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