Dear Dad:
I’m writing to you in the dark, sitting on the floor against the wooden side of the closet, with this folded sheet of paper resting on my knees and my pencil shaking so much I can barely hold it. Grandpa Han’s slippers have already passed by my door three times. He doesn’t lift his feet; he drags them slowly, making that dry, sluggish sound I’ve known since I was a kid. He just stopped right in front of me, on the other side of the wood. I held my breath until my head was buzzing, waiting for him to keep going. Please read this before you get in the van to come back from the country. Don’t come alone.
Ever since you and Mom left him in charge this weekend, the house has felt strange. Well, Grandpa doesn’t do anything that could be reported, I suppose. He sits in the wingback chair in his gray wool sweater—the one that smells like old tobacco and basement dampness—and stares at me while I try to do my homework. He doesn’t yell at me or get angry. He just sits there, his watery eyes fixed on the back of my neck, and out of nowhere he fires off strange questions, like whether I still have nightmares about white hallways, or if I remember what used to happen in that old building on Route 34 before they tore it down.
He always told us stories about that place. When we were kids, he’d tell us that the old Spencer psychiatric hospital was an abandoned castle where monsters lived. He’d tell it as a joke, like a legend to scare us on rainy afternoons. He said that in the ’90s, before they closed the wards on the hill, patients would wander alone through the dark hallways looking for an exit that didn’t exist. It gave me chills, but at the same time, I found it fascinating.
This afternoon, however, things changed. I went to the back study to get a flashlight because the power had gone out in the hallway. While I was searching through the desk, I accidentally knocked over a shoebox that was in the back, and old papers spilled out. Among old bills and yellowed newspaper clippings, I found a black cardboard folder with a faded logo. They weren’t legends, Dad. They’re medical records dated from when I was very young—names crossed out with a thick marker and hospitalization forms signed by him, by Grandpa. One loose sheet said that I was responding well to “sensory isolation treatment” and that my progress was favorable.
I don’t remember ever being admitted anywhere. I always thought the only times I’d been to Spencer were to wander around the vacant lots when I accompanied Grandpa to check on his old workshop. But at the end of the folder, on the last page written in his neat handwriting—though with that old, shaky tremor—was my full name. And next to it, today’s date. When I looked up from the papers, Grandpa was standing in the doorway of the study. I don’t know when he came in; I didn’t hear him walk. He was looking at me from the shadows with his hands tucked into his sweater pockets, without saying a single word, with a calmness that made my blood run cold. He just told me it was time to lock up the house. I locked myself in my room under the pretext of finishing my homework.
The doorknob just turned. Very slowly. Almost silently. I don’t know if I’ll be able to finish this letter. I can hear the floorboard creaking right outside, right next to the lock. Grandpa isn’t saying anything, but I know he’s there, waiting for me to decide to open the door. Please, Dad. If you find this on the table when you get here, don’t go in alone. Call the police, or bring someone from town with you. I feel like I can’t breathe, and my hands won’t move. Don’t let him open the door.
