Bellevue

Chapter 24

Thursday, July 4, 3:40 a.m.

Lashonda briefly glanced around the immediate area to make certain that no one was paying her and Mitt any heed. Quickly confirming that to be the case, she returned her attention to Mitt, and as she did so, she adjusted her eyeglasses, leaned forward, and lowered her voice, magnifying Mitt’s burgeoning curiosity. He, too, leaned forward.

“Here’s my question,” she began. “Have you by any chance and particularly at night seen what I’ll call an ‘apparition’ of a blond eight-year-old girl who looks a bit older? She’d be outfitted in a pale old-fashioned dress and carrying what looks like a surgical instrument.”

The question so startled Mitt that his first response was to place both hands on the table palms-down as a way to support himself, as though he’d been buffeted by a shock wave. He’d wanted so much to talk to someone about his hallucinations, particularly Andrea or Madison or Dr. Van Dyke, or even Dr. Singleton, yet he’d been reluctant to do so from fear of the possible consequences. And here was someone asking him.

Mitt swallowed with a mild degree of difficulty, as his mouth had gone suddenly dry. While his mind went into overdrive, he stared back at this rather extraordinary housekeeping supervisor, who was not only preternaturally poised, but also seemed clairvoyant. How did she know what she knew about his ancestry, and even more astounding, how did she guess he’d been seeing a young blond girl?

“You seem shocked,” Lashonda said when Mitt remained silent and frozen like a deer caught in headlights. “Such a response suggests to me that you have indeed seen this particular phantasm, because if you hadn’t, I believe you would have responded with simple surprise and a ‘no’ rather than with the confusion you are projecting. Am I correct?”

“Yes, you are correct. I’ve seen that hallucination,” Mitt said hesitantly. It was difficult to find his voice.

“So, I would imagine that your first question will be how it is that I even suspected you might have seen this specter. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” he managed again.

“Before I answer your question let me explain something to you that I realized when our eyes briefly met up on the fifteenth floor. You and I share certain unique traits and abilities, which can be seen as either a burden or a benefit depending on your point of view. As young as you are, you might not totally appreciate your unique capabilities, but I would be shocked if you didn’t have some idea. I know I didn’t fully recognize mine until I was well into my thirties, and even then it took someone else similarly endowed to clue me in, which I mean to do to you. Are you with me?”

“I guess,” Mitt said with continued confusion.

“What I imagine is that you are already aware you can occasionally predict the future, not all the time, but at least often enough to recognize it when it happens. Am I correct?”

Mitt merely nodded. Once again, he was taken aback by Lashonda’s insight. He’d never discussed his prognostic abilities with anyone.

“And more important, you can sense now and then what people are generally thinking. Or at least you have an idea of what they are thinking, and when it happens you experience a kind of tingling. Is this true?”

“It is true.”

“And what do you sense I’m thinking right now?”

“I sense that you’re worried I am somehow in danger.”

“Bravo! Exactly. And that is true, which is my real motivation for wanting to talk with you. Now, the answer to your question is simple. I, too, see her, not often but often enough. I see other visions, too, but most consistently the girl.”

Mitt sat up straighter in his chair. It seemed incredible! He’d been wondering if anyone else had seen the girl and now he knew. But then the problem was that if she could also see the child, could he still call it a hallucination? From his general understanding, a hallucination was a product of an individual’s mind and certainly not the product of several minds.

“Do you think we are seeing the same girl?” Mitt asked.

“Without doubt,” Lashonda said with absolute assuredness. “You didn’t challenge any of my descriptions.”

“True,” Mitt admitted. She had a point.

“And I could describe the dress with even more accuracy if it will convince you. I said an old-fashioned dress. What I meant is what they used to call a shirtwaist dress, with puffy sleeves and a Peter Pan collar.”

“I’m not sure what a Peter Pan collar is.”

“It’s a flat collar, fairly broad, mostly with rounded ends. It’s still used today but it was even more common back in the 1940s, as I learned when I looked it up.”

“That sounds like what I remember, although I have to admit, each time I’ve seen her I wasn’t so concerned about her dress. I was completely taken aback by seeing her at all.”

“That’s understandable. The first time I saw her, I’m sure I didn’t notice much detail. But what about the surgical instrument? It’s a critical observation.”

“I did notice the instrument,” Mitt said. “In fact, she pointed it at me.”

