SHADOWS DOWN A DARK HALLWAY

By Jeff Allen

Michael Evans has just moved back to Indiana following his father’s
unexpected death. Having dropped out of medical school, he decides
to take a job at his father’s hospital, while sorting out his father’s estate and
figuring out what to do next with his life.

Michael had always observed strange people and occurrences that he could
not explain. As a small child, he had an army of “imaginary friends,” or so he
thought. He managed to rationalize these odd relationships and occurrences
until beginning the graveyard shift at St. Mark’s, a hospital with a tragic
history. And the dead in this place let Michael know they never left.

Navigating a new job and attempting to engage in a social life is challenging
enough, but not knowing if the person beside you is of this world or the next
can create real problems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798823025874

Jeff Allen

Jeff Allen is the author of Get Laid or Die Trying. 

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© 2024 Jeff Allen. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  05/14/2024

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2406-8 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2405-1 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2587-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024908532

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

About The Author

CHAPTER 1

"When I see ghosts, they look perfectly real and solid—like a living human being. They are not misty; I can’t see through them; they don’t wear sheets or bloody mummy bandages. They don’t have their heads tucked under their arms. They just look like ordinary people, in living color, and sometimes it is hard to tell who is a ghost." —Chris Woodyard

September 8, 1966

Maplewood Cemetery, Anderson, Indiana

A re you sure his grave is down this lane?

A new surgeon of St. Mark’s Hospital, Dr. Lawrence Evans, slowed down the car and stared out the window. As if in deep thought, he said, I’m pretty sure my great-grandfather’s grave is down this row. It’s just been so long since I’ve been here. I just don’t remember this cemetery being so expansive.

His wife Blythe turned to smile at their two-year-old, Michael, sitting in his car seat, swinging his legs back and forth to the rhythm of Ticket to Ride on the radio. Looking back at Lawrence she said, Why don’t you pull over and get out, and look behind that row of gravestones? Maybe you’ll recognize it from a different perspective.

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She looked back again at Michael, who was busy pointing at each finger on his left hand, still swinging his legs.

Lawrence took his foot off the brake and edged forward slowly. I wonder if it’s the next lane over, he said, looking to his left.

Lawrence and Blythe scanned the graves, reading the occasional name as the car crept forward. This section of the cemetery had gravestones of all sizes and shapes—obelisks, weeping angels, scroll stones, the occasional lamb resting atop a stone, and thin, leaning, flat stones.

Blythe pointed to a small family mausoleum with the name Norton on top. I bet that’s the same Norton that owned Norton Brewery.

I didn’t know Anderson had a brewery, responded Lawrence.

It closed in 1940. It was a major beer distributor for seventy-five years. Blythe pointed to the opposite side of the lane and added, Look, there is Captain Vandevender’s grave.

Lawrence asked, Who’s Captain Vandercamp?

Blythe laughed and said, "Vandevender. He was a Union officer in the Civil War. He was killed at Vicksburg. He was the first person buried here in Maplewood Cemetery."

Lawrence turned to his wife and asked, How did you come by all this knowledge about Anderson?

Blythe flashed her husband a grin and said, When you told me we were moving here, I did my research.

Lawrence smiled. He had always admired his wife’s ability to embrace any challenge before her. What else can you tell me about Anderson? he probed.

She tapped her forehead and said, Let me see. Well, the town was founded where a Delaware Indian village used to be. The White River and the railroads made the location ideal for industry and manufacturing. The discovery of natural gas that led to an industrial boom, and the city grew. Seventeen different types of automobiles were manufactured right here.

Lawrence nodded and replied, I didn’t know that. But I did once hear that John Dillinger never chose to rob a bank here.

Blythe asked, Why was that?

Too many trains. Hard to make a getaway if you’re blocked by a train.

As the car rounded the corner, Lawrence asked Blythe, Are you wearing perfume?

Michael stopped swinging his legs.

Blythe responded, Yeah, I usually do. Is it too strong?

The child, looking to his right and nodding, said, Yes.

Lawrence addressed Blythe, No, I meant, are you wearing a new perfume? I smell flowers.

She answered, Now that you mention it, I smell it too.

The little boy shook his head and said, No.

Lawrence said, Is it roses?

Blythe answered, I can’t tell. No, wait, it’s lilies.

The child, nodding again, said, Yes.

At that moment, Lawrence and Blythe realized that their son was answering questions that weren’t the questions being asked.

Lawrence brought the car to a complete stop. He turned to look at Blythe, who was already looking at him with a puzzled expression. They both then turned to look at Michael, who was looking at his hand.

Michael held up two fingers and said, Two. Then he looked back to his right and smiled, saying his own name, Michael, in a soft tone.

As his parents continued to stare, he said, Thank you!

Blythe asked, Michael, sweetheart, who are you talking to?

