HALLOWEEN ASYLUM by Joe Doe PSYCHIATRIST HEATHER JOHNSON DECIDES TO VISIT A HAUNTED, ABANDONED INSANE ASYLUM BY HERSELF ON HALLOWEEN. Part 1 Dr. Heather Johnson carefully unlocked the series of huge metal doors that sealed off the old psychiatric ward from the rest of the hospital. It took all of her strength to push the rusty old doors open. Exhausted by her efforts, she sat down on the ancient bench bolted to the wall. Though she rested a moment, her pulse began to quicken again when she looked up and saw the ominous sign: "ADMISSIONS." She flinched as she thought about the countless women who had sat on this bench before her, nervously awaiting their turn to be processed. The admissions bench was the first stop on their journey into Hell.... Although this area of the hospital had been abandoned since the 1940s, Heather knew this ward well. She had written her thesis on the so-called doctor who had run this ward with an iron hand for more than 30 years, Dr. Nathaniel Craig. Craig's "specialty" was female psychology, and he claimed that his unique treatments allowed him to cure such female diseases as feminism and "female hysteria." He claimed that he could cure women of "willfulness" and "liberation," and, strictly speaking, he was correct; the graduates of his treatment program were docile and compliant, eager to please their men in both the kitchen and the bedroom. No woman ever risked a return visit to the asylum. For a generous fee, the doctor would gladly commit a nagging wife, defiant daughter, or demanding mistress. After Dr. Craig died in 1946, it was revealed that he had no medical degree at all and that his "treatments" were little more than a license for him to humiliate and sexually abuse beautiful women. Heather was now the head of psychiatric medicine at the hospital, and, as such, she had free run of the entire facility. She hadn't visited the abandoned wing of the hospital in years, even though some of the stories she had heard piqued her curiosity. A number of the nurses insisted that they heard screams coming from the old abandoned wing at night and that they could see lights going on and off in the old facility, almost as if it were still occupied. On the previous Halloween, a female security guard claimed that a beautiful woman with a crew cut had run to her guard station and begged her for help. She said that she was a patient of Dr. Craig's, and she swore that she'd do "anything" if the guard would help her escape. But, as soon as the guard picked up the phone to call for backup, the terrified woman let out a blood curdling scream...and vanished. Heather didn't believe in ghosts, and she believed in ghost stories even less. The people telling the stories were always patients, guards, or nurses -- people Heather disdained the most. "Those with lower IQs are particularly susceptible to folklore," she would say, in her most patronizing voice. To her, the fact that the "episodes" seemed to happen most frequently on or around Halloween only underscored the childish nature of the reports. But, a week before Halloween, Heather herself had an experience that made her question her conclusions. She had been walking outside of the hospital when she had heard a woman scream. Crossing the lawn to investigate, she realized that the voice was coming from the old wing. "Please, Doctor, not electroshock!" the voice pleaded. "I'll never try to contact my lawyer again! And I promise I'll do better next time...I'll swallow every drop.... I swear I will." To Heather's amazement, all of the lights in the old wing suddenly lit up, and the abandoned ward became ablaze. As she drew closer, she was sure she saw people walking past the windows.... "No, please don't strap me down," the female voice pleaded. "I don't want to be shocked! I'll be good!" But soon the voice became muffled, almost as if the woman were shouting through the kind of mouth guard they used during old-fashioned shock treatments. The woman continued her muffled cries as Heather drew closer to the building. When she was about 100 yards away, she saw all the lights flicker once, and then twice, and then three times, almost as if the entire building was experiencing a sudden power drain. She flinched. The frantic female's pleas had been ignored, and her "treatment" was now in progress.... After the flickering stopped, the muffled scream faded, and the lights went out for good. Heather stood on the lawn for several seconds, staring at the old building in disbelief as she tried to rationalize what she had seen. Her first reaction was that there was some sort of crime in progress, and she immediately fetched a security guard to accompany her into the wing. But as they methodically searched the obviously barren facility, she began to suspect that she had been the victim of a practical joke. She knew she was considered haughty and dictatorial and not exactly popular with the staff. As the smiling guard advised her to "get some sleep," Heather vowed that whoever was toying with her would never work in the medical profession again. The building electrician confirmed that the cable connecting the old wing to the power grid had been removed more than thirty years ago. Heather knew she had seen a number of figures walking the