The Cinder Path

May 1, 2012

by Camryn

My cousin Lena and I had heard stories about the old McKinnon Asylum, abandoned since the 1960s after a fire that killed dozens of patients. It was a sprawling brick complex on the edge of the pine barrens, with a cinder path that looped through the overgrown grounds. Lena had always been fascinated by ‘dark tourism,’ and she’d convinced me to bring my infant daughter, Mae, along for a daytime exploration—but our car broke down on the approach road, and by the time we got it started, dusk had settled like a damp shroud.

We parked near the rusted gate, which creaked open as if welcoming us. The air was thick with the smell of wet ash and old stone. Lena, flashlight in hand, bounded ahead toward the main building, eager to photograph the shattered windows and peeling paint. I hesitated at the threshold, Mae strapped to my chest in a carrier, her little breath warm against my neck. As I took a step forward, a woman’s voice—sharp as a snapped twig—hissed directly into my ear, ‘Turn back, turn back.’ The temperature around me plummeted, and I could see my own exhalation fog. Mae started to fuss, and I instinctively stepped away from the gate, heading toward a row of stone markers at the edge of the garden.

I asked Lena to stand by a particular granite slab while I fumbled with my phone camera. She posed, grinning, and I snapped two shots. When I looked at the screen, my blood went cold. In the second photo, a tall, gaunt figure in a hooded grey habit stood beside her, its face obscured in shadow, but I could see the outline of a wimple. Lena, seeing my face, ran over and grabbed the phone. She went pale and dropped it. ‘We’re leaving,’ she said. But as we turned, the cinder path ahead of us seemed to darken, and I saw figures—not quite shadows, but solid black shapes—drifting among the trees.

We ran back to the car, but the doors were locked. I fumbled for the keys, Mae crying now, and Lena screaming as the figures drew closer, their outlines dissolving into the gloom. Finally, the door opened, and we piled in, engine sputtering to life. As we sped away, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the nun standing at the gate, her head tilted, as if watching us go. I haven’t been back since, but sometimes, when Mae cries at night, I swear I hear that whisper, ‘Turn back, turn back.’ The cinder path is still there, but I’ll never walk it again.

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