“She actually pointed it at you? Are you sure?”

“I don’t know if I’m sure. That was my impression at the time,” Mitt said with a shrug. “But maybe she was just trying to show it to me. How can I know? Again, I was overwhelmed by just seeing her. I’m sure there were other details that I missed entirely from shock. What’s impressed me the times I’ve seen her is how consistent the apparition is.”

“The reason she is consistent is that she is a real ghost.”

“What on earth do you mean, a ‘real ghost’? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Lashonda said with conviction. “A ‘real ghost’ is the soul or spirit of a specific dead person, not just an illusory likeness of a human being.”

“Let me understand you,” Mitt said, trying to organize his thoughts. “So you believe this blond girl apparition was a living, breathing person at one time?”

“I don’t just believe it, I know it,” Lashonda said. But then she looked down at Mitt’s plate and nodded toward it. “I see you are not eating. I don’t mean to interrupt your meal.”

Mitt glanced down at his roast chicken. He’d almost forgotten it was there.

“Please eat!” Lashonda said. “You must be hungry or you wouldn’t be here. We can continue our discussion while you do, as I have a lot more that I need to say to you.”

“All right,” Mitt said. He was flustered but wanted to be agreeable, as he was desperate to hear more. “But you aren’t eating, either. I’ll eat if you eat.”

“Fair enough,” Lashonda said.

They both picked up their respective knives and forks and began to eat. While Mitt did so, he found himself overwhelmed by everything Lashonda had already said and was brimming with questions, most important about the blond girl having been a real person and not just a random phantasm. After just a couple of bites, which he swallowed with observable difficulty, he put his utensils down and sat back in his chair.

“I’m not as hungry as I thought I was,” he said. “Would you mind if we continued our discussion?”

“Not at all! Whatever suits you, but I’m going to continue to eat if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Mitt said. “But before we get back to it, let me ask you a personal question. I don’t mean to sound condescending, so I apologize if I do, but by your manner of speaking and word choice, you sound like a mental health professional rather than a housekeeping supervisor. Are you both?”

Lashonda smiled as she took a bite of chicken and chewed it thoughtfully. “I don’t think of your question as condescending in the slightest. Thanks to both my parents being long-term employees of Bellevue Hospital, I was able to go to City College on scholarship. My major was psychology, which I enjoyed and undoubtedly colors my speech. After finishing college, I still followed my family’s tradition and came back here to work at Bellevue Hospital. My mother had been the night-shift housekeeping supervisor for many years. I ended up taking over from her, bless her soul.”

“Does that mean she is no longer with us?”

“It does. She passed away four years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, but life goes on.”

“Which brings me back to the blond girl,” Mitt said. “You said that you know she was a real person. How do you know that?”

“Not only do I know she was a real person, I even know what her name was. It was Charlene Wagner.”

Once again, Lashonda had startled Mitt enough to cause him to lose his train of thought. He’d had in mind to challenge whatever it was that she was going to say, never suspecting she’d come up with an actual name.

“Not only do I know her name, but I also know the day she died as well as the circumstance. The date was November 15, 1949.”

“Okay,” Mitt said as an appeasement, holding up his hands in a surrendering gesture while struggling to organize his thoughts yet again. Every time he had in mind that there was no way that Lashonda could surprise him any more than she already had, she went ahead and did, and the surprises seemed to be coming with increasing frequency. “How on earth do you know all that?” he managed, slowly enunciating each word.

“Before I go into an explanation of how, I want to go back to the issue of the special abilities you and I and a few other people command, namely being able on occasion to predict the future and sense what other people are thinking. Are you okay with that?”

“I suppose,” Mitt said. “But you are killing me with suspense.”

“I would prefer you use a different metaphor.”

“Whatever,” Mitt said with mild irritation. It seemed to him she was dragging out their conversation unnecessarily.

“Having the abilities I just named is in reality a function of another trait, which I sense you might not be aware you possess. You, my friend, are a living, breathing ‘portal.’ Are you familiar with the term?”

“In the sense of being a metaphorical gateway?” Mitt stared at his new acquaintance, wondering if she was now being serious or whether she was intellectually toying with him.

“Yes, exactly. A gateway into what we call another dimension for lack of any better term. Some people have mistakenly assumed portals are only physical objects such as an old mirror or an old house and the like. Such places and objects can be portals, there’s no doubt, and I have definitely experienced one such portal. But more to the point, certain people can be portals, too, like you and me. The fact that you are a portal is the reason you are seeing the blond girl who haunts these Bellevue Hospital buildings. You, my friend, are a gateway to the paranormal.”