halls, but, when she had explored the facility with the guard, there were no footprints on the dusty floors. She didn't believe in ectoplasm or ghosts, but she couldn't explain the logistics of her practical joke theory either. She discreetly gathered as much information as she could about the sightings and quickly realized that the witnesses to the so-called "apparitions" were always female professionals: nurses, hospital accountants, or corporate executives who were staying at the hospital as patients. Was it possible that the practical joker was deliberately targeting successful women? Heather knew how sexist her male colleagues were, and she thought that was a definite possibility. The apparitions usually were calling for help, almost as if they were asking their sisters in the present to rescue them from the horrors of the past. Did the ghosts appear to female professionals such as Heather because they felt that they would understand and shelter them? The "sightings" only appeared to women who were alone, and they seemed to happen more frequently around Halloween. The solution was obvious. Heather would visit the old abandoned wing, alone, on Halloween. If it WERE a practical joke, she would catch them in the act, and revenge would be hers. If it wasn't...well, it just had to be a practical joke, didn't it? Halloween was always a busy night for psychiatrists, and it was nearly midnight by the time Heather entered the old abandoned ward. As she sat on the hard admissions bench, she recalled some of the notorious cases she had researched during graduate school. One infamous case involved a scheming relative who committed a distant cousin just three days short of her 21st birthday. Once she was declared his ward, her inheritance was transferred to his tender care. When she was "cured" two years later, she was forced to take a job as a maid at the estate that was rightfully hers. Her lecherous relative delighted in making the proud and well-educated young woman scrub and serve him in a brief, humiliating French Maid's uniform. The vengeful relative took full advantage of his unlimited power to demand complete sexual obedience. It wasn't until the doctor died that the fraud was revealed, the patient's fortune was restored, and her wicked relative began his richly deserved prison sentence.... ****************************** Heather felt strangely chilled and decided to warm up by walking around the ward. She reasoned she was more likely to catch the pranksters if she nosed around a little.... She felt another chill run down her spine as she put her hand on the doorknob. Once again, she read the large, ominous block letters: "ADMISSIONS." Countless other women had been taken through that door. Some had gone passively, like lambs to the slaughter. Others had been kicking and screaming. But one thing was certain -- once a woman walked through that door, she would never be the same again. Heather took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and opened the door. She swept her flashlight around the room to illuminate the various areas. A desk and several file cabinets stood against one wall, some crates filled with papers were stacked carelessly in the corner. To the casual observer, the room seemed like any other abandoned office. But then the flashlight picked out something more sinister: the chair. It was a large, plush velvet chair, encrusted with dust, but no doubt very comfortable in its day. Next to the chair was an enormous vase that Dr. Craig used as an ashtray and spittoon. Heather swallowed. She was looking at the chair that Dr. Craig used while he watched his female patients undress for the first time. She moved a few feet in front of the chair and used the tip of her expensive shoe to wipe away the layer of dust on the floor. It took her only a few swipes to find the large black "X" on the floor. The "X" marked the spot where the young women were ordered to stand as they disrobed for their new "doctor." Heather shuddered as she imagined how humiliated the wealthy, well-educated, and independent women must have felt as they slowly stripped themselves naked in front of the smirking, leering physician. The chair was only a few feet from the "X," which gave the doctor a clear and unobstructed view of his patient's shameful striptease. The women were forced to turn over everything: all clothing, jewelry, even hairpins. A few asked to keep their watches, but the doctor always refused. "A woman shouldn't bother her pretty little head about such things, and a mental patient needs to worry about it even less," the doctor would say. "You and I have all the time in the world, my dear." As she stood on the cursed "X," Heather imagined Dr. Craig's smooth, patronizing voice: "That's right, dear...take it all off...everything...right down to the skin," he would say. "No need to be bashful...you have a lovely figure. You are mentally incompetent, so we have to confiscate EVERYTHING. We don't want you to hurt yourself, do we? That's right, dear...your underwear, too. Mental patients don't have legal rights, or personal property...or privacy. But don't worry...I have a lovely straitjacket in just your size. "Yes, you have to take off your panties too. Just slide them off and put them in the