June 5, 1890

Notes from Dr. Franklin Hall, MD

I have been watching Dr. Broadwell work, and am growing more and more sure that what he is doing is not medicine. In truth, it feels like he is actively encouraging the very mental problems his patients are struggling to overcome. I do not understand the spell he seems to have the rest of the staff under, but I am pretending to go along. I will need more evidence before I can go to any authorities.

I think he may have ideas that I do not fully approve of his methods, though. I have not been invited to help with any more of Sweeney’s ‘treatments,’ and most of my days are filled with the long-term patients, who are docile for the most part. They tend to sit in the day room, especially on sunny days, with folded hands and their eyes closed. Those eyes, haunted and hollow, that seem to look through me whenever they focus on me. I wonder what those eyes have seen.

A new patient was brought in today - a child of eight or so. Dr. Broadwell hustled her away to the locked wing as soon as her parents (I assume they were her parents) rode away in their expensive carriage, so I have not yet heard why she is here. She looked healthy enough, and took his hand trustingly. I wonder how long it will take for him to betray that trust. 

As I sit at my desk, listening to the nurses and orderlies settle the hospital for the night, watching the shadows creep along the lawn, I feel again the chill that holds us all hostage in the night. If I do not leave soon, I will have to wait until one of the guards can walk me to my cottage. I dare not go into the darkness alone anymore.