QUESTIONABLE OPERATIONS
This report was discovered in a collection of files found on the grounds surrounding The Annex. Two pages are all that remain of the original journal that inspired this report. These pages are from Adam Robertson's journal and appear at the end of this article.
November 12, 1986
I went into Site H. I had to bust in at night to make sure the cops didn’t catch me. The doors were all locked, so I managed to pick one of the locks and open all the doors from behind. The doors were still in working condition, but behind them, the building was falling apart. Insulation was falling all over the floor and stairs, and the paint was peeling off the walls.
I started exploring the top two floors of the building, and without much luck. The floors were completely empty; whoever used these buildings had done their best to remove all traces of its presence except for a few clues. One of these was a surgical mask that I found on the floor of the building, which began to lead me to believe that the building was used for medical procedures, or perhaps carpenter work, or something of that sort. But its structure proved that it was more of a residence hall of some sort, but paired with its neighboring building, it seemed that one might have been used for slightly more severe conditions. The buildings must have been connected somehow. I suppose that someone must have used the first building to host patients of the Frei fever during recovery stages, and the second must have been used for operations during the more dire stages of Frei fever infection. Or at least the building’s structure would hint so. It just seems the right age and of the right structure to have hosted patients for about a month or two, all about twenty years ago. But I have no way of knowing for sure.
The base level of the first building, though, was intriguing. There were some doors in the back and side of the building that led to a semi-underground level. Incredibly cold air rushed out of the doorways as I entered. The basement was partly empty, but half of it was filled with cabinets and chairs that must have been left in a hurried attempt to escape, or they would have at least been recycled or donated.
The basement was divided into several sections, some used for storage, some used for appliances. It seemed that it served as a resource section for the top two floors, which made sense in its connection to the others. Though strangely enough, it seems that there is an even lower level. I checked it out as much as I could, but my view was very restricted. Just outside of the main basement, there is a grate, through which water flows down into a lower level. But I could have sworn that when I looked down below my feet, what I saw was more than just a drainage pipe—I know that I saw some sort of door that led inside another structure, but I couldn’t get down into the grate. It was too firm to move. I’ll see if I can hack into it next time I go.
November 19, 1986
Oh my god. This is overwhelming. I’ve just made a discovery, that, if the supporting evidence is true, will provide an altogether new history of this place and the achievements of therapy. Let me explain my discovery:
I just came back from exploring Site H. I managed to hack into the grate, though it took a long time. It opened up to a three-way junction between concrete tunnels. In front of me there was a metal door that opened up to what I suspected—an underground level. It was much smaller than the above level; it was just one room. It was completely empty except for a file cabinet, a table, and two chairs. I looked through the file cabinets and found them to be completely empty except for three precious artifact: Three journals, rich with valuable information. One of them was written by Adam Robertson, a patient at this hospital. One is from a worker, John Barney. The third is from another worker, whose last name I do not know, but I know that his first name is also “Adam.” I have transcribed the text from handwritten notes to typewriter, so pencil scratchings have been omitted. Here is Adam Robertson’s journal:
---
4/3/65
I just arrived here today. They say I’ve got Frei Fever. As far as I know, I just have a really bad cough and some sort of eye infection. But what they say goes. They put me in a room with another guy named Fredrick. He seems to be a pretty nice guy, and he has similar symptoms himself. I can’t walk around much because it’s so hard to breathe, and the nurse won’t let me either. So all day long I just lay there with Fred, getting to know him through banter and games. He seems pretty all right, though. I mean, they could have put me with a non-stop talker, or a complete mute, but he’s about a good balance between the two. So far I don’t know too much about him, but he says he’s from Charlotte and he works here at the oil plant. Likewise, I told him a bit about myself, about my job and all. He’s not married, and he’s a year older than I, so it was a bit relieving to find out that there’s someone else out there who hasn’t found a mate.
The doctor came in at least twice today to check up on him and me. He says he doesn’t know how long it’ll be until either of us can go back home, but he says it’ll likely take month or two. I’m not sure I have that time or money, but I guess it’s better than dying at work. I barely have the energy to walk anyway. But they say I need special treatment—treatment that you can only get here, at this particular hospital.
