scorn in my academia thereafter. My name is linked with madness. Both by its study and its stains.

"Step forward, please."

The guard to whom I have given my name, driver’s license, and social security card eyes me curiously after my fingerprints are verified by the computer. The orange haze of the fluorescent lights above us casts sharper shadows across his craggy skin. “Why’re you here, kid?” he asks me.

A fair question.

“To finish my education. My master's thesis--”

“--Never mind."

The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane is named for my great-grandmother. Her dementia drove my granduncle Amadeus, the most prominent criminal psychologist in his day, to convert his estate into a home for the mentally ill. He gave everything to his work, and his work took everything from him.

"You walk in there, you might not walk out," the guard warns.

"Runs in the family. Thankfully, I'm the black sheep."

When Amadeus' wife and daughter were murdered in his home by one of his own patients, his philosophies of rehabilitation became doctrines of imprisonment, the goal to shield society from its own detritus through as many walls, gates, and electric fences as could be built. Barriers he himself would be held behind. After he tried to kill his stockbroker following a nervous breakdown, he became one of his new asylum’s first inmates, etching cryptic messages on the walls and floor with his fingernails until the day he died. He believed the house was cursed.

I push my sliding glasses up to my furrowed brow. “I have an appointment with the asylum director.”

“Yeah, I figured.” The guard motions to a dull blue wall. “Stand over there.”

Amadeus' grand-nephew, Jeremiah, eventually became director of the asylum, inspired to work there after talking down a gunman robbing a gas station, to the point where the criminal turned the gun on himself. To say my family is dysfunctional is an almost comedic understatement.

A bright flash, a slow whirr, and a long whine precede the emergence of a laminated ID badge, which he hands to me along with my other cards. The flash makes my longish dark hair seem greasy in the card’s photo and adds a dull shine to my high forehead. The “deer in the headlights” look behind my glasses is not much more appealing. At least my tie is straight.

"You're going where? Why?" Dad had asked me that night at dinner.

"It's a new facility, state-of-the-art. I'll be fine."

The house of Arkham is gone now, razed to the ground. It had its share of horrors, mistakes, and criminalities confined within its many rooms, as well as the grim legacy of notoriety to haunt its reputation. Breakouts were commonplace. Former administrators became inmates. A few masqueraded as employees for months. The Narrows grew from the asylum’s old administrative and hospital buildings until urban blight transformed the two into an indistinguishable mass of misery. People began equating being sent to Arkham with a death sentence. A cursed house became a cursed name, until there was no difference between the two. Ironically enough, the new asylum resides in a deserted mansion once inhabited by a forgotten Gothamite tycoon. History repeated itself, and the old mansion became a new asylum. But the name stuck.

"No. Nobody goes there if they're fine. There has to be another way," Mom had said.

"I've already submitted my proposal and preliminary research.  The final approval from the Honors Board came yesterday. I start there this weekend."

"You can't choose a different field of study?"

"They are expecting me to fail, Mom!" my hand had slapped the table, and the plates jumped.

"Harland! Show your mother some respect," Dad growled. One warning.

"You aren't an Arkham," Mom told me.

"I'm going there to find out who I am."

Mom left the table. Dad never looked at me the rest of dinner.

"Should have stayed home, kid," the guard mutters.

Home: a time capsule I visited in fewer and fewer weekends back from school. At the dinner table, change was a popular topic of discussion, like the parsonage a block from my house. It had been converted into a consignment shop, much to the disappointment of Mom and Dad, lifelong teachers. Admonishments of "that's such a shame," or "they aren't from around here." But not a desire to find out more.

At dinner, I was telling my parents the truth, but not the truth I wanted told. It was never the right time. And they had stopped asking questions about why I never seemed happy.

After that sorry meal, I took the same long walk around town I took during high school, and found myself there, at that consignment shop. Inside, a bored-looking girl gestured to a handwritten sign by the kitchen/cash register, "Clothes downstairs," then went back to reading her dog-eared comic book.

My footsteps on the basement stairs made that familiar clomping noise from high school, the one that meant youth group was starting and I was late, again. I hadn’t heard that sound in years. Downstairs was much brighter and spacious than I remembered. Only three sparse clothing racks filled with unwanted, unfashionable clothes. But the south wall was exactly the same: an unfinished wall, with each brick holding handprints, a name, and a favorite Bible verse of every youth group member for the past nine years.