Mitt continued to study Lashonda’s face, thinking that maybe she was going to smile and say that she was only teasing. But she didn’t. She was staring back at him with a serious expression, waiting for his reply.

“I don’t know what to say,” Mitt offered at length.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Lashonda said. “But it’s a reality that you need to recognize so you will take to heart what I am ultimately going to tell you. Before I do, let’s revisit the instrument that Charlene pointed at you. You saw it as a surgical instrument, correct?”

“That was my impression,” Mitt agreed. “But I wasn’t sure.”

“I’m convinced it is a surgical instrument, and each time I’ve seen Charlene, she’s always carrying it. Although she’s never pointed it at me, I naturally concluded it had to have some significance, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose,” Mitt said.

“When I looked into it with the unique sources I have available, I came to the conclusion that it’s an outdated instrument called an ‘orbital-lobotomy knife,’ or an ‘orbitoclast,’ which resembles an old-fashioned ice pick but with a slightly flattened tip. It was designed by a mid-nineteenth-century physician named Walter Freeman. He was a staunch advocate of lobotomies and tried to popularize the procedure by creating a way for it to be done at the bedside rather than requiring a full operating room and anesthesia.”

The moment Lashonda mentioned the word lobotomy, Mitt’s mind flashed back to the Pendleton article, where he’d learned that Clarence Fuller had done as many as forty lobotomies on children. With the remembrance came the concern that maybe Clarence had performed a lobotomy on Charlene Wagner.

“I can tell what you are thinking,” Lashonda said. “And I’m afraid that you are entirely correct. Your ancestor Dr. Clarence Fuller attempted to do a bedside lobotomy on Charlene, but it went horribly wrong, killing her.”

“Good God,” Mitt managed. In his mind’s eye he could see Charlene’s scornful expression when looking at him. And if everything that Lashonda was saying was true, he could understand why. “I did notice what appeared to be bloodstains on the front of her dress.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that as well, and they’re there for good reason. The orbitoclast inadvertently cut through a major brain artery, causing a massive fatal stroke. Charlene was obviously wearing that particular dress when she was, in a sense, murdered.”

Mitt took a deep breath and let it out noisily. He spread his hands. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything at the moment,” Lashonda said. “But you must give what we have been talking about some very serious thought. The reality, I’m afraid, is that Bellevue Hospital might not be where you should do your training as a surgeon.”

“What?” Mitt questioned with sudden angst and even some anger. “Why?”

“Simply because I believe you are in danger of retribution as a direct descendant of the previous Dr. Fullers, all of whom were responsible for many deaths and measureless suffering, which unfortunately accompanied their positive contributions. Now, it is not that I believe the ghosts of Bellevue, of which there are countless numbers, can do you harm directly, as they cannot. But they can effect change through inanimate objects and generally harass you in that fashion. Have you noticed anything that might qualify in that realm during these few days you’ve been here?”

Once again, Mitt was back to staring at Lashonda, again clearly taken aback by what she had just said. What had immediately come to his mind were the curious forceps incidents in the operating room, the popping of Benito Suárez’s sutures, and even the spilled drink episode in the cafeteria, and he wondered if they might qualify. But then he had an even scarier thought that made his heart metaphorically skip a beat. What if the deaths of his patients were due to transcendental, inanimate workings?

“I can tell that I have once again struck a chord with your emotions, and I’m getting the message that there have been other deaths. I’m sorry to learn that. Am I sensing that correctly?”

“Yes, all my patients,” Mitt said reluctantly. He’d worried that he bore some responsibility, but he’d kept dismissing the idea. Now, from what Lashonda was saying, it came back in a rush. If his patients had been assigned to Andrea instead of to him, would they still be alive and well? The possibility alone, true or not, filled him with anguish.

“Was there anything about the deaths that might suggest a paranormal influence?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Mitt said without hesitation. “Three of my patients died tonight, and when I think about them, I have to say there was something I’d felt was strange involving all three. Particularly with the last patient, who suffered a thyroid storm just hours ago after having his thyroid removed yesterday morning.”

“A thyroid storm? What is that?”