The conditions here are nice, though. We have a sufficiently large white room with a large window in front and a door that leads out to the balcony. They bring us our meals in bed, and of course, they check up on us daily. We can’t walk around, but they have a radio and TV with remote control, so we have what we need, really. I might rather spend my days at home, but at home I can’t have my meals brought to me and nurses taking care of me. Even if those things aren’t entirely necessary, they’re better to have than to not have, for sure, in my condition.
4/4/65
Today I sort of wished I could go outside. It was a really nice day, and the breeze would have done me some good, but the most I could get was a snippet of the leaves outside my window. Pretty much all day I stayed in with Fred, talking about a few random things. He says he’s one of the Reds, at which I’m surprised, because I’m also one. I guess we’re just the minority. But not by much, because he barely passes the mark, and so do I.
I think I’m getting used to this room. I like to stare out the window to see if I can catch an occasional bird flying by, or study the cliché paintings on the wall. It’s still really weird to wake up here, though, because I’m not totally sure if I’ll wake up in my own house and realize that I’ve been dreaming or if I’ll just wake up here for the next month. But now that I’m wide awake, I know where I am and where I will be. And having Fred here is certainly better than the dull silence back home. Yet at night, it’s not quite so silent. There is a general low humming of machinery coming from the walls, which is to be expected, but occasionally, there is a high-pitched noise, which I’m not quite sure whether it’s a squeaky metal fan blade or somebody shrieking, because it sounds like a mix between the two. If you get used to the occasional noises, though, you can sleep for a while. I suppose I’ll get used to it. Back at home, it happened twice a night that a train would pass by my house, and I would sleep right through the rumbling. It was soothing and reassuring in a way. But here there’s none of that. It’s odd how something that is an annoyance when it starts becomes a comfort.
4/5/65
Today was a fairly normal day in terms of business until about noon. Then we all heard something very strange. We all know that big barred building that’s just to our left, but none of us really know what it is exactly. We figure it’s just another building like ours, but today there was evidence of something a bit more unusual. We began hearing screams. I got up and walked over to the balcony to see what it is, even though I’m sure that the nurses wouldn’t approve of my action. I just barely managed to avoid suffocating, blacking out, or coughing to death, but the noise was easy enough to follow. When I got to the balcony, I saw what it was: at the other building, there was a man on the ground, grabbing on to the bars, throwing a screaming fit. His screams sounded childish and whiny, yet horrific and suffocated. After about five minutes he sounded something like a wheezing heron might have sounded like. I don’t know what was the matter with him, but it raised concern and gossip among the rest of us, particularly the dozen others who came out onto the balcony with me to watch. Of course, the nurses hurried us straight to our beds before it was over, but we were all moved and confused by the same spectacle. Fred and I talked about what might have caused it, but none of us knew for sure.
4/6/65
If it weren’t for that odd occurrence yesterday, I’m sure I’d be really bored right now. I feel very confined—I can’t get up and go where I want until my illness clears up, and that won’t happen until those medicines that the doctor gives me make it go away. I sure hope those things work well, because I haven’t noticed a difference in how I’ve felt since I came here. I just hope that whatever I’ve got won’t kill me.
I got less sleep last night. The main reason was that the shrieking machinery sounded exactly like that crazed man. I can’t forget that sound he made just a while ago. It makes me want to get out of this place already, but I know that I have to stay. Besides, Fred is here to keep me company. I really don’t mind staying with him, but I don’t feel like this place is safe anymore. I can’t look around comfortably in the dark. I’d be afraid of something jumping out at me, or something creeping around—just looking out the window isn’t so nice anymore. I hope I’ll calm down soon. I don’t want the rest of the month to go continue like this. I just want to be reassured—maybe some good food will help.
I feel better now after a meal and a good talk. I guess the rest of today will pass normally as all the rest of the days I’ve spent so far have, just joking around with Fred. The truth is that today won’t be any different than yesterday, but I will be. So I guess that’s how things work out.
