((PG-13 for gore and because of Chayden. She scares us all. oDo; <3))
No one ever visited this part of the coast, the dainty beaches had been replaced by harsh towering cliffs. Even at low tide the only beach there was a three foot wide strip of rock made dangerous by the slippery green seaweed that covered it. The other reason that the masses were reluctant to visit that particular bit of coastline was because of Bootham Mental Institution, the grandeur of the place was over shadowed by the scandalous rumours about the inhabitants. If you believed what the townspeople said, there was several members of royalty locked up in the cells; a princess drove out of her mind by grief, a murderous king and a queen that believed the whole country was at war. The cells were also full of dangerous, knife wielding bedlamites and strange, evil women that tried to escape every night so they could snatch children. Fear of the place was built up from a young age, children and toddlers were scared into being good, as they got older it became their weekly source of scandal. Even when the gossip was scarce everywhere else, there was always a rumour about Bootham. They seemed to be getting more and more extravagant, according to the barmaid at The Green Dragon Yard, the cells were full of raging demons and a young priest was going to be sent in to exorcise them. According to the butcher's wife, he was a cursed soul and everything he touched died, he could make angels and demons alike wither with a single touch.
It was flattering for the priest to be the source of such gossip, he rather liked the version in which he was made out to be a roguish criminal fleeing from the law. Perhaps it would be best if they never really found out who was really making their way toward Bootham, Hans wagered that they would be rather disappointed. He was a tall man, with short blonde hair and steely-blue eyes. He had the kind of face that was easily forgettable, an honest face nevertheless. Hans seemed like the quiet sort of priest that could be inspiring and lively when he wanted to, but never was. He had no coat with him today, nor was he wearing the traditional cassock that singled out busy priests from the townsfolk. Bootham was a few miles away from any form of civilisation, the walk wasn't a pleasant one. The path twisted through muddy fields and overgrown Mooreland, gorse bushes filled with yellow flowers delighted in scratching the unwary, while deep pools of mud waited for the clumsy ones to trip and fall into the knee-deep filth. Thankfully Hans had travelled the path often enough to know where to avoid. Well practised feet stepped over the puddles and around the thorn-riddled plants, and it was a mile or so later that the path evened out and one could see the asylum resting on the headland.
Personally, Hans despised the place, the grandeur was nothing but a show, a mask used to make the seem better than it was. What was the point in having the extravagant front garden if the patients were half starved? Long ago he'd come to the conclusion that Bootham was more likely to make patients insane rather than cure them. With that thought still clear in his mind, Hans opened the door and slipped inside. He was quickly greeted by several of the asylum's employees, they spoke earnestly about some mental illnesses that didn't exist before they ushered the young priest down one of the darker corridors. It was amazing how quickly the place could go from the light and extravagant main hall, the place that looked like something out of a health brochure down towards the candle lit, damp smelling incurable ward. The workhouses were terrible, you had nothing but the clothes on your back and whatever scraps of food they remembered to throw at you, they worked you to the bone, it didn't matter if you were dying of cholera, it just mattered that you were making the rich richer. Though, in the incurable ward of Bootham Mental Institution, the Workhouse seemed to be a better alternative. The smell of death hung in the air, a rotting smell that clung to the inside of your lungs and made you cough up blood. The walls were lit only by candles and by the few windows that were scattered around the ward. The windows cast an odd, grimy light upon the place. Then there was the patients.
The women's ward was kept separate, but no doubt it would be just as bad. People lay in their cells, thick iron shackles clamped to their wrists or ankles. They were all so thin, one might have mistaken them for skeletons if it weren't for the eyes. Sunken, shadowed eyes glared back at Hans the minute he stepped into the ward. Some of the eyes were angry, others were begging. Many of the patients yelled, some screamed, the worst ones were those that were silent. They were either too insane or too close to death to bother, those were the prisoners that frightened Hans. 'Glass eyes' they were called, it wasn't hard to see why. The priest tried to concentrate on something else as he was lead down the cells where patient after patient lay, after a moment or two they stopped and the doctors muttered something about last rites and gestured toward Hans.
"Why bother? It's not going to change anything, is it? You know what better than I do, Hans. You know all the gods they worship, you know it's all lies." The voice whispered in his ears, echoing around his head. No one else heard the voice, even though it rang loud and clear in Hans' head. It was almost ironic to think that the priest himself was probably more insane than most of the patients in the ward. It was amazing really what you could get out of with enough backing, with enough lies. Why he didn't for one minute believe anything they he was preaching, the only reason he did so was so that he could keep himself out of the ward. For months on end the whispering, hissing voice would lay dormant, it wouldn't say a thing, then it would be back again, louder than before. The voice seemed to twist everything he believed in and throw it back at him at the worst possible moments, it was a constant pressing mist at the back of his mind threatening to take over the minute he let it. It was lucky for Hans that he didn't believe in much anymore. It was for the sake of the poor 'patients' in that place that he tried to convince them that there was something better after death. He could see why they believed in everything he said so whole heartedly, looking at what was around them they really had little choice.
He barely heard the doctors telling him he could leave this ward, but there was a dying woman over in the next ward that he should really hurry to. Hans nodded, feeling oddly lightheaded, there was a pain at the back of his head too. Almost as if the voice had become solid, occupying a space in his head where his own thoughts should be. If we were to fall down the stairs and he his skull were to crack open they'd probably find black blood in with his own, Hans was beginning to believe that the voice wasn't something his own twisted soul was coming up with. It was little wonder that at one point in time they'd believed the insane to be possessed by demons or some other hideous creature from hell. "Just a moment, if you please." Ha. For everything that he believed in, Hans even sounded like a priest. There was a superior-sounding kindness to his voice, you never heard that tone of voice anywhere else. It seemed that his job was beginning to rub off on him, much to his disgust.
Outside, the cold sea air was bracing and harsh, though it did little to clear his head. The cry of gulls could be heard as they circled looking for any unfortunate crabs that might have been washed up by the tide. The fights between the gulls were interesting to watch and they provided Hans with a distraction, something he could focus on for a little while, just until the whispering between his ears became inaudible. All too quickly it would be time to traipse back into that horrid place, he just hoped that the voice had finished. He wasn't so sure how much longer he could stand having a possible demon sat on his shoulder. Quite frankly, Hans was sick of voices, imaginary or not, they were all giving him a headache. As he leant against the institution wall, he considered the source of the voice. It could be merely be part of his mind, a hideous illusion of some sort, that was the most likely option. It could be a spirit haunting him, cursing him for some grievous sin he'd committed in a previous life, Hans didn't believe in spirits, unless those spirits were finely aged and came from a vineyard of some description. Scratch that, so long as they were even vaguely alcoholic Hans believed in them. Was it possible that some kind of dark creature, a demon of sorts was the source of his torment? The notion was completely ridiculous, demons didn't exist any more than the gods did, and yet the idea had settled like a thick, chilling mist over Hans.
((Sorry for the massive wait in posting this. D8 I'm so lazy. <3 And ignore the fact that I'm being so historically inaccurate. x3 Blame the internet and it's lack of reliable information on late 1800's mental asylums. x3))