He turned to his parents and answered, Becky.

She asked, Who is Becky?

Michael, now looking at his fingers, responded, The nice lady.

Lawrence asked, Where is Becky?

Michael turned to his right, pointed to the seat beside him, and said, Right here.

Blythe felt a shiver as the tiny hairs on her neck became erect.

Their son then added, But Becky has to leave. He smiled and waved as though at someone standing outside the rear passenger window.

At once, the fragrant aroma dissipated.

Lawrence put the car in reverse and, looking out the right window, slowly drove backward in the direction Michael was looking.

The boy was swinging his legs again, but this time to the song on the radio, We Gotta Get Out of This Place.

Approaching a corner, Blythe suddenly shouted, Stop the car! Look!

She pointed, opened the car door, and got out. Bending down, she pointed again and read the marker to Lawrence, Rebecca Mahern, Born 1842, Died 1866.

Lawrence and Blythe both turned to look at their son who was looking out the window again, smiling and waving.

CHAPTER 2

April 29, 1988

Smithie’s Bar, Anderson, Indiana

Y ou’re Dr. Evans’s boy, aren’t ya?

Michael was staring at his beer mug. He awoke from his trance-like state and turned to look at the man sitting beside him at the bar. The man wore oil-stained jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and a faded navy-blue jacket. The John Deere baseball cap on his head looked like it had been run over by a truck.

Not recognizing the stranger sitting next to him, Michael responded, How did you know I was Dr. Evans’s son?

He replied, I seen your picture in the paper.

Puzzled, Michael asked, From my high school football days?

Your father took care of my prostate when I got cancer, and I remember seeing your photo in his office. I recognized you in the paper when you played.

Michael chuckled. As I recall, I wasn’t that good of a player, and we had a pretty bad team.

Michael had the skills and talent to play college football, but he’d lacked confidence and doubted himself. He attended Indiana University, but it wasn’t for academic excellence and it definitely wasn’t for football. He went to IU for only one reason; he wanted to party and have a good time.

Tall and athletic, with black hair and blue eyes, Michael was charming when not drunk. A typical frat guy, he loved to drink beer, chase girls, play sports, and hang out with friends. Somehow, he found time to study, and he made decent grades.

I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing. He was a kind man and a skilled surgeon, the stranger beside Michael said sincerely, I see you’re in scrubs. Are you a doctor now?

No, Michael said, I dropped out of med school and took a job as an orderly while I get my life in order.

The man remarked, I guess it would be strange for a doctor to be seen in such a ‘fine’ establishment as Smithie’s Bar.

Michael was no stranger to Smithie’s Bar. He and his friends were able to buy beers here back in high school without being carded. The bartender/owner was a former boxing prodigy with a well-developed beer belly, who didn’t really care if the bar got shut down, because it was a dump. He couldn’t have cared less if the patron was twenty-one or twelve. A buck is a buck.

Dim lights, with two pool tables, neon beer signs, and a sticky floor, Smithie’s was a typical Midwestern bar that smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke, and a hint of mold. A jukebox in the corner was playing Hotel California.

Michael smiled and shifted on his bar stool, which had been repaired with black duct tape to hide tears in the vinyl. He looked at his father’s old patient and said, If I were a doctor, I definitely would not be drinking here. Since I’m just a lowly orderly, I like it here. It brings back memories of a better time in my life, a time when I didn’t have a care in the world. My future was planned out, and I had direction. I was focused. I knew what I wanted. He took a drink of his beer.

The man nodded. Was it your father’s death that made you decide to drop out?

Michael shifted on his stool again and took another gulp from his drink before answering, The med school advised me to take some time off when my father died. And now I just don’t feel like going back. My heart’s not in it.

I know how you feel. I know what it’s like to lose someone. I lost my daughter in a car crash. She was driving home after volleyball practice, and a drunk driver veered into her lane and hit her head on. She was so beautiful, and smart too. She’s lying in the road with a crushed skull, and the drunk bastard walked away from the accident. He paused and added, You never get over it.

Michael responded sincerely, I’m so sorry to hear that. It’s not right, and it’s not fair. It doesn’t make any sense. How did you move on from something like that? He looked back at his beer mug, embarrassed by his stupid question.

The man answered, I didn’t.

Michael took a second to process the stranger’s response. What do you mean you didn’t? Michael asked as he turned to look at the man.

The bar stool was empty. Michael stood up and looked around the room. The stranger was gone.

Michael squeezed the bridge of his nose, clearing his eyes of any potential sleepers, and mumbled to himself, I must be losing my mind.

He looked at the stranger’s bar stool and the distance to the door. He knew there was no way a person could have covered that distance in that amount of time. It wasn’t humanly possible.

Did I imagine the stranger or doze off and daydream?