I had wanted my brick to be next to my high school crush's. His name is still there. I resist the desire to compare our handprints; it’d be too much like touching a ghost. I remembered the wet paint engulfing my hands as I dipped them in the mixing tray, the concrete rough against my palms when I planted them next to my finger-painted name. Fourth row from the floor, one brick left of center. Right by where the TV used to be.

My fingers touched smooth white paint where my handprints once were. I looked at the entire wall, but my name was nowhere. And I wondered about the other white bricks.

“Arkham” today, as it was then, is no longer a name but a genericization, inseparable from the monolithic mansion I see in the distance, its elegant façade a deceptive cover for its true purpose. It is a name that brings recognition, like Aaron and the Levites or the Knights Templar. We Arkhams are keepers of a different sort.

In his prime, one of my granduncle’s sayings was “we are the work we have wrought.” It was his mantra. Which is how I intend to eclipse the shadow of Arkham with my own.

Here, at Arkham Asylum.

“This is your day pass. All areas require a pass,” the guard says in a rehearsed monotone. “Lose your pass and you will be detained until a replacement can be found and your identity reconfirmed. Entering restricted areas, smuggling contraband of any kind, failure to comply with lockdown procedures or failure to leave the premises prior to the card’s expiration time will result in your detainment and will be prosecuted as attempted aiding and abetting of an inmate.”

“But what about--”

“Any complaints need to be taken up with Director Arkham. A team will be here shortly to escort you through the Centers.”

“Centers?”

The guard sighs.

“The island is divided into three Security Centers. Center One is your current location. It includes the secure parking garage, the perimeter fence, and fifty yards of barbed wire. Two hundred yards from here you’ll pass through Center Two, the electric fence. Touch it and ten thousand volts of electricity will make sure you don't touch it or anyone else again. Center Three is the asylum and its administrative offices. You'll be rescanned there for any contraband."

"The only thing I need is--"

The guard's CB crackles loudly.

"Escort Team Charlie, take Mr. Arkham here to Center Three, pronto."

"Never mind," I mutter.

The faces of my escorts hide behind dark sunglasses and billed caps, their bulky armored bodies clad in SWAT gear. They had arrived--materialized--less than one minute after being summoned by the perimeter guard. Their mode of transport quickly explains why. After being ushered out of the large guardhouse just inside the wrought-iron gates, I stand before a boxy, van-sized tram completely enclosed by plexiglas. The wheel-less vehicle sat on a well-worn rail system that wound its way around the island to the building doors. Two guards board first; two others stay behind me.

I try to follow, but for a moment, something weighs my feet to the ground. Fear? Anxiety? Instinct? I push it aside. It seems that even I am not immune to the unease this place instills.

The ride up is silent save for the hum of the gliding tram, the stationary fluorescent lights passing by like traffic on a midnight highway.

The compound itself is a fascinating structure. From afar, the wings of the house are the most prominent, jutting out like flat, gnarled fingers with the converted mansion as their palm. The sharp lines and striking geometric patterns of 1930's art noveau architecture twist and coil around the house, and I am awestruck by how immense the estate appears, as if it grew up from the island itself. Its angled walls topped with subtle masonry spires resemble the battlements and ramparts of a medieval castle, yet its many peaked windows and towers embody the style of a French chateau. The mansion stands far above the horizon and the sea. The glowing windows suggest tall, boxy cubes of rooms that seem curiously cobbled together, topped by an amalgam of steep sloping roofs, flat square bastions and balconies and a single, narrow tower rising up from within its heart. The house is a Frankenstein's monster of mansions, like several disassembled and stitched together. Yet as we pivot closer to its formidable frame, I can see the strange beauty of this monster. I see it behind the barred windows, in the ornate panes of multicolored glass, in the sweeping arcs of the pillars that support the pitched roofs, and in the intricate woodwork of its thick oak-and-steel doors. This place was once a home.

When the car stops, we find ourselves at the threshold of the mansion’s doors. More security personnel have joined my entourage. Their positions are staggered, making it difficult to tell how many others lurk nearby. That same weight from before sets upon me until a guard’s gruff voice sounds from the door. “Move along, Arkham.”

The faded brass plaque near the doorframe gleams luridly in the light; the long, thin letters of 'ARKHAM ASYLUM' seem scratched into the steel. I feel I need to flee. The sheer cowardice of the thought is enough for my disgust to throw it away. I have come this far. I will not run away.

The wide doors are opened and I step inside.

