Too Loose for Terror Ch. 02

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They creep, but who are the exhibits?
1.4k words
4.13
19.4k
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Part 2 of the 5 part series

Updated 11/01/2022
Created 07/22/2005
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"Entering the lobby, you'll notice one thing, I'm sure. The stink. Institutions such as Sunnyville were often under-funded and understaffed, not much unlike their contemporaries." The guide waited for insightful agreement that never came then proceeded limply, "This is intentional and part of the experience." She sucked in a long breath from outside and closed the door behind the group as they packed the cramped entryway. Dirt clumped either side of it, moldering down into the chipped green and white tile floor like grout.

"Sunnyville Farms was built in 1892 by Samuel Reputer. It was family owned and operated, depending largely upon research donations by Iowa's wealthiest families. These generous gifts helped fund treatment for individuals with all types of unfortunate conditions. While we may consider many of the treatment methods used barbaric by today's standards, they represented the pinnacle of technology in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

"We will cover three floors: the lobby rooms, the patient rooms upstairs, and the attic, where Dr. Reputer supposedly conducted all of his experiments," the guide droned, tipping her black wire-frame glasses from the bridge of her pale pert nose. "Duration is approximately four hours, which means our anticipated conclusion is midnight. The exhibits are fully interactive, exhibiting some of the newest hallmarks of artificial intelligence. Any questions?"

Tom raised his hand, nearing the ceiling of the claustrophobic little hallway of peeling green paint.

He gazed evenly at her as he waited for her to acknowledge his question. Thick tendrils of corn silk gold hair hung to long, coltish calves encased in black denim. How lovely those ropes looked arranging the delicate curve of throat. Rain dripped into his eyes.

Pleasant and bored, she counted heads, he realized with disappointment. He'd never be able to explore on his own with a bitch of a bloodhound like her on his heels. A petite torso heaved below the little black and midnight blue tag that read Trish in white lettering.

"Yes?" came the impatient acknowledgement as she cleaned the lenses on her official 'Sunnyville Farms Employee' sweatshirt.

–Straight Gold embroidery, he noticed. "What about the basement?"

The guide smirked at his hopeful request and flipped her wrist dismissively. "Not into giving tours of janitorial supplies," she scoffed. "Now! I want to be absooo-poso-tively-lutely clear on this while ever-body's listening, so I need to mention it again. Stay with the group! The exhibits are very complicated pieces of programming! No horseplay! Stay behind the ropes! They're there to keep you safe! Most importantly, do not under any circumstances; touch any of the patients in the ward! There, I think I've covered myself," she laughed.

Charlotte stepped away from him at the precise moment that he felt John or Jerry whack the back of his head. "Quit it," he growled, studying the boyish tilt of the blonde's narrow hips as she led them into the wide common room.

A loud boom of thunder rocked the asylum, and lightning struck the green through the immense panels of barred glass. "Looks like ya'll got the added benefit of ambiance," Trish laughed.

Behind the wide-open arched panic doors, they lingered like rats in a sewer of patient artwork that smeared the walls grotesque hues of dirty lemon yellow, mucus green, and hypothermia-blue. Towering spirals to nowhere and elaborate sexual paintings of thinly veiled nurses and patients in various positions of copulation littered each wide corner, their colorful pastel purple nipples bouncing from the walls like rubber bullets. An immense round clock suspended from the domed ceiling clicked eight times inconspicuously.

Before a scarred oak card table, drooling mannequins swayed in place or laughed uproariously. Tom groped the lumpy face of a waxy growth-covered invalid in a Victorian style wheel chair, only to have the guide swat his hand away.

"No touching!" she reminded him firmly as the wheel chair squeaked in place, rocking back on its wooden spokes.

Dour-faced patients draped couches, pitching back and forth on squeaking springs bolted to their mechanical frames. A heavily mustached, creaking grey man stabbed the luminous red cherry of a cigarette into his palm and blew constantly on the wound before lighting up again. The black pillar ashtray beside him remained empty.

