Project 17 by Laurie Faria Stolarz
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)
about.
65
DERIK
WE ENTER THROUGH a side door of one of the outer buildings. Mimi is able to pick the lock pretty easily, putting me to shame. The girl has some seriously hidden talents. Once inside, we take a few steps down into what appears to be a basement, and click on our headlights.
"Anybody trip over a grave marker on their way up here?" Mimi asks.
I shoot her an eye-dagger, hoping it'll shut her up--I mean, we've barely even made it inside yet. But Mimi's got this wide-ass grin across her face like the idea of freaking people out gets her off.
"What grave markers?" Liza asks. "I didn't see any graves."
"They didn't always use them," Mimi explains. "It's all about downsizing," Chet says, trying to make light of it.
Mimi smiles wider, stoked for the attention. She gets
66
right up into Liza's face: "People who were patients and died here, people whose families didn't claim them because they were too ashamed to have a relative in a mental institution, were buried nameless; just a number in the dirt--and now it's all overgrown. I bet you didn't even notice."
"That can't be true," Tony says.
"It can be, and it is," Mimi corrects.
"No wonder this place feels so haunted," Liza whispers, looking around.
"Don't listen to Mimi," I say, grateful for the drama but knowing that Mimi needs to keep her trap shut before I have everyone backing out on me. I keep a good grip on the camera and move deeper inside the basement, glad when the others do the same.
The place is a shitty mess. The windows are all boarded up. And there are cans stockpiled everywhere, file folders and papers dumped out all over the floor, and old medical equipment--microscopes, stretchers, bed trays-- strewn about the place. Mimi picks up a folder and starts paging through the contents.
"Anything eBay-worthy?" Chet asks her.
Mimi ignores him and closes the folder back up. She tucks it inside her coat for a later look and continues to pick through a bunch more.
"Could it be any colder?" Greta asks, rambling on about how freezing her legs are.
"Maybe next time you break into an asylum in the
67
middle of winter, you should go for pants," I offer, noticing the door at the back of the room.
"Next time?" Her eyebrow arches up. "I think not."
"We thought a lot about our wardrobe." Tony gives the hem of his black leather jacket a good tug. "Our goal was sexy yet sophisticated, sleek but not too flashy."
Yeah, thanks for telling me, I want to say. But instead I hold it in, taking a second look at Tony's crazy-tight black turtleneck--to show off his ten-year-old-boy chest and matching arms. The guy can't be more than ninety pounds soaking wet, and at least twelve of those pounds are for his hair--a huge dark mass of curls just begging to get hacked off. If he had a mustache, I'd be calling him a seventies porn star.
Meanwhile, Chet tries to make fun of the near-Siberian weather, smoking an invisible cigarette; the cold air puffs out of his mouth and floats across his flashlight beam, looking like actual smoke.
"Do you think it's extra cold because of ghosts?" Greta asks, aiming her headlight at the wall. Someone's spray painted the words Screw you, Security across the paint-chipped bricks. "I saw this documentary once where a ghost hunter guy said that paranormal activity makes places really cold."
"Well, duh," Mimi says, still picking through the files. "I mean, we are in a basement. Ghosts are notorious for haunting damp and dark places."
"Speaking of damp," Tony says, "what's with the
68
puddles on the floor?" He checks the heels of his Aldo boots and makes a face.
"Hundred-year-old piss," Chet says. "Nothing else I know stenches this bad."
"You obviously haven't smelled your own breath," Greta shoots back.
"Let's go," I say, cutting through their shit and trying to lead them toward the door at the back. I pull the map out of my pocket and go to angle my headlight over it, but the damn bulb keeps flickering. I smack it a couple times,
65
DERIK
WE ENTER THROUGH a side door of one of the outer buildings. Mimi is able to pick the lock pretty easily, putting me to shame. The girl has some seriously hidden talents. Once inside, we take a few steps down into what appears to be a basement, and click on our headlights.
"Anybody trip over a grave marker on their way up here?" Mimi asks.
I shoot her an eye-dagger, hoping it'll shut her up--I mean, we've barely even made it inside yet. But Mimi's got this wide-ass grin across her face like the idea of freaking people out gets her off.
"What grave markers?" Liza asks. "I didn't see any graves."
"They didn't always use them," Mimi explains. "It's all about downsizing," Chet says, trying to make light of it.
Mimi smiles wider, stoked for the attention. She gets
66
right up into Liza's face: "People who were patients and died here, people whose families didn't claim them because they were too ashamed to have a relative in a mental institution, were buried nameless; just a number in the dirt--and now it's all overgrown. I bet you didn't even notice."
"That can't be true," Tony says.
"It can be, and it is," Mimi corrects.
"No wonder this place feels so haunted," Liza whispers, looking around.
"Don't listen to Mimi," I say, grateful for the drama but knowing that Mimi needs to keep her trap shut before I have everyone backing out on me. I keep a good grip on the camera and move deeper inside the basement, glad when the others do the same.
The place is a shitty mess. The windows are all boarded up. And there are cans stockpiled everywhere, file folders and papers dumped out all over the floor, and old medical equipment--microscopes, stretchers, bed trays-- strewn about the place. Mimi picks up a folder and starts paging through the contents.
"Anything eBay-worthy?" Chet asks her.
Mimi ignores him and closes the folder back up. She tucks it inside her coat for a later look and continues to pick through a bunch more.
"Could it be any colder?" Greta asks, rambling on about how freezing her legs are.
"Maybe next time you break into an asylum in the
67
middle of winter, you should go for pants," I offer, noticing the door at the back of the room.
"Next time?" Her eyebrow arches up. "I think not."
"We thought a lot about our wardrobe." Tony gives the hem of his black leather jacket a good tug. "Our goal was sexy yet sophisticated, sleek but not too flashy."
Yeah, thanks for telling me, I want to say. But instead I hold it in, taking a second look at Tony's crazy-tight black turtleneck--to show off his ten-year-old-boy chest and matching arms. The guy can't be more than ninety pounds soaking wet, and at least twelve of those pounds are for his hair--a huge dark mass of curls just begging to get hacked off. If he had a mustache, I'd be calling him a seventies porn star.
Meanwhile, Chet tries to make fun of the near-Siberian weather, smoking an invisible cigarette; the cold air puffs out of his mouth and floats across his flashlight beam, looking like actual smoke.
"Do you think it's extra cold because of ghosts?" Greta asks, aiming her headlight at the wall. Someone's spray painted the words Screw you, Security across the paint-chipped bricks. "I saw this documentary once where a ghost hunter guy said that paranormal activity makes places really cold."
"Well, duh," Mimi says, still picking through the files. "I mean, we are in a basement. Ghosts are notorious for haunting damp and dark places."
"Speaking of damp," Tony says, "what's with the
68
puddles on the floor?" He checks the heels of his Aldo boots and makes a face.
"Hundred-year-old piss," Chet says. "Nothing else I know stenches this bad."
"You obviously haven't smelled your own breath," Greta shoots back.
"Let's go," I say, cutting through their shit and trying to lead them toward the door at the back. I pull the map out of my pocket and go to angle my headlight over it, but the damn bulb keeps flickering. I smack it a couple times,
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