With a loud thump, a hiss and a rush of outgoing air, the doors seal and lock behind me. Two of the guards stay outside; the remaining three surround me in a triangle and insist I keep walking. I am in a long hallway of off-white stucco walls and pale violet trim, or what was once a vibrant red. The vaulted ceiling makes our footsteps echo loudly between the thick pillars and marble statues in the vacant hall, the glossy tiles of the black and tan marble floor heavily lit from both the upper and lower edges of the walls. The frescos that decorate the hall high above my head are works of faded colors: a verdant hillscape, populated with wild birds, fantastical animals, and a nude male and female seated next to a robed figure. A strange fountain marked the fresco’s center. The painting is something I’ve seen before, but cannot place. What I do feel is an inexplicable disdain for it. We move too fast for me to look further.

As we briskly step forward, I notice that the walls have become obstructed by shiny plexiglas and steel, anomalies among the elegance. The view of the main foyer is obstructed by a thick barricade of metal detectors and X-ray scanners, making miniatures of those I remember from my visits to Metropolis International Airport. In the center of the barricade is the officers' security box, their faces slightly distorted by the thick glass reinforced by diamond wire.

"Place all objects in your pockets and any metal items into the box,” a mechanical voice says. The security officer inside the gate speaks through an intercom.

I notice the steel box open on the conveyor belt beside me. I empty the minimal contents of my pockets: my wallet, five coins--a quarter, a nickel and three pennies; my lucky pencil, and a cassette tape recorder. I was told the asylum would provide the paper. How considerate.

"Spread your arms, please." Once I comply, a grid of blue lines works its way up my body, generated from two globes on short columns to my sides I assumed were merely decorative. I jump at the movement. "Stand still. You don't want to trip the alarm. Not here."

A warm wave of red tingles my face and ears and I fix my eyes on an irregularity in the marble tile, my lips pursed tightly together. I wonder how stupid I look, my arms still outstretched as the scanner's blue lines fade above my head. A loud buzz sounds; the guards motion me forward. My items are returned just inside the barricade. I feel my wallet to ensure everything is still there and I step into the main foyer.

A sudden, harsh buzz over a PA system jolts my footsteps.

“Security drill. This is only an exercise. Testing expendable countermeasures. All nonessential personnel, please leave the main hall to avoid serious injury. Testing in fifteen seconds,” a deep male voice states.

I turn to face the main hall behind me. The officers in the security box are standing, operating controls. One of them flips a lever.

“Three. Two. One,” the intercom warns.

A barrage of sound assaults my ears, beginning first with the deafening thumps of hydraulic locks near the front door that echo down the hall and end with sharp metallic clangs inside the security box. The pitch of the sound near the front doors suggests even a tank would struggle to break them down. Nearby me, thick steel blinds have sealed the box, effectively transforming it into a panic room as searing white light forces my eyelids closed. All I see is electric lines in a haze of red.

My vision adjusts to the light to see the bizarre sight of my own twisted reflection before me. From where I stand, the sight of the hall appears like a broken mirror: shiny, triangular steel barricades have risen from the floor at every angle. I only see them slow to a halt, their height ranging anywhere from four to five feet above the floor. The effect is like a time-lapse of crystals growing on a cave floor. I feel the hair on my arms tingle and stand on end--not out of fear, but from static electricity. The smell of ionized air radiating from the floor not more than ten yards away from my feet both amazes and disturbs me.

There are a few moments of silence before the intercom’s voice interrupts.

“Security drill clear. Reset all countermeasures. All security personnel, return to your stations. Please familiarize yourself with the nonexpendable countermeasures as outlined by your training in the event of a real-world emergency.”

My awe of the asylum continues when I turn towards the foyer. The expanse and decadence of the once-opulent mansion is revealed within this one room alone. Twin staircases arch high above to the upper levels, their detailed marble banisters testifying to the wealth behind their construction. A black and tan diamond pattern draws my eyes to the center of the room, a dry stone fountain with angelic statues in its center. Their many wings point towards the domed ceiling, painted in what was once an intricate work packed with color. A chaotic scene of nude humanity graced the foyer's roof. Most of the figures were cavorting and carousing about strange and fascinating forms whose rationality was questionable at best. Disproportional fruit, nonsensical shapes of hybridized animals, grotesque castles of impossible structures and an indiscernible focal point made the work both curious and overwhelming to gaze upon.

"It's 'The Garden of Earthly Delights.' Hieronymus Bosch."