box on the floor like a good little girl. Now close the top of the box; the lock will click into place automatically. That's good; doesn't that lock make a lovely sound when it snaps shut? Now all of your identification, money, and clothing are locked up, safe and sound. I'll have that box shipped out tonight so that you won't have to think about it anymore. "Now I want you to put your hands on top of your head and slowly turn around in circles for me. Yes, I can see that you're naked -- absolutely naked, in fact. But I'm not the one who's nuts. Of course, if you prefer, I can get some of the male orderlies to give you a hand.... "That's a good girl...turn nice and slow. Remember, I'm your doctor now, and I have to see all of you. You do have a lovely figure, don't you? I hope you're a good, obedient patient. I'd hate to have to paddle such a cute backside. "Why don't you show me how obedient you can be, by trotting over to the exam table and having a seat. That's a good girl. Now lie back and put your dainty little feet into the stirrups. Doctor needs to check out your tight little honey hole, you randy minx." The doctor's last sentence caught Heather off guard and seemed to awaken her from her trance-like state. Despite her uncompromising demeanor at work and her haughty attitude, she could feel the wetness between her legs as she imagined what it would be like to be ordered to stand on the "X".... She turned slowly, illuminating the area behind her, and flinching as she realized that she was standing directly in front of the exam table. Except for the restraining straps on the side, it looked like a normal, if slightly old-fashioned, examination table. Heather squinted as the light from her flashlight caught the ominous stainless steel stirrups that were still bolted at an obscenely wide angle to the metal frame. Most of the room was dusty and moldy. But, even after all of these years, the cold steel stirrups still glistened.... Heather shuddered as she imagined her own bare feet in the remorseless steel stirrups. Once she was mounted on the exam table, she would no longer be a world-famous psychiatrist. She would be just another babbling little cutie, an empty-headed nymph with a wet, dripping honey pot ready to be probed. And she knew the doctor's examination would be thorough.... After the exam, she would be shaved, and a special cream would be applied to retard hair growth. "I can't have these randy little bitches running around with a sopping wet mass of hair between their legs," Dr. Craig often said. "Sanitation, cleanliness, and basic decency require us to keep the little sluts bare at all times." Of course, there was no medical basis for this rule; robbing Heather of her pubes would be just another gratuitous humiliation designed to strip her of her dignity. She ran her hand over the front of her dress and down to her crotch, imagining what it would feel like to be so bare...so naked...so exposed.... She stared at the portentously empty exam table for several minutes, lost in her thoughts. Although the table horrified her, she also found herself becoming more and more excited. Thinking that she saw something out of the corner of her eye, she whirled to confront the intruder. She screamed as she saw another flashlight pointing back at her! After a few seconds, she realized to her relief that she was actually looking at her own reflection in a large mirror on the wall near the exam table. Her relief turned to outrage when she remembered that she was looking at a one-way mirror. The mirror allowed anyone sitting in the visitors' lounge the opportunity to leisurely watch the women strip themselves naked. It also offered an unobstructed view of the examination table.... Lustful or vengeful relatives, along with curious hospital employees, could watch as the proud young women were methodically stripped and shamefully probed. Heather felt her blood boil as she imagined shrewish relatives and horny middle-aged men gleefully savoring every detail of a woman's medically-ordered striptease. Heather used the connecting door to walk into the visitors' lounge. The floor was slightly elevated, so that the observers could sit comfortably on plush couches and comfy chairs as they carefully watched the doctor degrade and humiliate the recently committed women. It must have been delightful for them to watch the wife of a hated business rival -- or perhaps a woman who had once spurned them -- strip buck-naked as they sipped their refreshments in the lounge. The room had two large windows. One offered a perfect view of the examination room. The other offered an equally fine one of the patients' shower room. The shower room was really just three nozzles in the wall, with a central control on the opposite wall that regulated the icy water. A chain dangling from the ceiling allowed the nurses to restrain and clean "reluctant" patients with a fire hose. Another hose was attached to a huge tank of delousing fluid that was bolted to the wall. There were no curtains, no partitions, and no privacy. The lovely young women were forced to shower bare naked in front of anyone who cared to watch. Heather imagined the beautiful young heiress being stripped naked, shaved, showered, and deloused while her