West Park Asylum

The white-haired private investigator is napping against the door when Carla arrives at Ian’s apartment. She struggles to get the key from her pocket while balancing are armful of her brother’s mail. A gentle nudge to the snoring man’s leg does nothing to wake him up, so she opens the door and lets him fall inside. Mr. Orson groans and stands up, wiping dirt off his coat as if nothing happened. Putting a finger to his lips, he leads his employer into the apartment and to a small table. The man stretches his sore legs while taking in his surroundings, his keen eyes noticing that the place has been recently cleaned.

“I’m always surprised that you keep his place clean and organized,” Mr. Orson says, turning around to see that two of the rooms have police tape across the closed doors. A large stack of letters and magazines catches his eye, all of the envelopes having been opened. “I assume you found nothing in that pile, which is why you contacted me again. Though you won’t like what I have to tell you.”

“How hard is it to find a place when you have the name?” Carla impatiently asks while looking through the new mail. She frowns at the sight of a letter from Ian’s insurance company, reminding him that his medication is no longer being covered by his new plan. “I know I shouldn’t be angry since I can’t find anything more than forum comments about this Raven’s Hold. Even those are vague, which makes me think this place is off the grid. Then again, they have ways of finding people. I found this on Ian’s dresser when I came here at the beginning of the week.”

“You’re right that there is nothing on the Internet about Raven’s Hold, which is strange in this day and age,” the investigator agrees as he takes the folded paper that is slide across the table. His eyebrows twitch when he sees the fancy stationary of the mysterious asylum and he reads the simple letter of invitation. “Interesting how this place has no address, but there appears to be a space for it. Now, I had to go old school on this hunt. I made some calls to the contacts I made during my previous searches for your brother. Most of them have never heard of such a place while the rest spoke of rumors. Nothing very clear beyond a place that supposedly searches for difficult patients and takes them away from society.”

“Never to return?”

Mr. Orson sighs and hands the letter back before getting to his feet. He gets himself a glass of water from the sink and pops a few aspirin to help with a headache. Over the last two days, he has barely slept and routinely thinks he is being watched by something just beyond his sight. It is a chill that runs up his spine in the dark, which he typically chalks up to overall stress. This is the first time in his lengthy career that a location has been so hard to find. Mr. Orson is used to people and objects being elusive, but he has never heard of an entire institution giving an investigator so much trouble. Turning to face his employer, he straightens his back and does his best to retain some of his professional dignity.

“There’s no way to tell if people get out of this place or not,” Mr. Orson states, his hands cradling the cool glass. Licking his lips, he takes another drink and feels the pressure behind his green eyes lessen. “It’s possible that they take people who will never recover, so they are never fit to leave. Then again, another idea is that anyone who released is made to sign a very strict confidentiality agreement. With the secrecy of this institution, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re doing things that they want to keep out of the public eye. That could be either illegal or methods they wish to keep to themselves.”

“None of that makes me feel any better,” Carla mentions before going to clean some dust she sees on the nearby television. “Ian always had a habit of overreacting and being taken advantage of. He’s too nice and that gets him into trouble. More than likely, this institution is really a cult that is trying to milk him out of every cent he has. I found the passwords that he uses for his online accounts and nothing has moved. The letter said that the work for free, but that doesn’t mean it’s the truth. Were you able to find anything?”

“I’ve only been searching for two days, so I’ve had no time to confirm those rumors that I mentioned earlier,” Mr. Orson states, unsure if he should continue talking. Remembering how Carla hates being kept in the dark, he sighs and accepts that he must reveal every scrap of information he has uncovered. “Keep in mind that this is all hearsay. None of my contacts have ever heard of Raven’s Hold or an institution that matches the methods of this place. They did admit to knowing of a doctor who gained some infamy about fifteen years ago. Her name was Grace Rutherford and she was considered a brilliant psychologist. If she really exists then she got her PhD and disappeared. Again, I have no definitive proof since I only learned about the name last night. I attempted a simple browser search, but you’d be surprised how many women are out there named Grace Rutherford. Didn’t even have enough time to eliminate any from the list, which I’ll do tonight.”

With the hint of a smirk, Carla sits on the arm of a leather couch. “Why do they think it’s this woman?”

“Ms. Rutherford had an interest in difficult cases and spoke openly about such people needing special help,” he answers while thumbing through a small notebook. He cringes at the taste of ink and sweat on his skin. “I guess she thought the modern methods weren’t good enough for some people. My contacts said her ideas made her a laughing stock even though she graduated with high grades. They doubt she would have gotten a post-doctorate position or a job of any kind since she was rather adamant about her beliefs. Again, this is if the person is still alive or existed in the first place.”

“Did you hear about any locations?”

“One person said they knew her and she was originally from a coastal town in Oregon.”

“I didn’t see any plane ticket purchases on Ian’s credit card.”

“If Raven’s Hold is paying for everything then you wouldn’t see the purchase.”

“How much more time do you need to confirm things?”

“I have other cases, but I think I can get it done by the end of next week.”

“Thank you. I’ll give you what we agreed upon and some extra to see if it can be done by the middle of next week.”

Flexing her fingers, Carla gets her checkbook and swiftly writes a modest payment for the investigator. Mr. Orson finishes his drink and puts the glass in the dishwasher before heading out the door with his money. Alone in her brother’s apartment, the young woman hunts for any dust or dirt to eliminate. She spends an hour cleaning while thinking about what she can do to bring Ian home as fast as possible. It is aggravating that she can only wait and worry instead of taking action like she normally does.

“It’s my brother, so I have to do something,” Carla says as she takes out her phone. She locks up the apartment while dialing her husband who picks up immediately. “I’m heading home now, dear. Mr. Orson didn’t find much, but he had a location. It’s Oregon, so I was thinking of taking a week-long trip to Portland. I’ll need to rent a car, but I plan on bringing work along to make it a business trip. Yes, I can wait a day or two. I don’t want to get you in trouble with your boss. I’ll do the food shopping before I leave and I’ll update the notes on how to survive without me. Thank you for understanding, dear. Tell the girls that mommy is going to bring Uncle Ian home. Love you too. See you at home.”