Livescream

By Julia LaFond

Yellow police tape crisscrosses the entrance to Buckbean Asylum. The plastic shines under my headlamp: fresh, unlike the torn, discarded scraps half-buried by shriveled-up oak leaves. Though the asylum closed years ago, the structure remains.

So do the spirits of the patients.

That’s the rumor, at least. I’m here to see if it’s true. And, of course, to document it for my followers. If I can find evidence—real evidence—of paranormal activity, I might finally break into the thousands. Either way, my subscribers will love this place: decayed, overgrown, and full of creeping shadows. Lurking in the corners, their breathing muffled until you turn your back.

I shake my head. If I let myself get psyched out this early in the investigation, I’ll never last the entire night.

I jimmy the cheap lock in under a minute with my old high school ID. As soon as I cross the threshold, the air turns so moldy I gag. The peeling wallpaper has nearly rotted away, held up only by a thick layer of spray paint.

I set up my tripod in the corner, carefully pointed away from the obscenest graffiti. I run through a quick spiel about the place, then do audio recording and EMF readings: Nothing. But the night is young.

Next, I pick my way through the wards, careful of the rotting floorboards, peeking through the crumbling tile. Last thing I need is a broken ankle. Or splinters. Or tetanus. All seem like very real possibilities here amidst the rusted bedframes and stained walls.

Though I’m more worried about ghosts.

“Anyone here?” I call out—camera in one hand, EMF reader in the other. “Do you want to talk?”

The readings remain steady. I try not to let my relief show. Trying to attract the attention of ghosts is the least favorite part of my job, even though I’m here to prove the existence of the paranormal. But what would my fans think if they realized I wasn’t disappointed? That I’d rather passively observe than engage with whomever or whatever might linger in spaces steeped with suffering?

Then again, after seeing the cruelty humans are capable of, any remaining patients have every reason to be more afraid of me than I am of them.

“The people who hurt you are long gone.” I shudder. “I promise I just want to talk.”

Though my goose bumps persist thanks to the ever-present drafts, the continuing lack of a response lets me breathe easier. I switch to patter for my viewers: broader historical context, including eugenics and figures like Nellie Bly and Elizabeth Packard. “In the twentieth century, the psychiatric survivors’ movement rallied around Judi Chamberlin’s—”

BANG!

I scream, dropping everything as I dive behind an overturned chair. Cower in silence. But nothing happens; it’s so quiet my ears ring.

Cursing, I retrieve the camera and EMF reader. I’ll have to edit this part out. It wouldn’t be the first time; I doubt it will be the last. At least no one was actually here to see me freaking out over nothing.

Was it nothing?

I circle back to the front of Buckbean Asylum. The door, which I’d left ajar, is firmly closed. Nodding, I allow myself to breathe again. The wind blew the door shut. That’s all it was.

The resulting adrenaline crash leaves me fatigued to my bones. I pop a caffeine pill before continuing. It’s been long enough since I took my meds to avoid a reaction and, besides, better jittery than asleep on the job. It’s good odds that the rest of the night will be long stretches of monotony, interrupted by bursts of panic when my amped-up imagination overreacts. Again.

Eventually, I encounter a door scrawled with the words “DO NOT ENTER. GHOSTS INSIDE,” with a red handprint as a signature. Spray paint, though the artist was clearly trying to invoke blood. It’s childish, tacky, and gruesome all at once.

My followers will eat it up.

“Check this out,” I stage-whisper, zooming in. “Could be teen vandals… or we could be coming up on a paranormal hot spot.” I glance at my EMF meter. “Nothing so far, but let’s see what we can find.”

To my surprise, it’s locked. I stow the meter and point my camera away as I rummage through my wallet. Thankfully, it’s the same cheap lock as the front door.

“It was just stuck,” I narrate, lying blithely. Trespassing is bad; breaking and entering is worse.

My headlamp reflects and refracts off of medicine bottles and glass shards, giving the room an eerie blue tint. Perfect.

“The dispensary,” I continue, stepping gingerly around the broken glass. “Doubt we’ll get much activity, since this would have been off-limits to patients…” My stomach churns as the words hang in the air. Why should the patients be doomed to be trapped here, while the monsters who tormented them moved on? Injustice layered on injustice. Yet another reason to hope this place isn’t haunted.

The EMF reader chirps. I take it out, discovering a massive spike.

“Or… not.” Edging toward the door, I barely suppress the soul-searing urge to run.

“Patients aren’t allowed back here,” a woman says sternly.

The camera shakes as I pivot slowly. She’s dressed as a nurse, flickering insubstantially in the corner.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer out. “But… I’m actually a visitor.” My breath comes out as a cloud; the temperature is plummeting.

She clicks her tongue. “Of course you are.” She drifts closer.  I can’t see through her anymore. “You have a severe case of melancholia.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. How does she know about my depression? I’ve kept it hidden from everyone. Not even my fiancée knows.

“I see,” she says, consulting her papers. “You’ve been scheduled for a… procedure.”

I run full-tilt, heedless of the broken glass, only for the door to slam shut in my face.

“Don’t worry,” she says reassuringly, talons digging into my shoulder. “It’ll be over soon.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julia LaFond is a geoscience/astrobiology PhD candidate at Penn State University, where she regularly attended the Creative Writing Club pre-pandemic. When she’s not working on a book, Julia enjoys reading and gaming.

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