“It’s when a person’s metabolism goes into overdrive by too much stimulus. The point I want to make is that there was an intravenous source of thyroid hormone set up to give a slow drip over as many days as needed until he could take the medication by mouth. After he died, I happened to notice that the drip had somehow been opened such that the entire container was empty, meaning he’d gotten perhaps a week’s worth of thyroid hormone all at once.”

“I think I understand what you are saying, and yes, I’d say that could definitely fall in the paranormal realm. What about the other two?”

“Both were somewhat similar. Both patients were also on intravenous support and both experienced sudden severe electrolyte abnormalities that affected their heart function, leading to their deaths.”

“How many patients have you been assigned so far?”

“Seven total.”

“And they have all died?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“In my mind, the chances of seven out of seven patients dying under questionable circumstances is a rather convincing argument for the point I’m trying to make here. Do you not see it in those terms?”

“I suppose I do,” Mitt reluctantly agreed. He’d been arguing the same point with himself.

“Earlier when I asked you if you’d seen the blond girl, you answered yes, but you used the term ‘hallucination.’ I prefer ‘ghost’ or ‘specter’ or ‘phantasm,’ as they are more substantive to me. A hallucination is a product of the mind, so I can’t see your hallucinations and vice versa. But be that as it may, have you had other ‘hallucinations’ over the few days you have been a resident?”

“I have,” Mitt said. “I’ve seen a pitiful crowd of post-surgical patients with many of the people carrying amputated limbs or excised organs. I’ve also seen hordes of rats. On top of that, I’ve also been assaulted with some of the worst odors I’ve ever confronted as well as the sounds of distant cries of anguish.”

“I’m not surprised. I would have guessed as much. Bellevue’s ghosts have a lot to complain about. During its long history it was described as the place where the groans of the dying met the stink of disease. The hospital did serve the poor of New York, but at the unimaginable cost of overcrowding and lack of sanitation. Its patients were also considered fair game for doctors, particularly surgeons, to hone their skills and also try whatever their imagination might suggest, which nowadays is considered a major ethical lapse. What this all underlines is that Bellevue Hospital and you are uniquely mismatched because of your direct link to Homer Fuller, Otto Fuller, Benjamin Fuller, and Clarence Fuller. I hope you will give serious thought to everything I have said tonight. Obviously, I am not going anywhere, as Bellevue is my life, so if you want to talk to me some more or have some specific questions, just call the main housekeeping number anytime, day or night. Between eleven p.m. and seven a.m. I will answer. Otherwise just leave a message for me, and I will get back to you. My days off this week will be Sunday and Monday, so you can put that in your memory bank.”

“Am I being dismissed?” Mitt asked.

“Heavens no,” Lashonda said. “I just assumed you’d want to leave since it appears that you don’t want to eat any more.”

“I lost my appetite,” Mitt said. “My mind is racing around in circles. I don’t quite know what to think. I’ve wanted to share the phantasms, the noxious odor, the pitiful, distant cries, with someone but I’ve been reluctant. I was afraid of what people would think of me. Hell, I didn’t even know what to think of myself. And then, out of the blue you not only bring them up but provide an explanation.

“To be entirely honest, I’ve never given the supernatural much thought. Well, that’s not true. What I mean to say is that I’ve never given the supernatural much credence. I think of myself as scientifically oriented, yet everything that you have said makes sense, and I’m blown away by it. Still, I don’t know quite what to think.”

“I’m glad you’re being open with me. To be equally honest, I wrestled with the idea of talking with you or not, which is why I didn’t approach you Tuesday morning when our eyes met and I realized we shared the gift or burden of being portals. My concern was that you wouldn’t believe me or, worse, would think I was deranged and possibly cause me trouble with the administration. I hadn’t really decided whether to approach you or not until you unexpectedly showed up here at the cafeteria during my middle-of-the-night lunch break. The moment I saw you I decided it was fate. If you had not come to my table, I would have come to yours.”

“It certainly sounds as if fate played a significant role,” Mitt said. “After my patient with the thyroid storm died, I was suddenly not tired, which is weird because of how little sleep I’ve had all this week. Instead, I decided I was hungry, which was also weird. I can’t remember that ever happening to me before.”

“It seems destiny was involved,” Lashonda agreed. She then paused before adding: “Is there anything specific you’d like to ask me before we part?”

“Actually, there is,” Mitt said. “When you described in detail the instrument Charlene Wagner apparently holds every time she appears, you said you learned it from your unique sources. What did you mean by that?”

