Shenley

If you take the train from London to St Albans and look out of the window to the right, you might catch a glimpse of a tall tower above the trees. The tower is all that's left of Shenley Mental Hospital, the rest of the buildings having been torn down and the land sold with a new housing estate built upon it. My father worked as a nurse at Shenley for decades until he retired, and the institution wound down as "care in the community" became the preferred policy. He told us many stories from Shenley and knowing some of them I wouldn't want to live in one of those houses, not for any money.

Emma had not liked the look of the small, modern flat, cramped as it was together with others and directly under the shadow of that big ugly old tower. But it was as far as the meagre mortgage she was allowed would stretch and her parents had told her it was just a foot on the ladder. Although there was nothing on the estate except for a small corner shop and shabby cafe she could get a bus to St Alban's for shopping or to Radlett train station for her commute into her accounts job in London.

Emma had got a survey done on the flat before moving in, plus on her dad's advice a snagging survey specifically for a new build home. None of the reports had mentioned the unpleasant persistent coldness inside the property which must have been some kind of damp nor the faulty electrics. Since the first day of moving in Emma had experienced strange power surges. Bulbs popping, the fridge buzzing loudly, plugs sparking when removed. She had called in workmen to look at both problems, they'd seemed puzzled and made some vague suggestions – but Emma's budget didn't go very far.

And there was one other thing. At night sometimes she was awakened by voices. Or rather one voice, a young man's sobbing and pleading. It was a dialogue, but she could not hear the other person – maybe it was a phone call, or they spoke very quietly. The sounds must come from one of the other flats. But not those next to hers – the one on the left was empty and the other on the right housed a single Polish woman. Perhaps from upstairs, but it sounded so close as if the man was inside her flat but then these new buildings have such thin walls and ceilings.

On a pale grey winter Saturday afternoon, Emma glanced out to see a white-haired old man in a parker standing outside just staring upwards.  She waited for a moment and he didn't move. Unsettled she drew the curtains and turned back to her laptop.

That night things became very bad indeed in her flat. She was awoken once again by that voice full of so much pain, now desperately imploring, begging somebody to stop. "No please not again Doctor Simmons...I can't take it, not again..." The light inside her room was flickering and the whole building felt alive with static. The voice stopped speaking and began screaming a keening animal wail of agony. Emma knowing she wasn't dreaming now rolled out from the under the duvet and was immediately stunned by the cold bitter air in her room.

The scream was so close she was certain it was coming from inside her flat. Tearing open the bedroom door she stood in the small hallway facing the living room and kitchen. Icy air flooded towards her and the lights flashed and strobed. The screams were now punctuated by a loud bang like a great machine discharging electricity. Emma crept closer her heart pounding in her chest edging around the corner. The voice now fading to sobs.

There she could see just in the flickering lights a figure of a thin male hunched up into a foetal position, shorn head down, bare ankles and feet, his body covered only by a shift. Something glinted in his hands as he held it against his wrists, slowly his head moved up looking up to meet Emma's gaze. Instinctively she jumped back behind the wall and there was another cry from inside her lounge the lights flashed and then went dark.

She didn't know how long she stood in the blackness just waiting and listening. Finally, she moved peeking into the living room and throwing a switch. The bulb was gone, burnt out but she found another light working and looked around. Nothing had changed from the night before. She checked the front door – it was still doubled locked, solid, unmarked. Likewise, the strong double-glazed windows were closed, undamaged. 

Emma put her coat on over her pyjamas against the chill and sat on the sofa holding her phone. Three thirty-one AM, she could call the police...and tell them what? That she was losing her mind? The room seemed warmer, she made a cup of tea, switched on the TV and promised herself to speak to her Mum about it in the morning.

And that's how she woke at eleven the next winter morning, an old movie playing on the TV. She leapt up remembering the night and looked around the flat checking for signs of entry. 

As she checked the windows again, she glimpsed again the old man, again just staring up. Filled suddenly with anger she was determined to challenge this creep. She wouldn't be stalked and frightened. Pulling on clothes and boots she stormed out and towards the figure.

"Excuse me, can I help you? This is private property."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I used to work here, and everything has changed – I got a bit lost."

"What are you looking at?"

"The water tower, it seems to be only part left. Sorry, I'm George, George Nazer." He spoke gently calmly with a soft voice.

Frail maybe in his late seventies, white hair, thick glasses George didn't look much of a threat. And from where he was standing the tower was in clear view behind her block.

"Is there anywhere to get a cup of tea now, we used to have a social club?" he asked.

"There's a cafe on the parade, it's not very good"

"That will do fine" and he turned and started to walk away.

"Hang on you say you used to work here?"

"Yes, for twenty odd years"

"So, you know the history?"

"Yes"

"Hold on I'll come with you."

In the dull cafe over big mugs of tea George told her all about the huge sprawling hospital that had once been here. How he'd trained as a vicar but lost his faith in God but still wanted to help people and so had become a nurse working with the mentally ill.

"That was the late sixties, and I was an idealist. The reality was very different."

"What was it like?"

