Read Online Project 17 by Laurie Faria Stolarz - Free Book Online
Authors: Laurie Faria Stolarz
Tags: Fiction, General, Horror, Juvenile Fiction, Children's Books - Young Adult Fiction, Interpersonal relations, Children: Young Adult (Gr. 7-9), Psychiatric hospitals, Performing Arts, Horror Tales, Motion pictures, Horror & Ghost Stories, Mysteries & Detective Stories, Haunted places, Mysteries; Espionage; & Detective Stories, Film, Motion pictures - Production and direction, Production and direction, Ghost Stories (Young Adult)
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Greta and Tony, still arguing, do the same, moving into the room directly across the hallway from her. And Mimi moves into a room a couple doors down.
"If anyone needs a little something to ward off evil spirits, now's the time to ask." Chet pulls a necklace of garlic from his duffel bag. The thing is huge; I'm surprised he even got it in there. He hangs it around his neck and poses for the camera. I'm tempted to call him on it--to call him the buffoon that he clearly is--but when it comes right down to it, I'm glad he's here, that someone like him is around to lighten up the mood a bit.
76
"I'm all set, man," I say, hearing the banging sound again. My heart pumping hard, I step into one of the rooms, noting how tiny it is. I wonder how someone could stand to stay in here for five short minutes, never mind spend a couple or twenty years.
The walls are peeling--huge curls of paint flaking off everywhere. You can see a ton of paint bits and chunks on the floor, as well as debris from the ceiling. There are a bunch of beds crammed in here. I take a step toward the one in the far corner, noticing a series of scratches on the wall right beside the headboard. Zooming in even sharper, it looks like maybe the scratches are from the bed. I can almost picture it, can almost see some nut job lying here, all strapped down, trying to get out--writhing like crazy ... but no match for the harness.
I move in a little farther, drawn to it--to the scratches-- like I have to touch them, like I have to feel where the paint was scraped off. I reach out and move my fingers slowly toward the wall. A second later, I feel a hand tap my shoulder, totally making me jump.
I turn around. It's Mimi.
"What the hell are you doing?" I shout.
"Sorry," she says, a huge-ass smile across her face---like she isn't sorry at all. "I was just checking up on you."
I shake my head, trying to get a grip. My heart thrashes around inside my chest.
"Big strong man like you," Mimi says with a grin. "I didn't think your kind could get scared."
77
"Not scared," I correct. "Just surprised."
Yeah, right.
"What were you doing?" Mimi asks.
I look back at the bed, at those scratches, still tempted to run my fingers over them. But instead I shake my head. "Just checking things out," I say, taking a deep breath. I notice a book on a bedside table, the bookmark stuck somewhere in the middle, like whoever it belonged to never got the chance to finish it.
"Sad, isn't it?" Mimi says, motioning to the barred windows, now boarded up with pieces of plywood. "The bars were so they couldn't jump out, I guess. I mean, what else would you want to do if you had to stay here?"
"I guess," I say, zooming in on the graffiti. A bunch of people have marked the territory with their names. Somebody's even drawn a picture of a tombstone with the number seventeen on it.
Mimi sits down on the edge of one of the beds and runs her hand over the mattress. "It's almost like you can feel them," she says. "All the people who slept here."
"I'll take your word for it," I say, holding back from calling her the nutcase that she clearly is.
Mimi gets up and continues to poke around, checking underneath all the mattresses. I follow her with the camera to see what she finds--an old pack of cigarettes, a box of old crayons, some candy wrappers, an ancient copy of Good Housekeeping magazine. She moves to the bed in the corner, the one that made those scratches.
78
"This is just like that Brad Anderson movie," she says. "Did you see it?"
"Session 9?"
She nods. "Pretty freaky, huh?"
"Definitely," I say, remembering the film--about a clean-up crew hired to remove asbestos from this very hospital. I rented it one night with a couple of my buddies. The crew ended up going crazy by the end of the movie. And a bunch of people got killed. "But that would never happen in real life," I say, and wait for her response.
But for once she doesn't have one.
"Hey, check this out," she says, working a slit at
"If anyone needs a little something to ward off evil spirits, now's the time to ask." Chet pulls a necklace of garlic from his duffel bag. The thing is huge; I'm surprised he even got it in there. He hangs it around his neck and poses for the camera. I'm tempted to call him on it--to call him the buffoon that he clearly is--but when it comes right down to it, I'm glad he's here, that someone like him is around to lighten up the mood a bit.
76
"I'm all set, man," I say, hearing the banging sound again. My heart pumping hard, I step into one of the rooms, noting how tiny it is. I wonder how someone could stand to stay in here for five short minutes, never mind spend a couple or twenty years.
The walls are peeling--huge curls of paint flaking off everywhere. You can see a ton of paint bits and chunks on the floor, as well as debris from the ceiling. There are a bunch of beds crammed in here. I take a step toward the one in the far corner, noticing a series of scratches on the wall right beside the headboard. Zooming in even sharper, it looks like maybe the scratches are from the bed. I can almost picture it, can almost see some nut job lying here, all strapped down, trying to get out--writhing like crazy ... but no match for the harness.
I move in a little farther, drawn to it--to the scratches-- like I have to touch them, like I have to feel where the paint was scraped off. I reach out and move my fingers slowly toward the wall. A second later, I feel a hand tap my shoulder, totally making me jump.
I turn around. It's Mimi.
"What the hell are you doing?" I shout.
"Sorry," she says, a huge-ass smile across her face---like she isn't sorry at all. "I was just checking up on you."
I shake my head, trying to get a grip. My heart thrashes around inside my chest.
"Big strong man like you," Mimi says with a grin. "I didn't think your kind could get scared."
77
"Not scared," I correct. "Just surprised."
Yeah, right.
"What were you doing?" Mimi asks.
I look back at the bed, at those scratches, still tempted to run my fingers over them. But instead I shake my head. "Just checking things out," I say, taking a deep breath. I notice a book on a bedside table, the bookmark stuck somewhere in the middle, like whoever it belonged to never got the chance to finish it.
"Sad, isn't it?" Mimi says, motioning to the barred windows, now boarded up with pieces of plywood. "The bars were so they couldn't jump out, I guess. I mean, what else would you want to do if you had to stay here?"
"I guess," I say, zooming in on the graffiti. A bunch of people have marked the territory with their names. Somebody's even drawn a picture of a tombstone with the number seventeen on it.
Mimi sits down on the edge of one of the beds and runs her hand over the mattress. "It's almost like you can feel them," she says. "All the people who slept here."
"I'll take your word for it," I say, holding back from calling her the nutcase that she clearly is.
Mimi gets up and continues to poke around, checking underneath all the mattresses. I follow her with the camera to see what she finds--an old pack of cigarettes, a box of old crayons, some candy wrappers, an ancient copy of Good Housekeeping magazine. She moves to the bed in the corner, the one that made those scratches.
78
"This is just like that Brad Anderson movie," she says. "Did you see it?"
"Session 9?"
She nods. "Pretty freaky, huh?"
"Definitely," I say, remembering the film--about a clean-up crew hired to remove asbestos from this very hospital. I rented it one night with a couple of my buddies. The crew ended up going crazy by the end of the movie. And a bunch of people got killed. "But that would never happen in real life," I say, and wait for her response.
But for once she doesn't have one.
"Hey, check this out," she says, working a slit at
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