Michael scratched his head, took a deep breath, and decided to push the encounter with the stranger out of his mind. As he turned to walk out of the bar, he reached into his pocket for a breath mint to pop in his mouth before starting his shift.

It was pitch-black outside except for the street light. He had twenty minutes to get to the hospital to start the late shift, the graveyard shift, 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m.

CHAPTER 3

In great deeds, something abides. On great fields, something stays. Forms change and pass; bodies disappear; but spirits linger, to consecrate ground for the vision-place of souls.

—Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain

July 3, 1863

Anderson Arsenal, Anderson, Indiana

M argaret, please hurry! We mustn’t be late.

Margaret grabbed her bonnet and tied the straps under her chin hurriedly while managing to hold her lunch basket in the crease of her elbow. Young men passing by found it hard to avoid staring at the pretty eighteen-year-old with auburn hair and blue eyes.

Her younger sister by three years, Mary was not as fortunate when it came to beauty. As the two girls walked to the arsenal, Mary couldn’t help but notice her sister’s radiant smile.

You received another letter from Patrick yesterday, didn’t ya? Mary nudged her sister’s arm.

I did. Margaret smiled.

Eager for any romantic news, Mary asked excitedly, Where is he? What did he say?

He was in Maryland but said he was marching north.

Mary’s smile disappeared as she remembered overhearing news from two men talking while leaving the telegraph office. She stopped and gently grasped her sister’s arm, saying, I heard there was a fight in Pennsylvania. You don’t suppose General Meredith has Patrick and the other Anderson boys in it?

Margaret said, Come on, Mary, we don’t want to be late. Those southern boys wouldn’t have the courage to march into Pennsylvania anyway. It’s probably a small fight that wouldn’t involve Patrick and our boys.

Mary prodded her sister, Did he tell you that he missed you and can’t wait to make a bride of you?

Margaret blushed. Mary Katherine O’Sullivan! You need to mind your manners!

Mary smiled and chuckled as the two girls entered the Anderson Arsenal gates. Their shoes clacked as they walked up the tightly packed stone road that was cemented with mortar made of rock, dust, and water.

The arsenal consisted of a half-dozen buildings for the manufacture of gunpowder, artillery shells, percussion caps, and Minié balls. With the Civil War in the middle of its third year of fighting, the demand for ammunition was great; and with the local men away fighting, women answered the call. The work was dirty and dangerous and considered inappropriate for most females, but the Irish were eager for the opportunity. Women and young girls as young as twelve were ideal for this work because of their small hands and dexterity when it came to making cartridges. Their job was to fill a paper tube with gunpowder and a lead ball and tie the loose ends. The work was steady, and the pay was comparable to that of a private in the army, a rarity in an era when any employment opportunity for women was rare.

Along with the employment of young women and girls, young boys were hired to sweep up the spilled gunpowder from the rooms numerous times a day. Boys were also hired to wash the pressed stone road to remove any spilled gunpowder from the transport wagons. The arsenal was commanded by an army colonel and two lieutenants whose job was to supervise all aspects of manufacture and safety.

With dozens of young women and girls eager to keep their jobs, the officers sometimes took advantage of the situation and lost focus of their responsibilities. As Mary and Margaret entered the large room to make cartridges, Margaret whispered to Mary to stay clear of the lieutenant who was flirting with a girl in her teens.

Margaret whispered, He’s a pig! Avoid him.

The girls sat down to remove their shoes and put on slippers. They hung their bonnets and shawls on a wooden peg in the wall behind them. The large room had two long tables with long wooden benches on each side. The room was also crowded, filled to capacity.

As the girls sat at their stations and began tying up the cartridges, light conversation spread among the workers. Some girls sang songs and hymns while they worked. A light breeze blew through the open windows, and they could hear the teamsters pulling up with their wagons.

Teamster Paul Murphy began loading barrels of gunpowder into his wagon. With the sun up and not a cloud in the sky, he knew this day would be a hot one. The location of the arsenal was ideal because it was close to the White River and the new railroad station. He would make numerous trips to both today for the badly needed ammunition.

Paul looked around at the road, which was bone dry, and shook his head; the officers had not yet sent the boys out to wash the road. (Paul Murphy was always one to point and place blame on someone else rather than take responsibility for his own actions or lack of actions.)

Tarpaulins were supposed to be placed on the floor of the wagon to catch any spilled gunpowder, an arsenal regulation that even he ignored. As he drove the wagon from the powder magazine, gunpowder sifted through the cracks of the wagon to the pressed stone road below. He heard a shout from another teamster behind him. As he turned around, he saw orange fire spreading from beneath his wagon wheel to the magazine building behind him. He didn’t have time to comprehend what was happening, let alone place blame.

The barrels of gunpowder in the wagon ignited with a terrific blast. Paul Murphy