The Legend of Hidden Oaks

PROLOGUE:

The two detective entered the interview room and called out to the sleeping man.

"Mr. Williams."

The man did not move. They called again.

"Mr. Williams, are you alright?"

The man stirred and lifted his head from his arms that were crossed beneath his head. The man slowly sat up and wiped drool from the corners of his mouth. He looked horrible. He had dark bags under his eyes and his face was pale and gaunt. The detectives noted the fact that he smelled as if he hadn't showered in days. The unpleasant smell of hair oil and sweat filled the room.

"Can I get you anything--coffee, water, soda?"

"No."

"We appreciate you coming into the provide a voluntary statement regarding the disappearance of your wife. I can assure you we are doing everything in our power to locate her and reunite the two of you. Every resource we have at our disposal is currently being used to follow up on leads as they emerge. Also, the FBI will be joining the investigation and will be bringing in additional resources as well."

The man sat back in his chair, his face void of emotion. The young detective placed a digital recorder on the table and pressed the red record button, it beeped as it began to record his statement.

"Today is Tuesday, November 3rd, 2015 and the time is 1436 hours. Present in the room are myself, Detective Tom Jennings, and Detective Brian Fields. Also present in the room is, please state your name."

The man spoke, his voice flat and raspy as if he had been screaming. "Paul Williams."

"Mr. Williams, because you have agreed to make a voluntary statement, I must admonish you that you are free to leave at any time. The door behind us is unlocked. If you wish to leave, you simply need to exit this door, turn right and leave through the same lobby doors you entered through. Do you understand."

"Yes."

"With this admonishment in mind, do you still want to provide a statement."

"Yes."

"Do you have any questions before we begin?"

"No."

"Very well. In your own words, please describe the events that occurred between Saturday, October 24th, 2015 and Sunday, November 2nd, 2015. Please be sure to include as much detail as possible. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Very well, Mr. Williams. You may begin."

The man shifted in chair. His face showed he was searching for details, for facts that would help the police help him. He struggled to remember what had happened. Bits and pieces were clear as day, but others escaped him. Those details were just behind the thin veil of forgetfulness, like a well-known name on the tip of the tongue.

He cleared his aching throat and began to tell his story.

CHAPTER 1:

"Oh, wow. Listen to this." Sarah said as she adjusted herself in her chair in that particular way only women can pull off. She threw her left leg under her butt, used both hands to tuck her hair behind her ears as she leaned forward to get a closer look at the computer screen. A smile began to spread on her face.

"You are invited to experience the most extreme, immersive haunted theater ever created. Join your guide for an all-access tour of the Hidden Oaks Home for the Mentally Ill. Closed in 1934 following an investigation into patient abuse and its controversial eugenics program, the horrors of the Hidden Oaks Home has been buried in history and concealed from the knowledge of the general public. Through detailed research, we have recreated the Hidden Oaks Home and the horrors that happened within its haunted walls. Our re-creation will cause you to question the very existence of reality as the darkness of the human heart is laid bare before you. Adults only."

"Sounds interesting." I told her, trying to hide my involuntary eye roll.

"Right?" She said. "Let's go to this one!"

My wife Sarah had a thing for haunted houses. It had become an annual tradition for her to seek out the most realistic event possible in order to supplement the usual theme park Halloween events we "had" to go to. No matter how lame the houses were, the most ridiculous part was how terrified she was after going. She usually had trouble sleeping for weeks and it was extremely annoying.

"Why do you insist on going to those stupid things?" I asked her.

"Because it's Halloween, Paul." She feigned irritation. "Do I complain when you want to watch football all weekend with your friends?"

"Uh, sometimes." I shot back.

"Well, then. I'm only ask to go to these once a year. Quit complaining."

"And what happens to you afterwards?"

"I get scared, so what?" She was getting annoyed. "It's a haunted house. That's the point." I waited for the "duh", but it never came.

"Scared probably isn't the right adjective." I continued, knowing I should probably back off. "Terrified would be far more accurate."

She made her cute, pouty face. "Well, I want to go to this one."

"Whatever. It's your thing, not mine." I told her.

"It's kind of expensive though."

"Whatever, its coming out of your account. I'm not wasting my money on that nonsense."