perverted relative sipped his tea and savored every moment of her degradation. Even if she suspected that he was watching her through the glass, there would be nothing she could do about it.... Heather's heart raced as she envisioned Thera London (famous grandmother of the equally famous investigative reporter Terri London) shivering under the freezing blast so many years ago. Thera had mysteriously disappeared during her investigation of Dr. Craig in the early 1940s. Heather opened the door and walked out into the main hallway. To her right was a door marked "BEAUTY PARLOR." No one could accuse Dr. Craig of not having a sense of humor. In the "Beauty Parlor," a woman's head was shaved, and the degrading phrase "MENTAL PATIENT" was tattooed on the back of her right hand. The woman was required to wear the tattoo even after she was paroled, which ensured that no one would ever take anything that she said too seriously. Heather blanched. No matter how powerful or respected a woman had been before her admission, the shameful mark would ensure that she would never hold a position of authority or responsibility again. Next to Heather were the two treatment rooms: "Electroshock" and "Aversion Therapy." Dr. Craig didn't use electroshock as often as some of his colleagues. He preferred psychological humiliation. Besides, a single session of shock treatment was always enough to ensure full and docile cooperation. Sometimes, when he sensed that the women were becoming unruly, Dr. Craig would order the janitor to snap the lights on and off, as if a shock session were in progress. The sight of the flickering lights terrified the helpless women. Indeed, the orderlies often complained that the light shows caused some of the panicked patients to piss themselves.... But, in general, Dr. Craig preferred to punish recalcitrant patients in the "Aversion Therapy" room. Heather slowly turned the doorknob and reluctantly entered the punishment chamber. Her flashlight immediately fell on the large bench in the center of the room. Numerous straps would allow the staff to secure up to a dozen naked women bottoms up, with their backsides raised high. After the women were strapped down, the paddling would begin. Plush couches immediately behind the benches provided a comfortable viewing area. They were a favorite spot for cruel stepfathers who enjoyed watching their willful adult stepdaughters taught their place. As the women were disciplined with strap and paddle, Dr. Craig would give patronizing lectures on such topics as "A Woman's Place" and "Sexual Submission to Male Authority Figures." The latter was the doctor's favorite, for, at the conclusion, he always offered the weeping women a chance to reduce their punishment by demonstrating what they had learned. Dr. Craig encouraged the visitors to utilize what he referred to as a woman's "delightfully tight rear porthole," in order to avoid the risk of unwanted pregnancy. The punishment bench left a woman perfectly positioned and ready for mounting. As for the doctor himself, he preferred that a woman prove her absolute submission through what he referred to as "lip service." Heather felt a sick taste in her mouth as she thought about what "lip service" required. She shined her flashlight at the ceiling and illuminated the large water tank that was suspended over the benches. The row of nozzles on the bottom of the tank enabled the doctor to attach a dozen enema hoses. After the spankings, the cruel nurse would lay out a rubber glove, a long rubber hose, and an enema nozzle in front of each girl on the bench. The nurse would leave each girl's equipment there, directly in front of her face, so that she had a chance to squirm in anticipation at the humiliation to come. The doctor would methodically prepare each girl. Craig would smile down at the terrified woman as he SNAPPED! on the rubber glove that would soon be used to probe her most intimate passage. Then he would reach down and dip his fingers into the large vat of LARD on the floor. He always picked up the enema nozzle slowly, so that the woman had a chance to see the greasy goo that glistened on his gloved hand. The doctor would lovingly grease the end of the enema nozzle as the terrified woman watched with pleading eyes. Occasionally she would beg for mercy, but he would always explain, in a patronizing voice, that she needed to learn to take her "medicine." "Remember," he would say, "I don't enjoy this anymore than you do." (Though the enormous bulge in the front of his pants contradicted that claim.) After the nozzle was attached to the hose, the doctor would reach up and screw the other end of the hose into the enema tank itself. The attachment was metal, and it SQUEAKED with every turn. Craig knew the noisy procedure spurred a helpless woman's fears. He would smile down as they nervously bit their lips and furrowed their brows, listening as the attachment slowly squealed shut. Sometimes a woman became so panicked that she actually lost control of her bladder, an event that always provoked titters and cruel jokes from the spectators. Although the water hose on the wall enabled the doctor to easily wash the accident down the drain, he preferred to let the poor woman kneel in her shameful puddle and endure