There is one road leading to St. Annabelle's.
It is isolated and kept secret from the world, to better comfort disturbed patients. Long ago it was a center to treat tuberculosis during the plague. Hundreds died within its walls. During the 1950s and the socioecological health system reform, the building's massive occupancy potential and sheer distance from any nearby cities kept it on the chopping block for a few years.
Tax dollars just couldn't be funneled into rennovating it completely for normal hospital use. It was thought to have been left to the decay of time until an anonymous buyer took it. With a series of unknown investors, St. Annabelle's was reborn as a mental hospital and a major psychiatric ward for the area.
That was in 1964.
There is still only one road leading to St. Annabelle's.
Steven Barnes flipped his FBI badge back and forth over his knuckles. The parking lot up front was nonexistent, so he pulled over in the grass. He was supposed to meet someone here, a specialist. He didn't ask too many questions over the phone. He didn't want to sound crazy.
There was a deer carcass on the side of the road coming in. It wasn't fresh, and grew bloated with gas and maggots. He had a fleeting image of it, but grew curious about it nonetheless.
The sign glowed above him: Berkley's Market. He wanted to have lunch here before going up to... that place.
He wanted a Reuben with seasoned fries.
There were no other people in sight, just the owner's truck off to the side. She would cook and clean all day by herself, given the climate of people simply not going to restaurants anymore.
It was a small place, about half kitchen and half dining area with a single set of matching bathrooms. Steven was about to walk inside and wait and took one more look around the block.