A Shadow of the Past

The moment he stepped on the dimly moonlit side walk leading to the deserted asylum,
Dave knew he shouldn't have listened to his mocking friends. He did regret having
agreed to the 'dare' his friends made up for him and quite frankly, he didn't want to be
taken as a whimpering loser. So there he was, looking at the long abandoned, shabby
building, trying to block the aura of misery that creeped through his mind and into his
very soul. He had all the things he could possibly need tucked in a sleeping bag folded
haphazardly into his satchel. A flashlight, a large packet of Doritos, a book and - for
safety's sake - a phone. Just to err on the side of caution, he had brought a first aid box
as well. "God bless, Dave you don't expect to find a patient in there waiting for you, do
you?" To be honest, a decade of being an emergency medical doctor had taught him to
carry his tools where ever he went. It was this very habit that saved the boy who
headed right into his car - thanks to the ever prevalent white mist of a fog that came
with the winter chill - on afternoon and the lady who had nearly drowned when he saw
her. He had just waved that off later.
Everything aside, he knew his friends stood waiting for him to step into his nightmares.
Right into the asylum he had avoided - dreaded rather - for years. Without giving it a
second thought, he said "Damn you, guys," and headed for the rusted, padlocked iron
gate. The padlock merely supported the rusted chain that secured the two wings of the
gate to each other. With a single blow from the hammer he carried in his left hand, the
padlock gave in and split into two. He stepped in and, not looking back to see his
friends egging him on, headed straight for the door to the time-eaten structure. It was
built in the 18th century before getting bombed in 1915 by the German air troops and
secluded later. As he pushed the door, it opened with a resounding creak and darkness
swallowed him. He fumbled in his satchel for the flashlight and turned it on as soon as
it was out of the bag. He found the power box right next to the door and tried to turn
the lights on. Oddly, some of the bulbs flickered to life and he could now make out the
outline of the room. The interior was just like he had expected. The walls were cracked,
cobweb laden and the furniture rotten. He realized after what seemed like an eternity
that he was standing in the foyer. The foyer divided into two hallways that ran opposite
to each other right next to the wooden counter stationed near the center. The lamps
went dim. Lit up again and went dim. He felt something tingling inside him. Something
that screamed to make an existence. Something that wanted to get out of this room.
He looked back at the entrance. The door had been locked by his friends as part of the
deal. He heard his voice speaking to him reassuringly "It's just one night! And besides,
you are not gonna go too far in. So there is nothing to work your mind over!"

Something Mr. Lucas from his psychology class had said rang at the rear of his mind.

Darkness amplifies the sensation of fear. Twists ordinary stimuli to make them
potentially threatening. That is just how our brain works.
'I should probably settle down here and stop thinking too much' he thought, as he
unfolded the sleeping bag and spread it out on the floor. He adjusted the flashlight so
that he could focus the light beam on his paperback copy of Mockingjay. He had always
found it an interesting read. The bag of Doritos was more than enough to make him
feel a little less queasy and dumping in a can of soda made him feel even more filled.
He'd read little more than four chapters when his eyelids began to drop. Sleep came
swiftly and softly soon after. And there he lay oblivious to the world.
He found himself transported as if magically to another time or perhaps it was just a
dream. He could see the outline of a child standing at the entrance to the foyer. He
screamed for someone inside. Someone being dragged down the hall and along the
hallway. Being hauled against her will by two men, dressed slovenly in ragged hospital
uniforms. The woman wanted to be with the kid but the men restrained her. The door
was thrown closed and the screams faded to nothingness. The interior looked better,
the walls crack-less and tapestred finely in hand-woven fabric. The scene danced
around in front of him like a stage play. He found himself in an elegantly furnished
room; The interior was lined with dark ebony and bordered by mahogany panels. Near
the hearth sat a man dressed elegantly in a creased tailcoat and a frilled white shirt. He
appeared to be in his mid fifties, his face dressed in wrinkles and spots. With one hand,
he lightly stroked the black cat in his lap and held a newspaper to his face with the
other. The room was lit darkly but allowed enough light to make out the words. The
man looked melancholy and felt that too. Every now and then he would sigh to himself
and get back to the stroking the cat. Dave could feel the sadness creeping into his
mind, making him feel so much more desperate to leave the room but he found himself
paralyzed with grief. The man put the newspaper down and bowed his head. Dave felt
the cat purr, the flames flicker and the darkness waver as the light drove it away and
the hopelessness called it back over and over again. He knew not what to do now that
he had had enough of this life. He whimpered for one last time before opening a
drawer and retrieving a revolver. He picked the cat gently and put it on the table top.
The cat fixed its eyes at the barrel of the revolver and just as it was about to let out
another purr, the man shot the cat right square in the head. A scream welled inside
Dave but he was too terrified to let it out. His brain disagreed with his senses. The man
lifted the barrel to his own head and fired the revolver. With a muted thud, his head
dropped on the table next to the cat, as their blood drenched the newspaper in a vivid
shade of deep crimson. Dave could make out the words "Malkovrita 1885" written in

bold on the newspaper. The room blurred out of focus before his eyes and the hearth
fire went out abruptly, leaving the room in sheer darkness. He felt a strangling hold on
his throat a few moments later. Found himself unable to breathe as someone shook him
to life.
He lay surrounded by quiet but curious faces. It was when they burst into laughter that
he realized his friends had found lying sprawled across the floor. He could feel the
wetness of the cold sweat he was drenched in. Feeling indignation rising fury in him, he
stood up and spoke in a rather stern tone, "I went through it all because of you people!
Whose idea was it to lock the door from outside! The night's over! That is it! Let's get
out of this place!"
'A pretty vivid dream it was' he found himself thinking later the next day. Was it really a
figment of my imagination? I mean, the details were shockingly real, the cries sounded
more painful than ever. He could feel the agony, the desperation, the helplessness the
man had felt. If there was a more helpless feeling than the one the man had felt, he did
not know it. The uncanny fear, the self retribution the man had inflicted.
A month later, Dave was all too glad this was over. He knew one thing for sure; He
wasn't going to go near that place anytime soon. Something had been eating up his
mind ever since the dreadful night though. While he could remember the dream as
lucidly as if it had been a stage performance, he was sure he had read the word
'Malkovrita' somewhere before. He booted up his Pc and jotted down ' Malkovrita 1885'
and a page came up. According to the page, Malkovrita 1885 was the last issue of one
of the most popular crime report newspapers a century ago. In the year that followed,
the building went down in an unfortunate fire. The case was later closed as the fire was
suspected to have been caused by the sudden explosion of a propane tank.
He decided he wanted to read the last issue and did find a page online.

David Underwood was his name. It made no sense to him, no meaning whatsoever.
Nothing. He was blank for a moment but when the blow came, it was shocking as a
lightning bolt, ripping as a bullet and cold as an avalanche. Of course he was not the
man in question. His grandfather was. The realization was harder than he could take
and he collapsed on his bed under the immense pressure. He knew he'd read the word
and now he knew when. In his grandmother's diary, taped to the last page was the
newspaper clipping that read Malkovrita 1885. Reason enough why he never met his

grandfather even though he had been alive. Reason enough why his grandfather went
insane at sixty two, and reason enough why he had to die in an asylum, Dave thought
as he let his eyelids fall.