Sarah purchased two tickets for the following Saturday, explaining to me we were "lucky" to get tickets as it apparently sold out quickly. Combined with limited engagements, there were few spots still available. A collector's edition haunted house--awesome.

Saturday arrived and Sarah was as excited as ever. She finished getting ready and walked out of the bedroom dressed in her "costume." She wore a pair of cutoff denim shorts, a flannel shirt tied in a knot above her belly button and a pair of dark brown cowboy boots. She wore her rich, auburn hair in pig tails and her dusting of freckles completed the cowgirl/farmer's daughter look she was going for.

Her Halloween "costume" was sexy, but not slutty. Some of Sarah's friends insisted on dressing up as whorish as possible on Halloween, a point I never understood the point. Thankfully, Sarah was more reserved and didn't subscribe to the same thought process. I was fortunate in that regard. It seemed her friends thought Halloween should be less about little kids trick-or-treating and more about sex driven pagan rituals.

"How do I look?" She asked as she spun in a circle on the heels of her boots.

"Nice. All you need is a hat and a piece of straw and I'd say you would make the perfect farmer's daughter." I replied, my response genuine.

"Thank you!" She gave me a hug and a kiss. "Thanks again for doing this."

"No biggie, just try not to be a freak for the next few weeks."

"I'll try!" She laughed as she lied to me.

CHAPTER 2:

"Are you sure this is it?" I asked her.

"I gave you the directions exactly as they are written." She said, frustration showing on her face. "This is supposed to be it."

We sat in our Tahoe, the engine idling. The address on the tickets didn't exist. Instead of a building, we only found a vacant lot. Although we were just under an hour early, we were the only people there. I hoped we hadn't been scammed--I highly doubted there were refunds. From what she seemed to gather, the company that produced Hidden Oaks was a traveling group of stage performers. Sounded like a bunch of carnies to me.

After about 15 minutes of waiting nervously, other cars began to show up. I got the impression the other people were suffering from the same anxiety as us. Several of the others got out of their cars and were looking around for signs of a haunted house which wasn't to be found. They gathered in clumps and we joined them, hoping to find someone who might know what was going on.

It was a mixed group. There were a few couples like us, but mostly college-aged kids. Someone in the group was smoking pot and a few were drinking cheap beer. There were about 24 of us in all. Only the couples seemed concerned about being scammed, the kids seemed not to care. They had their party favors and it probably didn't matter if this went down or not.

At 9:55, an old, patina green big rig pulled into the dusty lot, a rusted, beat to shit cattle car in tow. The ragged engine shut off and a big, corn fed man hopped out of the passenger side of the cab. Another man, similar in appearance, exited the driver side. As expected, both had the stereotypical carny appearance.

The driver walked to the back of the trailer and began unlocking the door, lowering to the ground. I fully expected a stampede of steer to come rushing out, but nothing happened. He took off his dirty, leather work gloves and stuffed them into the back pocket of his stained jeans. He waited by the lowered ramp.

The passenger was looking over a clipboard as he walked up to the group.

"Y'all going to Hidden Oaks?" He asked, his accent was country and a man of less culture, a man such as myself, would have instantly judged him to be ignorant.

"Before you get on my truck, y'all need to read this here waiver." He said, pausing to spit what I assumed to be tobacco juice on the ground. "Once you sign and date, get into a single file line next to Gene." He pointed to the driver. "That's Gene."

Each of us received a waiver, but few actually read it. Sarah and I glossed it over and signed. It was the typical hold harmless waiver one signs before participating in activities that had the potential of being bad for your health. Nothing stood out on ours with the exception of references to disturbing sights and sounds, touching by staff, etc. etc.

After handing the man our waivers, Sarah and I joined the line at the back of the trailer. Once everyone was in line, Gene told the group to begin filing in. I was surprised they were putting in the trailer, but people actually began to file in.

"All the way to the back, y'all!" Gene yelled. "Everybody gots to fit."

The group piled in, shoulder to shoulder. Gene closed a smaller door on us, isolating us from the remainder of the trailer. It was cramped inside the trailer and it smelled of stale urine and feces. People groaned as they tried to shift to create space, but none was to be made. If someone in our group was claustrophobic, panic was likely to soon ensue.