Lashonda’s eyes did a quick detour around the room before settling back on Mitt. She leaned forward again and lowered her voice. “I have access to a cache of patient records, thanks to my mother, bless her soul, that have not seen the light of day and probably never will, at least in my lifetime.”

“What kind of patient records?” Mitt asked. Sensing Lashonda’s interest in being secretive, he also leaned forward. His curiosity was piqued.

“Not very flattering ones,” Lashonda said. “At least that is my take. Apparently they were purposefully gathered and then hidden away by your ancestor Dr. Clarence Fuller. Of the ones I’ve looked at, they include a lot of the records of unsuccessful or outlandish medical and surgical procedures carried out over several hundred years at the whim of the involved doctors, including a number performed by your ancestors. More important and related to Charlene Wagner, they include most of Dr. Clarence Fuller’s lobotomy records. He did a lot more lobotomies than what has generally been attributed to him, which apparently he didn’t want the world to know after the procedure fell out of favor.”

Suddenly Lashonda paused and for a few beats stared directly at Mitt. “I’m sorry. Is this upsetting for you to hear?”

“Moderately,” Mitt admitted. He was shocked and horrified to hear about Clarence. It was so contrary to what he’d been raised to believe, yet it was consistent with what he’d read in the Pendleton paper.

“Do you want to hear more, or have you heard enough?”

“Definitely I want to hear more. Please!”

“I read through many of Dr. Clarence Fuller’s records, and doing so, I learned that he’d lobotomized quite a few young patients where the indication was marginal. In Charlene’s case, although she was for a time housed on the ‘distressed ward’ — the locked ward, where restraints were occasionally needed — her diagnosis was ‘age-related behavioral disorder’ and certainly not something more serious. Such a diagnosis, which is a condition children often outgrow, makes her death that much more tragic. It also makes the decision to lobotomize her an inexcusable mistake.”

“I would like to see these records personally,” Mitt said. “Can you get them for me? Or at least some of them, particularly records of my ancestors?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s not possible.”

“Oh?” Mitt questioned with obvious disappointment. “Why not?”

“Because of a promise I made to my mother.”

“How is your mother involved?” Mitt asked with confusion. Lashonda’s evocation of her late mother might have been the absolute last thing he expected.

“Well, it’s a rather long story, and it most definitely has something to do with how long our family has been associated with Bellevue Hospital. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“Absolutely,” Mitt said.

“The records we’re talking about have been hidden away for more than a half century, most likely initiated by your ancestor Dr. Clarence Fuller’s wish to hide his advocacy of lobotomy. But it became more than that. He’d also gathered other records he wanted to hide, some of your earlier ancestors’ files as well as their surgeon colleagues’, presumably because their operative survival rate was so low, and it reflected badly on them, as well as on the hospital. At least this is my educated guess. Before Clarence Fuller retired back in 1975, he turned the care of this cache of hospital records over to one of the hospital hospitality administrators, who happened to be my mother’s boss. Before this administrator could decide what to do with them, as they were still in your ancestor’s vacated office, they were inadvertently found by an NYU researcher named Robert Pendleton, who then threatened to publish them.”

Mitt straightened upon hearing the name Robert Pendleton. It seemed that Pendleton’s sources and Lashonda’s were one and the same, which only fanned his interest.

“Somehow the hospital administrator thwarted the publication of the records, but the episode underlined the need to deal with them, at least in the short term. To do so, he turned to my mother with whom he was particularly close. He asked her to hide them along with a promise she would never give them to anyone, ever.”

“Why on earth did a hospital administrator turn to your mother?”

“Exactly why, I have no idea other than their mutual respect. I guess there was some confusion about what to do with them, as they were probably seen as a potential public relations nightmare, although I suppose he was reluctant to take the responsibility of destroying them. Ultimately it was also a reflection of the long relationship between my family and the hospital administration, particularly this specific administrator.”

“Where did she hide them? Can you tell me that?”

“Of course. She hid them in the housekeeping storeroom with all the cleaning supplies in the basement of the Psychopathic Hospital. At that time the Psychopathic Hospital was still very much in use.”

“You mean the Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital, the one that’s still standing essentially empty next door?”

“Yes. And the entire trove of records is still there. They have been there since 1975, when your ancestor retired. It was my mother who moved them out of his office during the night. At that time, she was the night-shift housekeeping supervisor just like I am today.”

