I want to become a tour guide of one of those haunted asylum tours. I’d sort of hunch over in my wheelchair, wrapped in a cloak, greeting the people. They’ll be nudging each other, waiting to hear about the crazies.
I’ll beckon them with a single finger, wheeling backwards, letting the darkness consume me. They’ll follow, inch by inch, already trembling with adrenaline.
We’ll enter the asylum. It will be dark. Gloomy.
“Take your seats,” I say.
They’re confused but comply, feeling in the dark, finally reaching a table. They can’t wait. They have their cameras prepared.
Somebody asks if you can still hear the patients’ screams in the corridors.
“Well,” I say, “you can hear someone’s screams.”
Without warning, the door crashes shut. We hear a lock. People start screaming. Panicking. At that moment, the lights come on. We’re sitting in a lecture hall. I whisk off my cloak to reveal a perfectly tailored suit.
“All right, folks,” I say. “Let’s talk about how every single horrifying event that happened in asylums was a direct result of the doctors and nurses committing medical malpractice rather than the patients themselves, shall we? We’ll start with Rosemary Kennedy. Someone get the lights. I have a PowerPoint.”