The voice is female, light yet with a twinge of cigarette smoke to its tone. I turn behind me to see a plain but pretty-looking young woman of average height with straight gold-brown hair at the edge of the foyer. She is dressed in a beige blazer and white blouse and is looking with me at the ceiling. Her soft green eyes are hidden behind elliptical glasses with thicker frames, a more stylish accompaniment to her otherwise conservative attire. Her eyes leave the ceiling. "Justine Crowley. Public Relations for Arkham Asylum. You must be--"

"Harland Arkham.” I extend my hand. “We spoke on the phone.”

"The paperwork says your name is Hieronymus,” she observes. "Not too often one finds both their namesakes in the same place."

I smile half-heartedly. My earlier dislike of the foyer artwork becomes clear.

"The entryway is Bosch, too, isn't it? Same style.”

Crowley nods indifferently.

"'Paradise.' Also from 'The Garden of Earthly Delights.' You're familiar with the mansion’s past?"

"My interests lie more with the inmates and their psychologies than with the asylum itself."

"Spoken like a true academic," she said sardonically.

"I have to be dispassionate about the history of this place,” I explain. “I can't let it bias my research.”

“With a name like yours, I’d have reason to doubt your objectivity.”

I scratch my head with a spastic smile. It doesn’t itch in the slightest.

“These inmates aren’t some statistics in a book, Mr. Arkham.”

"I know that,” I say rashly. “I mean, I know these patients are people, too--"

"Do you?" she scoffs. “Have you met them?”

I grip the back of my neck and release a quick sigh. I remember the guard asking me why I’m here. My eyes burn. I can’t talk without sounding stupid. Change the subject. Now.

“It’s, um, k-kind of ironic, isn’t it.” I look up from the floor, just not at her. She’s uncomfortable. I hate it when I stutter.

“What’s that?” The edge to her voice is gone.

“P-Paradise and Earth. But no Hell.”

Crowley smirks, somewhat sadly. “The third section of 'The Garden of Earthly Delights.' You’re the first person I’ve met who’s noticed it’s missing.”

“Too bad. It would have been s-stylish décor.”

She chuckles. “You definitely have his sense of humor.”

“Whose?”

“Director Arkham’s.” She pauses. “Is he your--?”

“No,” I say immediately, too fast. “No.”

She nods, eyebrows wrinkled. “I’ll show you to my office.”

I break the walk’s uncomfortable silence when I can no longer distract myself with the rich wallpapers and tapestries that line the mansion’s hallways. Most are of a deeply religious nature: old men with long white beards pleading with their divinities to spare their wrathful judgment.

"PR rep of a place like this, no doubt you have a thankless job." 

"I always liked a challenge," Crowley says with a wry grin. “Apparently, you do as well.”

“This is something I need to do,” I tell her.

“You’re here because you have to be?”

“No, I’m--” I bite my tongue.

“—here to prove yourself?” She stops before a door, fishes for her keys. “Everyone tries to, Harland. Those who say they don’t are fooling themselves.”

“I’m here to prove something to myself.”

“Why here?”

“Because here is the only place I can prove it.”

We step into her office. Like her, it is plain and low-key, with only a few accoutrements of her personality visible: a family photo on the desk, a small aloe plant by the high window behind it, a wooden chess set, but mostly many worn books that fill the shelves from wall to wall. The room is patterned in earthen tones of burgundies and tans. A computer casts a bluish glow upon the western half, with only a desk light and a couple floor lamps of low wattage to brighten the space. My eyes adjust to the dimness enough to notice a small, framed picture on the wall. A card. A woman in white robes sits between two pillars, one black and one white. On her chest is a cross, and in her hands is a scroll that reads “TORA.” A large Roman numeral “II” stands out in its upper corner.

"Tarot card?” I inquire, studying the work inside the frame. “'The High Priestess.' Seems I’m not the only one whose name finds unfortunate familiarity, Miss Crowley.”

“Crowley is a common name.”

“Alistair Crowley, the ‘Evilest Man In the World?’” I offer. “The occultist. He dealt in Tarot.”

She laughs shortly, perhaps at the obscurity. "Among other things. I’m sure connecting him with the Tarot is about as flattering as sharing the same name with him,” she shakes her head. “I was never a fan of the Tarot as divination. I found it too fatalistic."

“But you’re obviously familiar with it.”