the taunts of the crowd until her "treatment" was complete. The doctor would nod, and the nurse would rudely part the woman's bottom cheeks so that she was completely and totally exposed to the crowd. Audience members would chuckle or make cruel remarks as the nurse exposed the helpless women to their hated relatives and enemies. Dr. Craig would kneel in front of the woman, and teasingly re-grease his fingertips with a fresh gob of lard. The wild, frenzied look on the patient's face always made it clear that she understood exactly where those greasy digits were going.... A proper "lube job" took time, and Craig never rushed it. He would teasingly insert his greasy finger into the woman's backside...slowly...one knuckle, then two, then the entire length. He would wiggle his finger around, relishing the way the woman squirmed like a fish on a hook as his insistent finger probed every inch of her rear anatomy. When the relentless finger was at last removed, it usually made a popping sound, like a champagne cork being removed from a bottle. The spectators would laugh, but the woman would always visibly relax as the probing finger finished its dirty work. The respite did not last long, however, and the woman would instantly tense as she felt the cold plastic tube first tickle and then teasingly push past her rear defenses. The doctor made sure that the nozzle was inserted deeply, and he would carefully untangle the hose to ensure that the flow of water was completely unobstructed. Smiling, he would then quickly inflate the nozzle, relishing the agonized look in the woman's eye as the retention balloon expanded in her backside. The woman could wiggle and squirm, but the enema tube would not be removed until the doctor said so. He would repeat the process with each woman, until each bare fanny was connected to a long white tube leading up to the water tank. The preparation process took a long time, but each woman's personality made it unique and special. Some would sob hysterically and beg for mercy, while others would accept their fate stoically. A few of the women would try to flirt their way out of their punishment, not realizing that their feminine charms were no longer a tool for them to use. The more intelligent women would protest their sanity or attempt to bargain for their release. But, in the end, the unique approach of each woman was simply an entertaining diversion for the crowd. The results were always the same: a row of lovely naked bottoms, each with its own enema hose. The doctor would casually chat with the crowd about the benefits of his unique form of "hydro-therapy," explaining that the enemas "relaxed troubled women," and made them more "docile and open to suggestion." Occasionally he would add a few ounces of caster oil or hot sauce to the tank to "keep the women lively" during their therapy. They looked anything but relaxed, however, as the grinning doctor pulled down on the lever and the water began to flow. The height of the ceiling tank ensured that the frigid water flooded their bowels hard and fast, and all of the women desperately tried to tighten up in a vain attempt to slow down the relentless flood. The audience chuckled and sipped refreshments as the women wiggled, squirmed, and begged for mercy. "Try to cooperate, ladies," the doctor lectured the cramping, gyrating, miserable women. "If you resist the flow, that means more for your neighbor. The woman who expels the smallest amount of material into her bucket at the conclusion of the exercise will be paddled again, as a lesson in community cooperation." Heather saw a stack of tin buckets in a corner. After thirty minutes of "relaxation therapy," the humiliated women were ordered to squat over their buckets in front of the sniggering crowd. The audience would make pig-like grunts and squeals as the blushing women relieved themselves.... Heather walked back into the hallway and peeked through the tiny openings into the empty cells. All of the cells were padded. Some of them had a bucket for the inmate to squat over (though often the women were just diapered). She shuddered as she imagined the humiliation of being cleaned, powdered, oiled, and diapered by a lecherous male orderly. Opening the door marked SUPPLY, she quickly inventoried the contents: straitjackets, leg shackles, and huge jars of suppository sedatives. Even the medicine in this place was designed to humble and shame. She noticed a jar of lard sitting on the shelf, and she carefully removed the lid. The smell was foul, but as she ran her finger through the slippery, greasy slime, she realized that it would still do the job. "Just what I was afraid of," she sighed. "Fat lasts forever." She looked for something to wipe her finger on and spotted a box marked "DISPOSABLE RUBBER GLOVES" above her head. She reached for it, but it slipped out of her greasy fingers and hit her squarely on the forehead. The box only weighed a few ounces, and it didn't fall more than six inches. But, for some inexplicable reason, she immediately sank into a deep sleep.... ****************************** Part 2 Heather wasn't sure how long she was unconscious. Perhaps it was a few minutes...perhaps longer. When she came to, she found herself lying on the bench in the waiting