We drove down a short winding lane that had a stone privacy wall with the sign Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital imprinted on a weathered bronze plaque. Other than that, the grounds were misleading. It appeared to be nothing more than an old rambling Victorian house—one you might find in a horror movie where the doors lock you in and the ghost of long dead patients hunt you down with medical instruments.
I had obviously watched one too many episodes of American Horror Story.
Bill parked and gave me a hopeful look. "Don't worry. James is sane. But…well he's been in there a long time and well…"
"Well what?"
"He has his quirks."
"Oh jeez," I said while swallowing.
"He had them before he went in. He's kind of high-strung. I just want him to meet you and see that we are real and not to allow