“Only its meanings and symbology. That card, in particular, signifies wisdom. Intuition. Paths to knowledge. I interpret the ‘B’ and ‘J’ on the pillars as ‘Baal’ and ‘Jehovah,’ darkness and light, respectively. But they could also stand for names supposedly carved on the Temple of Solomon--” She stops. “Sorry, I’m blathering.”

“Drivel, actually.” I smile. “I’m an academic. I live for drivel.”

“As opposed to a student, who could have made a joke about two pillars with a ‘B’ and ‘J’ on them.” She laughs to herself, shakes her head. I stifle a guffaw with limited success. It sounds like a sneeze.

“That card was a gift from Director Arkham when I was hired here.” She turns her attention to her computer, away from the card. “Hell, I still only draw three cards on the rare occasions I try a reading. Past, Present, and Future. And even then, I only use the Major Arcana.”

I give her a blank look.

“The face-value cards,” she clarifies. “The ones with pictures? There are twenty-two of them instead of the full deck of seventy-eight. It relates to more significant events and the more detailed illustrations help people interpret it more easily.”

“I’ve never had a Tarot reading.”

Crowley shrugs. “It’s nothing special.”

“But that’s open to interpretation, right? Even if you don't believe, who knows what could be learned if it weren't dismissed as irrelevance?"

"Are you a superstitious man, Mr. Arkham?"

The word conjures an image of a black cat crossing beneath a ladder atop a broken mirror, with me trapped in the middle. I smirk.

"Only when dealing with my future, Ms. Crowley."

"Then let's give you a reading," Crowley offered, sliding open a side drawer of her desk to reveal a deck of Tarot cards. “Don’t place much credence in it. I know I don’t, and look who I’m named after.” I chuckle at the sarcasm.

"The Evilest Man in the World?" I say with a smile.

"A name only has the power you give to it,” she says humorlessly as she shuffles the deck. “Just as these cards do.”

She spreads the cards out on her desk. "Pick three."

I stare at the deck of cards laid out evenly across the neat and polished wooden surface. The detailed artwork on the deck's backside is the Zodiac in red ink, surrounded by the cosmos. A collection of mysterious signs and portents...

My finger slides a card forward, then moves down to the other end and chooses another. The final card sticks out when I pick the second, as if it meant to follow. Crowley gathers the remaining cards and slides them aside, turning the first card over. The card is upside-down. A man in robes holds a wand up high, standing before a table with a cup, a coin, and a sword. He is surrounded by flowers. A lemniscate, the mathematical sign for infinity, hovers above his head. At the top of the card is the Roman numeral 'I.'

"Past. The Magician, inverted. A sign of inaction and stifled creativity. Low self-confidence. Weakness. Doubt.”

I feel a cold tingle in my fingers, a deep-set weight in my stomach.

The second card is flipped. This time it is right-side up. A woman is bent over a lion, her hands gently holding its jaws closed with an expression of serenity. Like the first card, a lemniscate is above her head. A Roman numeral 'VIII' is at its peak.

“Strength," Crowley says. "Present characterized by patience, courage. A warning against temptation. A triumph with an internal struggle, between the primal and the humanitarian self. An overcoming of conflict. The power of love."

Even if it is only interpretation, a certain kind of giddiness flows through me. The final card is revealed. Number XII.

"The Hanged Man."

My smile flattens like taut rope.

"To attain your goals requires sacrifice. Trials. Accepting them, or a new point of view that challenges your old ways of thinking, must be done for your forfeiture to mean anything."

Crowley looks up from the table, a curious look of inquisition crossing her face. "Were you expecting something else?"

"Been playing cards again, Justine?" a strong, older male voice interrupts from the doorway. It is sudden enough to startle both of us, yet triggers something unpleasant in my memory. I turn to find a wiry man, slightly balding with an elliptical head, staring at the cards unamused. His sharp glasses give his dark eyes the look of an eagle's. As does his smile, or lack thereof. A bitter taste floods my mouth.

"Director Arkham," she nodded.

My biological father.

"Could I have a few minutes with Hieronymus to ask him a few questions?" his deadpan voice says. Crowley takes it as a command.

"Yes, sir."

Without a word, she leaves the room, my Tarot reading left untouched upon her desk. Jeremiah sits in a chair opposite me and adjusts his bland suit jacket before he sets his elbows on his knees and meets my gaze.

"Why the hell are you here?" he asks.

“Crowley didn’t tell you?”

“Oh, she told me, all right. Said something about a master’s thesis.”

“‘Deformity and Deviance: Society’s Creation of the Criminally Insane.’”