“And these records have never been moved?”

“Only once, and that was when Hurricane Sandy happened. It was then that my mother told me about them. Up until that moment, I had no idea of their existence. She asked me to help her move them to avoid the flooding, which we did. At that time, she made me promise I would honor her pledge to leave them where they were and not to give them to anyone unless told by the administration to do otherwise. She was a woman of her word, as am I.”

“What about the hospital administrator that originally asked her to hide them? Is he still on the hospital staff?”

“Oh no, he’s long gone. He passed away before my mother.”

“And you still feel obligated to honor your mother’s vow?”

“Of course. Vows are not time dependent.”

“When you moved the records for the hurricane, where did you take them?”

“Just a few floors up, locking them in an empty hospitality office on the third floor.”

“Are they still there?”

“No. When we could, maybe a month later, we returned them down to the basement. It was my mother’s idea. They’d been safe there since she’d hidden them, and she felt strongly they should be returned.”

“Does anyone in administration today know about their existence?”

“I don’t have any idea. I only found out about them just hours before the hurricane in 2012. After we returned them to their original hiding place, we never talked about them again. I had the distinct feeling my mother wished to leave the subject alone, so I never brought it up.”

“If someone was to go into the old psychiatric building today, might they stumble across these records?” The more he thought about this mysterious stash, the more he wanted to read through them and find out for certain what kind of doctors his relatives had been and whether they warranted the kudos extended to them by his family. And equally as important, especially if he was a “portal” as Lashonda suggested, Mitt wanted to know whether any Bellevue paranormal beings might have reason to harass him, which unfortunately seemed to be the case. What ultimately convinced him he had to see these records was the disturbing death of all seven of his assigned patients, particularly the most recent death of Diego Ortiz. Such a bevy of strange occurrences lent credence to everything Lashonda was saying, most significantly the possibility that Bellevue was not where he should be for his surgical training.

“It’s doubtful someone would come across them unless they were specifically looking for them,” Lashonda was saying. “First of all, there’d be no reason for anyone to suspect they are there, as the building had been emptied of all records years ago even though a lot of its old furniture and outdated equipment are still there. Besides, access to the building itself is restricted other than to the small portion that is being used as a homeless shelter. Even getting into the main portion of the building isn’t easy, as it is secured under lock and key, as you can imagine, especially of late with the concern raised about the enormous amount of toxic asbestos used in its construction. And the basement is probably the last place someone would go. Like any basement, it is hardly inviting. So, to answer your question, I’d have to say no.”

“What about the building being repurposed and renovated? I know it hasn’t happened yet, but that can’t go on forever. Wouldn’t it be better to move the documents to a safer location to honor your commitment to your mother? I’m certain between the two of us, we could find another place, say in a housekeeping storage area of your choosing here in the high-rise.” Mitt knew his motive was devious, but he had in mind to offer to help Lashonda move the records to a new location, which would give him access.

“It’s passed through my mind,” Lashonda admitted. “But the building seems to have a remarkable staying power, including avoiding a planned conversion into a luxury hotel and medical conference center just two or three years ago.”

“I’d heard something about that idea,” Mitt said. “It is prime real estate right here in the middle of hospital row. Doesn’t the risk support my idea of moving the records?”

“Yes and no,” Lashonda said. “The hotel conversion was a good idea, and most everyone agreed it was a good idea. So why didn’t it happen?”

“I certainly don’t know why, but it sounds to me that you have an idea.”

“I do indeed,” Lashonda said. “It’s the last major building of the old Bellevue Hospital complex left standing. All the others have seen the wrecking ball to make way for the high-rise. What that has meant is that all the ghosts, demons, and phantoms born out of the hospital’s three-hundred-year history have moved into the old psychiatric building to take up permanent residence, and they are obviously a force to be reckoned with. I wouldn’t have said this to anyone else, but I’ll say it to you. I believe they have succeeded in thwarting past proposals.”

Again, Mitt studied Lashonda’s face for a few beats, looking for a slight smile or some other indication that she was teasing him. But he saw no trace. It was obvious she was being perfectly serious. Since he had been specifically questioning the building’s abandoned state whenever he’d passed the structure and had come up with zero explanation, he felt he had to give the paranormal idea significant weight.

“It’s my feeling that the records couldn’t be in a safer place than where they currently are,” Lashonda said. “If that changes in the future, I’ll make adjustments.”