"That's Mr. William H. Casey. He was a pyromaniac who nearly burned the asylum down in 1918 when he concluded that the carpet made a much better ashtray than his hand. You can still see the marks there." Trish pointed to one corner where a wide blackened crater exposed splotches of moonlight outside. "He was committed to Sunnyville in 1903 after fantasies of his granddaughter as the Virgin Mary consumed him. He also beat two male servants to death in his sprawling Lilac Hills mansion with a buffer, reputedly because they neglected to polish his shoes to his liking."

On a wooden stage in one corner, a squat "dwarf" in a piss-stained diaper held the hand of a tall male in a lilac dress. The poorly disguised male squealed in a distinctly effeminate voice, clutching a bundle to his ragged bosom, "Of course we can, George!"

The narrator blathered rather brokenly from the rafters, "Mrs. Dar...ling loved t-to have ever-thing just so, and Mr. Darling had a pas...sion for being exactly like his neigh...boors. So, of course, they had a n...nurse. As they were poor, owing to the amount of milk the children drank, this nurse was a prim New...fangled dog, called Nana..."

Tom smirked at the story of Peter Pann told by the nearly illiterate under flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed constantly.

Light died like an abandoned flame, and the faces of the performers and the gangly rockers illuminated a sickly orange. The dwarf bit violently at 'Mrs. Darling''s genitalia, his little mouth working up under her skirt like a rabid sucking worm. The actor screamed a high-pitched shriek of a thing as copious sprigs of blood flooded the stage. All around them, the insane continued their conversations or rocked their laments wildly. One small dirty mannequin with flaming red hair bounced and clapped her adolescent hands excitedly, the frontal section of her skull shaved and split in a semi circle that leaked a constant trickle of blood.

"Wh...what did she do?" Charlotte positively quaked beside him, cringing at each staccato beat as she gazed at the lobotomy patient, who made more noise than an evil short-circuited Clapper.

Trish gave a small wicked smile.

Tom felt his heart swell in his chest. "She's a murderer," he whispered. "Lobotomy and all."

The guide nodded her agreement. "That's little Mary Jane Simmons. She didn't do much, side from boiling her infant brother alive. Dear child couldn't understand her punishment," the guide's tone plummeted, and she clucked her tongue.

Charlotte stretched a hand toward the lobotomy scar, tracing it with her fingertip.

"No touching! The mannequins are very expensive," Trish demurred.

His girlfriend drew her hand back at the mental slap, only to stumble into Mr. Casey's knee.

She shot a mortified glance at the guide, but she was else wise occupied, corralling the group together again as a pair of pale faced gothies admired the fake blood that covered the stage as the dwarf proceeded to pummel and stab Wendy's mum with her own high-heeled shoe. Two male nurses hurried from the wings and drugged the slathering dwarf before dragging both he and his victim away to the hooting applause of the other prisoners.

*

From a hidden niche in unending blocks of psychotic paintbrush dribble, a woman's voice howled, "FUCK YOU! FUCK! BASTARDS! WHORES! EVIL! EVIL! EE-VILE!!!!"

The sound carried through the rickety and peeling plastered alcove. "Nice recording," he smirked.

Trish threw a disgusted glare at him on daggers of bloody chartreuse-laced brown.

His prick jumped in his pants, grating against the harsh denim, and he almost moaned. She had perfect eyes: doe eyes, wide and perfectly round. He squeezed Charlotte's hand tightly, locking the sound behind his lips.

Trish murmured, "That's Gertrude Moore, one of the patients here at Sunnyville. Poor Ms. Moore suffers from a host of hysterical panic disorders. Given to violent outbursts, she is currently housed in the third block, however as necessity dictates, patients are administered 'quiet time' to remediate their behavior."

"Let's move to the solarium," she urged.

"Wait!" Tom commanded. "What's in there?" His finger wagged like a serpent tongue at the shadowy enclave. "Where you said there was quiet time!"

"Your much anticipated broom closet," Trish smirked.

Charlotte smirked too.

Jerry and John whacked him across the back of the head in synchronization.

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