4/9/65
They took Fred away. He left overnight without warning, and they told me that he was receiving special treatment. I hope that’s a good thing for him, because it could mean that he’s gotten worse. He didn’t seem to be doing any worse since the first time I saw him, so I hope everything’s all right. They only told me that he wouldn’t be staying in my room for a while, so for right now, I’m all alone until he comes back. I figure with the disease spreading about like it is now, it won’t take long. But I don’t want to sit here alone too long with just an empty bed. But maybe since he’s gone now I can spend more time writing in this journal. That wouldn’t be such a bad idea; he and I have been so busy just joking around that I’ve only filled up but a few pages all the time I’ve been here. I’ve just had so much time to live and so little to write. Well, right now I’m still a little occupied, but I’ll see what I can do tomorrow.
4/10/65
So today I found out a bit more about that other building. It’s what they call an emergency operation building or something of that sort; it’s basically for more extreme medical cases. They said that where I am now is just kind of a temporary nursing home for those who are infected by Frei fever, which is a little bit relieving to know, because at least I’m not so bad off. But I still likely won’t be able to walk for a month. Like I said, I haven’t noticed any changes in how I feel, but I can only hope it will get better soon. I want to go back home to my job, but I figure they’ve probably arranged business without me. I can’t really do anything for them from here. I probably won’t be able to lift a crate for two months, let alone this little time I have here. But I am doing sort-of-productive things while I’m here: drawing, sketching, scribbling, doodling, a little of that. There’s not really much to draw, though, besides that other building, and I can only see that if I scoot a chair way up to the window. The nurses would scold me if they saw me doing that, but they don’t have to know. Oh, but I found out a bit about Fred today. They say he’s undergoing special treatment, that he’s fine right now, and that he might be away for about a week or so, but soon he’ll be right back here. I guess he might have to stay longer if he has to take special treatment for his fever, but who knows? I might have to do the same. After all, he looked pretty healthy when I last saw him. They said they’re keeping him in the other building, though, and that it’s best that we just stay apart, where we are until he gets better. After all, we can’t walk.
4/11/65
I liked this place better when Fred was still here. He was such a great person to be paired with—it’s a shame that he’s not still here, and even so, they don’t seem to be sure when he’s coming back. This place used to be livelier, it seems, but now it’s all just lonely. But lately I’ve been paying more attention to the weather than before. It’s beautiful when it rains here. The treetops mixed with the dark gray clouds are a nice background for drawing or sleeping, but of course, I can’t really see them that well from here. I feel like it has some healing power, though, because I always feel relaxed, despite what I think my job and my mom are thinking about me. It makes me want to drift to sleep, but it sort of already feels like I am sleeping. But it’s nice anyhow. This morning I woke up and it was raining just like so, so I slept many hours of the day. I probably needed it too; you never know what a fever might be doing to your body. But despite all this rest, I’m still a little worried because the past few nights I’ve been hearing some sort of screaming sound, but this time I’m sure it’s coming from the other building. It only happens some nights, and usually only once, but I don’t know what it could be—some kind of animal maybe, but I swear, it sounds like human voices. Sometimes it’s high-pitched like a girl, and sometimes it’s deep and rumbling like a grown man, but I think it’s all just like what we all witnessed just a while earlier. I really hope that Fred isn’t suffering like that. I still haven’t heard anything about him, but I can only imagine what kind of pain he could be in. I hope he’s not as lonely or scared as I am. I only wish they would explain things a bit more in this strange place. I can only hope that he’ll be out of the building soon.
---
Robertson’s journal does not continue past this point. I will continue instead with John Barney’s journal. John Barney was employed at the hospital as a janitor. He was working during the time when Fredrick was taken to the second building.
---
4/9/65
So I did a little “investigation” last night. It turns out that patient they were keeping upstairs—the Red—was taken away to the other building. I thought it was really odd how secretive they are about that place. So I made quite a risky plan of action. I stole that big notebook that they always keep on the third floor. It turns out that they keep a list of all the people that are in the first and second buildings. I found that there are 150 people staying in the other building at any time, but the number here fluctuates a little. It did seem, though, from what I gathered, that people disappear from the other building—Lord knows what happens to them—and they are immediately filled in overnight with people from this building. That’s the other strage thing. I’ve known for quite some time that they move people from here to there, but I’ve never seen them move a single one, probably because they do it all when they’re out of sight. But I don’t see why they have to be so secretive about it. When I get the chance, I’m going to stay around here overnight to see if I can witness something.