room. She rubbed her head as she looked at the door in front of her: ADMISSIONS. She reached for her flashlight, but it was gone. And then she realized that the lights in the room were ON. But that was impossible. The cable had been cut years ago.... Heather still felt slightly dizzy as she looked around the room. Something was definitely wrong; the room looked the same, but different. The dust was gone, and the sickly green hospital paint on the walls looked fresh. Who had brought her to this room? And why would they redecorate a closed hospital ward while she was unconscious? Her fugue of confusion was interrupted by the sound of a turning door handle. She gasped as a frantic woman jerked open the ADMISSIONS door and flew across the room toward the large metal door that sealed off this ward from the rest of the hospital. The woman appeared to be in her late twenties. She was wearing an incredibly skimpy hospital gown, and, as she struggled with the door, it was clear that she was wearing nothing underneath. The woman was beautiful, but she was definitely odd-looking, both because of her brief attire and the fact that her head had been shaved.... "Um...can I help you?" Heather asked the woman. The woman had been so desperate to get out that she hadn't noticed Heather sitting on the bench. At first, she jumped back in surprise, but then she said in a whisper, "You have to help me get out of here! I don't belong here! I'm not crazy! Are you a visitor or a new patient?" "I'm a doctor," Heather said. "And if you want to get out of here, I have a key for that door in my pocket." "Then for god's sake open the door!" the woman pleaded. "We have to get out of here before they find out I'm gone!" Heather didn't know exactly what was going on, and she still felt slightly dizzy and disoriented from her fall. But, as she took the keys out of her pocket and strode across the room, her old confidence began to return, and she took a moment to examine the woman standing before her. The woman was obviously terrified, but she did SEEM rational. On the other hand, if she wasn't crazy, why was she running around barefoot and practically naked in an abandoned mental hospital on Halloween night? Heather looked closely at the woman's hand. Just below the knuckles were the ominous words, "MENTAL PATIENT." Heather felt a familiar feeling of power surge through her. After all, she was the doctor, and this was just some lowly mental patient. Why should she hurry? Heather had all the time in the world. Practical joke or not, she was determined to get to the bottom of this.... And, as for the nervous patient, who cared if SHE was in a hurry? "Before I open the door, I need to know who you are, and what you are doing here," Heather said in her most professional, patronizing tone. "My name is Sara Peters, and my husband was president of a local bank," the desperate woman said. "His partner murdered him, and then put me in here so he could steal everything." The woman tried to overpower the lock, but failed. "But there's no time for QUESTIONS! You've got to open the door NOW!" "Before I do that, I should really talk to your attending physician, and probably to your husband's business partner as well," Heather said, loftily. "If you are having paranoid delusions, that is the quickest way to find out. Tell me, does your husband's business partner ever come by to visit you?" "He comes by once a month -- to FUCK ME UP THE ASS!" the woman shrieked. "NOW WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!" The woman grabbed frantically for the keys, but Heather, in her high-heeled shoes, was able to easily hold the keys just out of the barefoot woman's reach. The woman's frantic jumping caused the hem of her short hospital garment to fly up and expose her completely shaved pubic mound. Although she knew it was cruel, Heather had to laugh.... The revelry was cut short as the ADMISSIONS door burst open. A fat, butch nurse in an old fashioned nurse's uniform entered, accompanied by two orderlies. It took them only a few seconds to remove the woman's short hospital gown and replace it with a heavy canvas straitjacket. "If you're a doctor, why don't you HELP ME?" the woman shrieked at Heather. "And don't look so smug! You're not safe, either!" "You're buckling the crotch strap too tightly," Heather said, as she watched the cruel nurse flex her muscles. "The canvas is rubbing right against her private parts." "I'm doing her a favor," the nurse said, curtly. "She's going to be in her cell a long time, and this way she'll be able to get off by jerking her arms. These little bimbos love to diddle themselves with the strap." The nurse looked Heather up and down, appraisingly. "Besides, if I were you, I'd be more worried about what Doctor has planned for you." As the two interns led the sobbing woman back through the ADMISSIONS door, the nurse stood up and quickly snatched the keys out of Heather's hands. "You can't have THESE!" she said, brusquely. "If Doctor found out that a patient had door keys, I'd be over that damn spanking bench myself." "But I'm not a patient," Heather protested. "I'm a doctor. I'm a psychiatrist." "Yeah, I know," the nurse said, as she hooked Heather's arm with one hand and pushed her towards the ADMISSIONS