Gene raised the ramp and started up the truck. Grinding the gears, he pulled out of the lot and made a right on the two-lane road. We were heading east, but I quickly became disoriented after a series of turns on small, unpaved roads. I was beginning to become nervous. During the five years of our marriage, Sarah had dragged me kicking and screaming to dozens of haunted houses. To date, I had never experienced anything like this.

"What do you think?" I asked her as I looked down at her face. She was smiling from ear-to-ear.

"This is exciting." She replied.

Her hands were clasped in front of her cleavage. Despite her professed excitement, she gave me the impression she was afraid she was going to get groped in the dark trailer. There were some rowdies in the group and that part didn't seem too exciting to her. She stepped even closer to me, seeking protection from phantom gropers.

CHAPTER 3:

After a thirty-minute drive, the old truck squealed to a halt. I could see dim lights and the ghostly shape of a rundown building through the holes in our side of the trailer. There was a cluster of men dressed in all white gathered under a large willow tree. Some were smoking, the red cherries glowing bright and then fading with each inhalation. I watched as the smokers dropped their butts to the ground and rubbed them out with the sole of thick, black work boots.

I heard the ramp being unlocked and lowered. Gene entered the trailer and walked to where the partition held us in the forward most portion of the trailer.

"Anyone wanting to leave needs to stay on my trailer. Understand? This is your last chance. You get off, there ain't no getting back on." Several people snickered at his warning, but it left me uneasy. No one expressed a desire to stay on the trailer.

"Alright, suit y'all selves. Now don't go trying to blame Gene if something bad happens to y'all. Can't say you ain't been warned."

People began to file off the trailer passing Gene as he waited at the base of the ramp. As Sarah and I exited the trailer, Gene stopped me.

"I wouldn't take her in there, sir. Something bad might to happen. These people are liars."

I smiled at him. "Thanks for the advice, Gene."

The truck fired back up and drove away.

The men in white began to form the loose group into a single file line. The men walked the line, seemingly assessing their "guests", asking who came with who. The men would break out the guests into smaller groups that varied in size, mostly 4-6 people per. It appeared they were keeping everyone together that had arrived together.

One of the men stopped in front of me and Sarah. He was a large man who had a greasy, pig-like appearance. His thinning black hair was slicked back and his whites were stained yellow in spots. He carried a scuffed up wooden baton and had a large ring of keys attached to his belt. He reeked of alcohol.

"You with him?" He asked Sarah.

"Yes."

He looked her over and then looked at me. "Pretty girl."

"Thanks." I said, his comment annoying me.

"You two are with me. Wait here and I will introduce myself once I get these other people moving along." He instructed.

After several minutes, each group was led out of the parking lot in what seemed to be 5 minute intervals. All the groups entered the same set of front doors of the dilapidated building. It had the look of an old, run down factory that had been closed down for at least 50 years. I was actually impressed with the attention to detail used so far. The anxiety over the creepy feeling I had been getting briefly fading.

Porky Pig walked back up to me and Sarah and thanked us for waiting so patiently. He introduced himself and "Mr. George."

"Ok, folks. I'm going to give you the run down right quick. I will be your guide tonight. Rule number one: listen to everything I tell you. I'm not much for being on the bossy side, so everything I tell you is for your safety." He looked at us with the utmost sincerity before continuing.

"This is a fully operational mental health facility and has been in service since before the Great War." He was pulling the period piece, referencing WWI. "We have all kinds of people committed here, some more dangerous than others. We have from your regular ole crazies all the way up to serial killers that were too nuts to send up to the penitentiary, so that should say a lot."

"If for any reason we get separated and you happen to hear an alarm, please, for your safety, find the nearest room and lock yourselves in it. We have breakouts from time-to-time and some of these nasty boogers can be extremely violent."

Sarah leaned into me, a sign she was buying Mr. George's safety brief. I wrapped my arm around her and rubbed her bare arm; she was covered in goosebumps.

"Anyway, I'm not trying to scare you folks, but it's part of the job." He smiled, attempting humor. "We get lots on interest in our place these days. Lots of government types coming out to inspect us."