4/12/65
Last night I saw what they do, and it was the strangest thing! I stayed up around the place after my dismissal. I didn’t know where I could get a view, so I sneaked around the back when it got dark. I didn’t see anything for a long time, so I began to doubt the value in staying up late crouching in the shadows while the bugs bit me. But soon enough, I saw someone walking behind the building. He glanced around for a moment, and then he moved a metal drain grate aside with a crowbar. After that, he climbed down into the drain and disappeared. Soon enough, light appeared and leaked through the drainage grate. I was really confused by this, so I wanted to go take a look, but I didn’t want to risk being seen. I found the other end of the tunnel about a hundred feet away. I looked down it, and I saw the light. So I decided to go down into it. It was relatively small, so I had to crawl through it. I felt a gust of cold air and then continued crawling silently, trying not to think of the creatures that could have been creeping over me. About halfway down the pipe there was a branch off to the left that also had a light at its end, but it didn’t meet its end for probably about five hundred feet. So I kept crawling forward until I reached a safe spot a good distance away from the light. From where I was crouching, the light looked like it was coming from a gap under a somewhat small door. At that point I felt a chill that was so overwhelming that it almost forced me to turn back, but then I heard something.
A deep voice was yelling out something like strange like “Kyamala got de penya” over and over again. I recognized the voice of Adam, my supervisor. I saw his long legs stomping through the crack in the door. There seemed to be a chair with a pair of legs coming from it just a short distance down. He was pacing around it, repeating his gibberish until suddenly he stopped. Then he bent down and whispered something in somebody’s ear. Then there was a gentle moaning, sounding like the result of a bad stomachache, and the one in the chair was taken away. After this, Adam left through a door in the right side of the room, and the man who sat in the chair was escorted to another passage to the left, and some employees turned out the lights as they left. Then I had to crawl back through the same passageway through which I came, but this time in near-total darkness. After this, I was very confused, and I don’t think I’m going to do that again.
---
At this point, I will continue with an excerpt from the other Adam’s journal.
---
4/7/65
I’ve been working on the usual incantations. So far we’ve got nothing. All we have so far are looneys like that one a couple days ago. So far, no one has ever found a trace of Kymistaca. I hope that we find the secret someday, unless the incantations that were first used had some secret ingredient that we’ve overlooked. But I swear, we’re doing all we can. We’ve tried every possible combination. Maybe I just need a few days to think it over.
4/8/65
Got an opportunity to try something today, but I’m not sure what I should do. I’ve been using Kyavsta Albrogh for a while now, but there are so many different ways of applying it. I only wish that we didn’t have to kill a new patient with every use of it, but we’ll do what we must. Even though we haven’t got the control we wanted, we have made progress. The patients have been showing different results for every incantation, it seems. And recently, Kyavsta Albrogh is the most promising. Unlike the massive number that undergo paralysis by Kyavsta Okun, or the many that can’t utter a word after Kyavsta Yinkas, these patients all seem to be able to talk still, but not coherently. At least we can find out more from them, even if torture is necessary. But still, the problem is that so many of them are so different in their reactions, that it is impossible to generalize a group by a single incantation. This is why we’ve got so many of them, and this is why the number of patients that we use is so huge. It has been suggested that we use methods of extermination to patients that show no signs of promise, but the problem with this is that we need them to live naturally because the patients usually die of starvation on their own. The poor looneys forget how to eat. If any of them showed any promising signs, then it would be late in their lives, after they would have been killed already.
On the other hand, I’m not sure if we can trust our inspectors completely. I know them all personally, and they’re trusted employees, but I think they might have lost their wits. If a patient had already shown signs of Kymistaca, they might have been overlooked. We check on them every day, and with 150 of them, we can’t be sure of their condition, but every day, they show no promise. Many of them eat, some don’t eat, some try to escape, some just sit there, but none of them talk except for the Albrogh patients. What they do talk about, though, is completely unintelligible. They use lots of non-words, mixed in with a few occasional parts of speech arranged in a random fashion. They seem paranoid and aware, but they show absolutely no sign of Kymistaca, no matter how hard our inspectors try.