"Most of the staff were Irish, many of them had come over in the fifties, done national service and then gone straight into nursing. Big rough men who were there to restrain the patients more than treat them. They liked the union and a drink and a fight – crazy bastards like Ted Griffin and John McCahill."

"But some of the doctors had some pretty advanced ideas. Psychiatrists had free reign to experiment back in those days. There was one South African doctor who let the patients run their own ward – it worked very well to everyone's surprise. And then there were others who were petty tyrants."

"Like Dr Simmons?" Emma blurted out, not even aware how she had remembered that.

"How did you know that name? Done some digging on the web?"  George looked wary.

"I just heard it..."

"It was before my time, but the others remembered him – some people shouldn't be given any power – let alone over vulnerable patients." 

"What did he do?"

"Well, there was the insulin therapy for a start, injecting patients and sending them into short comas. He continued to use that long after it had been discredited. And there was the electroshock therapy. Now it was common practice at the time and is still used in certain cases to this day. But the other nurses told me Dr Simmonds would use it as a punishment dishing out whenever he pleased out of pure sadism. There were a few suicides, and he was moved on. As I say it was before my time, but still quite a scandal when I started."

"This is a silly question, but did anybody think the hospital haunted?"

George laughed. "Well, you have to understand a lot of the men and women I worked with were from rural Ireland. Strong Roman Catholics and secretly believing in much old folklore – banshees and the little people. Some of them thought that one of the buildings had a ghost and didn't want to take night shifts there."

"Which building? The one Dr Simmons worked in?"

"Well yes since you should ask...have you seen something?"

Emma didn't answer.

"Well, I never did become a vicar but if I was, I think I might give this place an exorcism. I need to catch the train now let me write down my number if you have any other local history questions."

She took the piece of paper and watched him leave.

Weeks passed and nothing else happened and Emma began to believe it had been a strange nightmare. 

But then it started again. At first, it was the creeping cold filling the flat worse than any damp. And then lights flickering, the audio on the speakers crackling, lights dimming and then suddenly flashing into bright incandescence.

After several sleepless nights, Emma began to hear the voice again. A whisper, so, so quiet but getting louder. The sobs and the crying in the dark cold night.

Emma called into work sick and took to sleeping during the day. At night she tried barricading the door and sleeping listening to her iPod but stopped when she couldn't escape the feeling of somebody else inside her flat.

Exhausted one morning she pulled on her coat and plunged her hands into the pockets. Her fingers touched something – a folded-up piece of paper. Absentmindedly she pulled it out and opened it up. It was George Nazer's note with his name and phone number. Hoping maybe there was somebody who would understand Emma dialled the number.

 "Hello"

 "Hi George, it's Emma we had tea in Shenley."

"Yes of course, you sound a bit shaken – are you OK?"

"You asked if I'd seen something, well I have...well more heard things...maybe seen somebody – I think they were a patient."

"I understand. Would you like to chat – meet at the same place, say three this afternoon?"

Back in the cafe Emma haltingly explained to George what she had experienced, attempting to sound rational and avoiding any supernatural terms. He nodded, sipped his tea and listened.

"Do you think I'm going mad?" she asked.

"In my old work we didn't use that word, it creates a stigma. Do I think you are hallucinating? Possibly, surprisingly a lot of people do saints, mystics, and all sort of normal people alongside those whom we consider to be suffering from mental illness. There is an easy way to find out. Could somebody else stay there with you? Or could you stay with somebody else whilst another person investigates?"

"I haven't told my Mum she would never believe me and if she did, she would die of worry. You are the only person I have told can you come and see – I know it's a weird thing to ask."

"Why would you trust me? Isn't there someone else you can rely on?"

"I know it sounds crazy but for some reason, I do trust you."

"Crazy – that's another word we don't use."

At the flat, they ate microwave meals and watched some TV on edge waiting for something to happen. Once again, as it grew dark the temperature of the room fell, the image on the screen flickered and the lights buzzed. But the voice was not heard.

"Why don't you try and get some sleep?" George said "I'll make some coffee and read my book. I'm used to night shifts and besides at my age I don't get much sleep anyhow."

"What are you reading?"

He held the book up "E.F. Benson, ghost stories as luck would have it."

"OK then but wake me up if something happens."

For the first time in days Emma felt she could give into sleep and crawled under the duvet falling into an instant deep slumber. Then suddenly she was awake sitting up and listening. She could hear voices but couldn't make out the words. The pathetic voice still sobbed but seemed quieter and calmer whilst George in engaged it in conversation speaking in a soothing tone. Reluctant to interrupt them Emma waited and listened. The talking seemed to finish and then the sound of the front closing. Jumping out of bed Emma rushed out of the room hoping to find George. 

Peeking around the corner she could see the lounge and the kitchen; at the flick of the switch, the lights came on with a steady strong illumination. The room contained neither the old man nor the apparition. The air felt warm and peaceful.

Emma waited until evening to see if George came back. Finally, she rang his number again convinced he must be at home. A woman's voice answered.

"Hi, can I speak George Nazer please?"

"My uncle? I'm very sorry but he passed away a few weeks ago. I'm his niece Helen – can I help you?"