"They say we abuse the residents here, which is a flat out lie. Sometimes we crack a few skulls, but that's better than what would happen to anyone they got ahold of. I'm sure you've heard of 'retard strength', but I'm here to tell you it ain't no lie.

"Anyways, sorry I get easily carried away. Like I was saying, these people from the county and from all the way up at the state capital come down here and accuse us of beating and molesting patients. Hogwash! They also say we do crazy research on people's traits and such. Genics or something like that."

"Eugenics." Sarah offered.

"Yes, ma'am, that's the word. They say Dr. Grabels does the eugenics all wrong. I don't know about that, but you can ask him for yourselves when you meet him."

"You folks ready?" He asked and turned to walk towards the interest without our response.

Sarah and I looked at each other and she smiled at me. I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling I had, so I was only able to muster a nod.

"Don't be a deadbeat." She told me. "This is far more realistic than anything we have gone to so far."

"I can't argue with that." I told her.

"Cheer up! Let me scream a little now and I'll scream a whole lot more for you later tonight." She winked and I grabbed her soft bottom through her shorts.

"Deal." I said, leaning down to kiss her on the lips.

CHAPTER 4:

Mr. George led us through the main doors and into the lobby. An older female sat behind a large desk and appeared to be writing in a large file. "That's Mrs. Doris." He told us. "She doesn't talk much."

"I'm going to show you where we keep the guests before you meet with Dr. Grabels."

Mr. George guided us to a closed door. He opened up a small peep hole and peered into, the closing the rotating hood. "All clear. Gotta make sure no one has got out their cage."

He inserted a large key into to the locking mechanism and turned it several times, the lock making several loud clicking noises as he turned the key. Once unlocked, he pulled the heavy door open and exposed on long, dark hallway. Metal, jail style bars were present on both sides of the hallway, bright light emanated from each of the rooms. I counted ten of them on each side.

"After you." Mr. George extended his, encouraging us to enter the dark hallway. He gave us a peculiar look as we passed him. "For your safety, please stay to the center of the hallway. Wouldn't want you to get grabbed by one of the yahoos."

After entering, he turned and locked the door behind us. I watched as he secured the large key ring back on his belt. He smiled at me. "Security is paramount."

Mr. George passed both of us and began walking down the hallway, his baton rattling down the bars like a playing card in the spokes of a bicycle. "These are basically your garden variety vegetables. Mostly harmless, but you still got to keep an eye on them at all times."

We began to follow, several steps behind. Sarah and I looked in the cells as we passed them one by one. The patients were of different sexes and different ages, all disheveled. Wild hair and wild eyes were ever present. Some muttered, but most were silently rocking back and forth or sat in a corner of their cell, backs to us.

Mr. George suddenly stopped near the end of the hallway and faced to his right.

"Jesus, Fred! Put that thing away, we have guests!"

We caught up to him and looked into the cell. A massive hulk of a man was sitting completely naked in the middle of the cell and was masturbating as he rocked back and forth.

"You ever seen a pecker that big?" He asked, smiling. "I swear that boy's half mule and its obvious which half is which."

He wasn't exaggerating. Fred had freakishly long cock that was as thick as beer can. He rocked back and forth as he played with it--tugging, jerking, or squeezing it as it pleased him, apparently with no rhyme or reason.

"He's the one you don't want grabbing you as you walk by." Mr. George sounded somber. "Back in '26, I seen Fred pull a man's arm plumb off."

The black man looked up at us and began to grunt loudly. He suddenly stood up, his massive tool bobbing up and down between his legs, and lunged for Sarah through the bars. She screamed and backed into the cage behind us and an arm quickly wrapped around her waist. The patient in the cage was a wild eyed older man, his hair hanging in his eyes.

"Right in the doodie!" He screamed again and again as he humped Sarah's shorts from behind. I tried to punch him in the face, but his was too far back for me to reach. Mr. George raised his arm, the wooden baton held high in the air.

"I swear to God, Pete, I'll bust your arm!" The old man let go of Sarah and backed further into his cell, both forefingers curled into hooks. He whispered "doodie, doodie, doodie" and then placed the knuckles of his curled fingers in his mouth and bit down hard. He screamed non-stop, eyes even wider than before.