For tonight’s incantation, though, I suppose I’ll try Albrogh, but I might mess with the pronunciation a little bit. And I’ll consider the possibility that this patient might be an exception. But it’s not like every new patient doesn’t go through the same process, whether we try to make it different or not.
4/11/65
I got a chance to fill another vacancy in Building B. It seems every day I had been getting closer to my goal, but it is ever so discouraging. I hope I will achieve it one day, but it seems I’ve already tried every charm that anyone can make with what we have. But this is embarrassing. If the Native Americans could do this, and they didn’t have the resources we have, why can’t we do it? I’ve got to get this right. There are already 149 looneys sitting around in that house, and there are hundreds more dead. I don’t care for the looneys, but if we have a chance of achieving our goal, then we should try to reach for it at all costs. We have so much support, and we’re the only organization that has the resources, space, and time to do it. And if I can help it, we will.
A friend of mine suggested that we try something a little different this time. I learned that our next patient is one that always carries a journal with him. My friend suggested that we let him keep his journal to see what he does after he is taken away. It’s a rough experiment, but it could bring results that differ from the onset of the usual psychosis. So I’ll give him the usual charm, then maybe a little Kyavsta Albrogh, and we’ll see what happens.
4/16/65
I’ve been anxious about the new patient. The inspectors haven’t given me any useful information. I think I’m just going to go down there myself, even if I risk psychosis myself.
I had a brief yet informative interview with Adam. I asked him how he was, and he said something about strawberries. Ignoring this random response, I asked him if he needed anything. He mumbled something about a guy named Fred. I recognized the name of a patient that came here a while ago.
“Is Fred here?” he asked anxiously, but staring at the stain on the ceiling.
“Yes, but you can’t see him now,” I replied. I was amazed by his question. It was the most coherent, most conscious thing I’ve ever heard from anyone here. But after I replied, he sat there shaking, staring at the ceiling in total silence until I called his name. He didn’t respond. I tried to get his attention, but he wouldn’t look. Then I said Fred’s name, and he looked at me.
“I am Fred!” he said, rather excitedly. At this point, I realized that he was no different from any of the other 149 looneys who don’t know who they are, where they are, or what they’re doing. I gave up trying to reason with him. So then I just looked at him and tried Kymistaca. He looked at me, frightened, shivering on the floor. I tried to move him, but he wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t make the connection. Clearly there was no more potential in this possessed soul than there was in any one of the others. So I slammed the door and left. I thought I heard him screaming as I walked away.
I don’t think I can stand this place. We’ve tried and tried, but we just can’t get it! Investing in this business was a real gamble, with all the people supporting us, all the money spent on taking over this place, and the powerful promise of reward, it was too big of a chance to take. But we can’t stop now. We’ve got to keep trying so the money we were given under the table is not all void. So I’ll be cursed to go over that list of looneys every day and work for nothing. So it will be.
---
[Unrelated journal entries]
---
4/38/65
Just got the word that Robertson died today. I knew he would starve himself eventually. I suppose it’s about time that I took his journal from him. I’ll walk down there and check on him.
I went down there, and his room was cleaned, and his journal was nowhere to be found. I suppose somebody took it from him. I’ll ask and see if anyone has it.
I’ve asked everybody here, and nobody knows where it is! I swear, if nobody fesses up, there will be huge consequences. Who could’ve stolen it? I don’t know of anyone here that could’ve done that. But I suppose it’s a lost cause anyway; I don’t think he could’ve written anything useful.
---
From this point on, I’m not sure how Robertson’s journal got into that cabinet, but what I do know is that the rest of the pages are torn out, but one of them was kept with the original journal. I will attach it to the end of this document.
I will avoid summarizing these sources of information, because I believe that they are best presented in their original form, and they speak for themselves. But as far as my thoughts go, I am overwhelmed! I want to believe that all of it is indeed true, and yet I do not. I feel a strong reverence for the mass murder at the site. Surely no building in the world must be more haunted than the second building in which those patients were left to go insane and die. For this reason, I do not ever wish to go there, but I may still explore the first building.
So far, I have found no outside evidence of these events, but I will continue my investigations. I will write more reports soon.
The following are the only remaining pages of Adam Robertson’s journal (taken from the same page, front and back), which he wrote when he was undergoing incantation-induced psychosis:
