But I remind myself why I’m here in the first place. It’s not just about my dad, although that was a trigger point. I’ve always been interested in the complexities of the human mind—how mental health weaves itself through our experiences, shaping them into something uniquely ours. What fascinates me most is that hidden corner we all have, that secret place in our mind no one else could ever reach or truly understand. It belongs to us alone, and that’s okay.
Still, I guess it’s strange that I’ve chosen a career where I’m supposed to gently coax people back toward society’s carefully constructed version of normality. The irony isn’t lost on me.
But what’s normality?
In my eyes, we all have the right to live uniquely, but there’s a fine line between being different and having darker instincts that make you want to hurt others, whether that’s physically or mentally. It’s a point where someone’s mind isn’t just of imagination or fantasy, but of real-life hatred, revenge, or even violence and that’s where I feel I’d like to help.
Society tends to silence those who don’t comply, forcing everyone into the same perfect bubble, where people who are different are suppressed, or have to pretend to be something they’re not. We’ve created a system that orders obedience and strict rules. And if anyone doesn’t toe the line? They’re labelled crazy or worse.
I have empathy for those who are struggling. There’s always a reason behind someone’s actions, a cause behind their pain, no matter how long they’ve been lost in their nightmare. I don’t believe anyone is born malicious; I believe something inside them was broken or consumed along the way.
After telling the woman on the other side of the intercom my name and reasons of being here, the gates finally creak open. I drive through slowly, my tires cracking over the rocky gravel beneath it as I make my way up a long driveway.
When I pull up and cut the engine, I reach over, grabbing the handle of my briefcase and then step out of the car. Closing the door behind me, the wind sweeps through my long, red hair, carrying chilling whispers in my ears. I take a glance around, noticing the few armed officers on the property, standing in thecorners. I draw a deep breath, readying myself, then take slow steps toward the towering oak door entrance of the asylum.
As I approach, the door squeaks open unexpectedly, revealing an older gentleman with grey hair and stubble, dressed in a white shirt with black pants. His warm, friendly smile feels out of place against the backdrop of the eerie building. I come to a halt in front of him, and he extends his hand, which I accept.
“You must be Raven Tate,” he says, his eyes briefly scrutinizing me before softening.
“That's right,” I respond. “And you are?”
“Dr Moss. We spoke on the phone,” he replies with a nod. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Welcome to Sacred Heights Asylum.”
His tone is welcoming, but there’s an underlying heaviness to his words, a subtle reminder of the seriousness of the place I’m about to enter. He steps aside, gesturing with a sweep of his arm for me to go first and I brush past him.
As the door shuts behind us with an echoing thud, I take in the surroundings. The interior is far simpler than I expected, almost clinical, but with a haunting charm. The high-vaulted ceilings loom overhead. Dark, ancient wood panels line the white walls, their edges worn and weathered by time.
The air smells heavy of disinfectant, but underneath that lies another scent—faint, yet unmistakable. A metallic hint, like old blood, or maybe rusted metal.
Ahead of me stretches a long, narrow hallway and along the walls, antique paintings hang in neat rows, each one showing grim-faced individuals, possibly old patients, their eyes fixed on me, tracking my every move.
Dr Moss watches me take it all in, his unchanging smile the complete opposite to the gloom of this place.
“Quite the place, isn’t it?” he murmurs softly, as if he can sense the discomfort stirring inside me. “It can be quite overwhelming at first, but you’ll get used to it.”
I glance up at him, knowing this is only my first day and despite the unease, he’s right.
“So, you’re from Boston, and you came all this way?” Dr Moss questions as we slowly continue down the hall.
I smile and give a slight nod. “That’s right. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I’ve heard great things about SHA and how well the patients are treated here.”
He returns my smile, though something flickers in his dark eyes—pride, perhaps, or maybe something deeper, more guarded. As we enter what I assume is his office, he gently swings the door shut behind us.
“Please, take a seat, Ms Tate,” he says, gesturing to a chair in front of his massive oak desk.
I settle opposite him, the rich leather creaking softly beneath me. His office is big, with shelves crammed with medical texts, journals, and file cabinets. Dr Moss takes his seat on the other side, resting his elbows on the desk.
“That must have been quite the journey,” he continues. “Are you staying in Morbid Crypt?”
I nod as I place my briefcase down on the floor beside me. “Yes, I found a place to rent for the next month. Do you live nearby?”
He shakes his head, chuckling softly. “No, I live about an hour away. I travel here each day and have done for many years.”
I offer a polite smile, and he clears his throat before continuing to probe me, “So, you’re a student therapist?” he asks. “I’ve reviewed your documents, and I must say, you’redoing an excellent job for someone your age. Things can only get better from here.”
My eyes soften. “Thank you very much, Dr Moss. That means a lot to me.”
He leans back, folding his hands on the desk in front of him, the faintest hint of pride in his eyes. “Alright. Have you researched the institute’s history as requested? And do you understand the types of patients we care for here?”