door with the other. "I read your file." "What file?" Heather thought. She felt a chill as she stumbled through the door. But the biggest surprise was the room itself. No longer dilapidated and dusty, the room appeared to be fully restored. The floor was clean, the papers on the desk were neatly arranged, and the one-way mirror was polished. Heather turned and looked at the exam table. The leather straps and chrome buckles seemed brand new, and the stainless steel stirrups anxiously glistened in anticipation of their next victim. "Do you need any help processing this one, Doctor?" the nurse asked. "No, nurse, I've read her file, and I don't think she'll be violent," the doctor replied. "I'll handle her myself." Heather's jaw dropped as she realized that the man sitting in the red velvet chair was none other than the infamous Nathaniel Craig. "It can't be," she said to herself. "This can't be happening." But she couldn't deny the evidence of her own eyes. What on earth was going on? And what did they mean by "processing?" "Dr. Craig, I think I should explain," she began. "I'm not a patient; I'm a doctor." "Yes, I know everything about you, Heather; I've read your file," Dr. Craig said, patiently. "You are an accomplished and respected physician who was visiting an abandoned mental ward on Halloween, and you were somehow transported back into the past -- or my present, as the case may be. You are wearing those strange clothes because that is what professional women wear in the early part of the 21st century. You left your money and your ID and all proof of your existence in your purse, which is locked in your desk. But, unfortunately, your desk is located in a portion of the hospital that won't be built for another thirty years." The doctor smiled as he lit his cigar. "Does that pretty much cover it, Heather?" "Look, I know this...looks bad...but you have to believe me...." "Don't worry, Heather," he said. "I've decided to take your case pro bono. You're a lovely young lady, with a tight, athletic figure. I'm going to enjoy teaching a willful 21st century career woman her place." Heather was going to argue, but in his voice she recognized the same patronizing "I'm-the-doctor" tone that she used with HER patients. And she knew that it was a voice that could not be bargained with. "Go stand on the 'X,' Heather," the doctor said, with a frosty smile. "Assume your position." She looked fearfully at the dreaded black "X" on the floor. Next to it was a metal lock-box, with the top open. The box was small, but it would be big enough to hold all of her clothes.... Heather obediently moved to the "X" and stood nervously in front of the doctor while he took a long drag on his cigar. She choked slightly as he teasingly blew a smoke ring in her direction. "You have a lovely face, Heather," he said, appraisingly. "I'm going to enjoy looking down at those big, pleading, doe-like eyes as you kneel down in front of me and perform...lip service." "Don't seem so shocked, Heather," he said. "Your file says you're a disgusting little nymphomaniac who has secret strip-search fantasies. Of course, I'll know for sure how slutty you are when I get you up on the table, with your legs spread nice and wide." "Your hair is really quite lovely, as well. It's a pity it has to go," he said, with mock sadness. "I'd like to wait a few days before the nurse buzzed you and tattooed your dainty little hand, but we can't take the chance that you might escape and try pass yourself off as a sane person, can we? We have to make it clear to everyone that you're a lunatic...." "For starters, we need to get you out of those pretty clothes and into a nice, comfortable straitjacket." He paused and savored another puff on his cigar before issuing his next command. "Take your clothes off, Heather," he said, evenly, as his eyes ran slowly up and down her lovely form. "All of them." She thought about resisting, but suddenly the lights flickered on and off. The doctor looked at her and smiled. "I asked the nurse to test the equipment, in case I needed it tonight," he explained. "But I'm sure that won't be necessary, will it, Heather?" Without a word, she began to unbutton her expensive white blouse, and the doctor smiled. "Don't dawdle, young lady. We still need to get you shaved, showered, deloused, and tattooed. I'm expecting a big crowd for the Aversion Therapy demonstration tonight, and I've saved a spot on the bench for you. The audience always likes to see a new face...and a new fanny." He chuckled. "I'll have them go easy with the strap, since I know this is your first time." Heather was already down to her bra and panties, and she felt her bottom cheeks involuntarily tighten at the mention of the word "strap." Dr. Craig laughed at his patient's reaction and added soothingly, "Don't worry; afterwards, you'll have a nice, relaxing enema. That will calm you down." As she turned her back and unhooked her bra, she closed her eyes and listened to his humiliating commentary: "That's right...take it all off...everything...right down to the skin. No need to be bashful...you have a lovely figure." Heather didn't believe in ghosts.... Unfortunately for Heather, ghosts DID believe in her. HAPPY HALLOWEEN, EVERYBODY! Edited by C. Lakewood