“Bland. Off-putting. And wordy,” he rattled off. “Grade-school sociology. And I didn’t ask you what it was.”

“No. But in time people will be asking you.”

“Is that so? What about your argument?”

“Society makes their own criminals by rejecting those it deems as deformed. Those individuals respond with deviance, the only option they have been given when society refuses to accept them. So society exacerbates its problems with exclusionism and its own superficial standards.”

“How quaint. And of all the places you could have chosen, you came here.”

“Notoriety makes an excellent eye-catcher. Especially when your name is the one permanently associated with it.”

“Is that what this is about? A name?”

“No. My reputation,” I said firmly. “You know why I never changed this name, even after I knew where it came from, and who it belonged to?”

His unreadable eagle eyes are scrutinizing, analyzing.

“Because deep down, I am proud of this name. ‘Arkham’ is going to mean something more than these walls. This asylum. This name is going to better society instead of being synonymous with making it worse.”

He sits up in his chair, scowling.

“You think we make it worse here?”

“No. You try to undo the damage, but the world out there to them is even more insane than it is in here. You fight an uphill battle. Budget cuts, corruption, scandals, bureaucracy, people so deep in the muck of their own minds they drown and drown again until there’s nothing human left—-and society sends them here, to be forgotten, when they should be rehabilitated to the best of our ability.”

“These people can’t be changed, Hieronymus.”

“Mental illnesses are one thing, but mental breakdowns are another. My focus is the latter."

“There will always be people who break beneath life's stresses, just as there will always be a bottom rung on the ladder for other people to step on. It’s what makes society ‘society.’ Some are born there, others thrown there, and more die there every day. How are the people here any different? What are you expecting to find?”

“I want to know what made them the way they are. Something turned these people’s lives from normal to maniacal. Maybe some were born that way. But giving up on people should be a last resort, not first instinct!” I take a deep breath, grasp for composure. “How often do you look at these people and the life you lead and see how merciless life is?”

I pick up the Strength card from the table and grip it tightly between my thumb and index finger, holding it right side up. “I want the same as you. To do what I can to help. I want to make a difference. Will you help me?”

Jeremiah sat back in his chair, arms folded. He stood up after a moment and removed a pen and a small notebook from his jacket pocket.

“You said all you needed was a pen and paper.”

It's as good as a ‘yes.’

"I brought my own pencil," I say.

"The one you wrote your Honors Thesis with?"

"Honors with Distinction."

"Hm."

“What’s your methodology?” he asks me, stuffing the pen in his pocket.

“Interview the inmates, taking both written and audio notes through pencil and paper and a tape recorder. Determine what marks their deviances, then identify the catalyst that made them deviant and created a criminal persona. Then relate, if relevant, societal response as a factor of or contributor to that catalyst. Lastly, offer suggestions to address these sociological problems.”

“Who are you wanting to interview?”

I quickly scrawled the names on the first page of my notepad. Eight inmates.

Jeremiah slid on his glasses, his eyelids low as he scanned the list.

“Hm. Two are at large. One’s dead,” he counted. “--and one’s not mentioned.”

“Not mentioned?”

“The one inmate we’re infamous for.” He looks at me above the rims of his glasses.

I push my own frames to the bridge of my nose. I don’t break eye contact, despite my rigidity.

“He is of no interest to me.”

“He will be, if you want a work that changes anything. That adds anything to the advancement of your field.”

“That will be my judgment to make. Not yours.”

“You should trust my judgment, son.”

I freeze instantly.

“I am not your son.”

He stares at me for a moment, then looks down at the paper, circling a name.

“You’ll start with him in the morning.”

He hands the notepad back to me and heads for the door.

“Get back to your motel for some sleep. You’ll need it.”

“I’m staying here,” I insist. “… I want to know the history of this place.”

Jeremiah adjusts his glasses, thumbing a Tarot card from the stack on Crowley’s desk. “We’ll set aside a room for you in this part of the asylum. One of the mansion’s old guest bedrooms.”

“--My day pass.”

“I’ll upgrade it. Any questions, ask Crowley.”

Jeremiah eyes the Tarot card he has drawn and studies it intently. His mouth twitches into a frown.

“Be careful, Hieronymus,” he says quietly, setting the card face-up on the desk.

He leaves. I am alone.

At the desk, I see the card he has drawn. Number 10. ‘X.’ The Wheel of Fortune.

I stare at the circled name on my notepad.

DENT, H.