Mitt nodded, still staring at Lashonda while his mind wrestled with how he was going to manage to see these hidden records. If worse came to worst, he considered just trying to break into the place and searching the basement that afternoon when he was off for the July 4 holiday. But he could think of lots of reasons why that was a bad idea, starting with possibly being caught by hospital security, who undoubtedly kept the building under surveillance. Besides, the basement was obviously a huge space with lots of nooks and crannies. That meant he could make the risky effort of getting into the building and never find the records. Then, all at once, he had another, better idea.

“I really need to see some of these records if you want me to take all this seriously,” Mitt said, deciding suddenly to be completely up-front. “Specifically, I would like to see Charlene Wagner’s record.”

“I’m sorry, but as I already mentioned, I can’t give them to you, even one record.”

“Okay, I understand,” Mitt said. “And I respect your promise to your mother. What I’d like to propose is that you simply show me the record and let me read it.”

“You mean we both go into the psychiatric building? You’d be willing to do that?”

“I would,” Mitt said. “It’s not that I doubt what you are saying because I don’t — I believe you. At the same time, what you are telling me seriously challenges what I’ve believed all my life. Seeing this record and holding it in my hand will go a long way toward convincing me about the role of my ancestors and the existence of the paranormal. I hope you understand. I need this kind of corroboration.”

“You’re willing to go in there despite what I told you about all the Bellevue ghosts from its three-hundred-year history pretty much having taken over the building?”

“What are you implying?” Mitt asked. “Is that where you’ve seen apparitions like I’ve described?”

“Absolutely,” Lashonda said. “I see them every time I’ve gone in there to check on the papers and particularly when my mother and I moved them because of the hurricane.”

“Did your mother see them as well?”

“No, she didn’t. She wasn’t a portal.”

“But they didn’t bother you or your mother?”

“No, they had no cause with us. Our family has only been service personnel.”

“I think I can deal with seeing them,” Mitt said. “I’ve almost gotten accustomed to it.”

“If we were to make such a visit, it would have to be at night,” Lashonda said, warming to the idea if it was going to help Mitt understand his peril. “Whenever I’ve gone inside, it was always at night. During the day hospital security keeps an eye on the building and makes regular tours around the grounds. As far as I know, the last time someone was allowed in during the day was when a mandatory test for asbestos was ordered by the city.”

“I’m fine with going in at night,” Mitt said. “In fact, why not tonight? Why not right now and get it over with? Do you have the key or keys with you?”

“No, but they are in my office,” Lashonda said as she glanced at her watch to check the time.

“What do you say?”

“How long would you need for us to be there?”

“Not long. How many pages is Charlene’s record?”

“Just two pages. The earlier records going back into the early nineteenth century are even shorter. Most of those are a single page or just a couple of paragraphs. Back then recordkeeping was hardly what it is now.”

“Ten to fifteen minutes would probably be adequate,” Mitt said. “I’d like to see her record and maybe a few of my earlier ancestors’.” Once he knew exactly where the records were, he figured, he could return at some point in the near future and do them justice.

“All right, why not!” Lashonda said, suddenly making up her mind. “It is important for you to understand the seriousness of what is happening, especially considering the deaths of your seven patients. That can’t have been by chance, and unfortunately, it’s bound to continue. And, to be honest, I’m seriously worried about your own safety. Bellevue Hospital is simply not where you should be, for everyone concerned.”

“I’m getting that message,” Mitt agreed.

“Let me first check with the operator to make sure there isn’t a housekeeping issue brewing.” Lashonda picked up her phone, which was lying on the table next to her plate. Her conversation with the operator was rapid and to the point. She quickly ascertained there were no current problems requiring her presence.

“All is quiet,” she said, pocketing her phone. “I’ll get the necessary keys and a couple of flashlights from my office. There’s no power in most of the psychiatric building, just the tiny section being used as the homeless shelter. I’ll meet you downstairs in the elevator lobby. We’ll get over there by going out through the laundry building. Okay?”

“Okay,” Mitt said. “I trust that you know the way.”

“I should hope so, after all these years. My department did the housekeeping in the psychiatric building until all the patients were moved over here to the high-rise in 1984.”

They both lifted their trays with their mostly uneaten food and headed toward the soiled-dishes window. No one in the cafeteria paid them any heed as they departed together.