My Visit To The Asylum

Since my relocation to Kelly Country I have made several excursions to the historical town of Beechworth seeking out yarns of Kelly from loosened tongues of inebriated patrons in the various public houses. It was on such an excursion and after several ales that I found, for some unknown reason, the need to visit the old courthouse yet again. Upon entering the front door I was surprised to be greeted by a bespectacled and bearded fellow who looked very much like that cove who plays the part of Ned Kelly during the Kelly weekends. I was not only surprised but delighted to see that my book Far Beyond the Falls was well displayed on the desk in front of him. ‘My dear fellow, I said running my hands provocatively over its quality cover, I see you have my new book on your desk for purchase. My name is Alan Crichton, roving reporter for Ironoutlaw.’ Hoping this would impress him and my entrance fee be wavered, I was confronted with a blank look and an outstretched hand waiting for my $5.50. I rummaged around in my trouser pockets for several minutes hoping his outstretched arm would tire, but the arm of the bespectacled Ned Kelly look- a- like remained defiant until I had handed over the remainder of my depleted funds. Any thoughts now of purchasing a sausage roll with tomato sauce for lunch from the local bakery was all but a mouth watering dream.

I wandered the rooms and cells of the courthouse for a good hour, not because there were items I had missed on my many previous visits, but to simply get my $5.50 worth from that miserable bugger on the front desk. I intended to ignore this bearded fellow upon leaving but was stopped abruptly in my step. ‘Have you seen James Kelly’s signature up at the lunatic asylum here in Beechworth?’ he remarked. As you would all be aware by now, I am a master at the art of self defence and my licensed hands are considered lethal weapons. Thinking he was making merry with my person and inferring I needed psychiatric help, I spun sharply on my larrikin heels, my alexandrite eyes burning into his. As I braced my sinewy body for confrontation, he continued. ‘Have you been to the Mayday Hills Asylum up at LaTrobe yet? It’s quite obvious by the look of your larrikin heels you are a keen follower of all things Kelly and that you might be interested in sighting the signature of one James Kelly that has been written by his hand in the afterlife on a window pane up in the asylum.’ ‘Jim Kelly I replied sharply; what on earth would Ned’s brother be doing up at the bloody asylum? Jim Kelly was as sane as I am.’ Not that Jim he said shaking his head, his uncle James, you know, the bloke that burnt down his sister- in- law’s home.’ He continued to tell me how James Kelly had helped build the asylum while serving the 15 years for his moment of weakness, and that all had been so much for James he ended up an inmate in the very asylum he was building.

The bearded fellow’s story had got my blood stirring and I felt duty bound as Ironoutlaw’s roving reporter to sight this Kelly signature for myself. ‘How do I find my way to this asylum my good fellow?’ He handed me a brochure and told me I needed to partake in some ghost tour that visited this so called haunted place under the chilled cloak of night. ‘GHOSTS! Are you kidding me? I took a deep breath and swallowed nervously. There’s no such thing as ghosts my good man; don’t be so absurd.’ I could see a smirk take hold of his thin lips as I wiped the sweat from my brow. I had never quite been the same since seeing that bloody Exorcist movie where Linda Blair’s head does a 360 on her shoulders. My night bunny lamp has remained on ever since. I gave him one last slow defiant stare, swallowed once more and hurried to home.

Not to let Mr. Webb down, and duty bound as his roving reporter, I rang the Beechworth ghost tour establishment and made reservations for two for that very night. If I’m to be frightened to death I shall take my good wife Roslyn with me. There was a new moon that night and I thanked the lord it wasn’t full as we wound our way up the long drive to La Trobe. The two bottles of Cab. Sav I had consumed earlier that evening had settled my nerves considerably and was now ready for what ever should confront me on this rather cold and apprehensive night, or so I thought. Images of Ros and I being the only two booked for the tour suddenly came to mind. As we approached the ghostly meeting place, I was relieved to see at least another twenty innocent souls now waiting patiently to be scared to death. With renewed bravado I strutted confidently towards our host. She was a kindly woman attired in a white matron’s uniform with a thick black cloak wrapped around her shoulders to repel the cold night breeze that stirred uneasily through the darkened trees. ‘So you’re the writer we’ve been waiting for are you?’ she asked with a strange smile. I swallowed and thought immediately of that bearded bugger back at the courthouse. I knew it was he who had alerted the matron of my attendance and who knows what else. With lanterns lit, the matronly figure seemed to float across the grounds as we followed to the waiting presence of the old asylum.

I was starting to think this wasn’t such a smart idea as she informed us of the asylum’s morbid history before entering, but I also knew that somewhere in this building, James Kelly’s ghostly hand had been at work scratching his name to an icy window pane. As we entered the main door to the hospital, and in the good name of Ironoutlaw, I purposely kept to the rear of the group to lead the way for a quick exit if unknown circumstances eventuated. The first area to be entered was the autopsy room come laboratory. Our good matron informed us that the room used to be filled with body parts stored in jars of formaldehyde to preserve them. These parts disappeared but could still be hidden somewhere in the depths of the hospital’s cellar. This was not something I wanted to hear. I grabbed what I thought was my wife’s hand simply to comfort her, but soon found it to be the hand of a large bearded fellow in the group who was rather shaken by my unintended advances. I apologised and continued flashing my camera nervously in all directions as we moved cautiously through the musty hallways. Our host continued to tell us of ghostly apparitions, of death, torture and other horrendous goings on that once took place there.

My adrenalin by this time was running at a high when a hand from the darkness grabbed me by the shoulder. I screamed out like a little girl at the top of my lungs. I had thought of Linda Blair dragging me off into the depths of the asylum never to be seen again. Ready to pass out, I could just make out the voice of our matronly host telling me all was well and that we had arrived in the day room where James Kelly’s signature was. The good matron helped me to the window pane and I proceeded to inspect what I had come to this place for. In the darkness I could barely make out J and Kelly, but in my weakened condition I really didn’t care who the bloody hell scratched it, all I wanted was out of there and the security of my bunny lamp. The Cab.Sav had worn off all too soon, and with the effects of the matron’s hand on my shoulder still embedded in my brain, my dear wife helped her zombie back to the car.

I suppose I should have been relieved it was the year 2009 and we were leaving the Mayday Hills asylum and not 1909 and just entering. In my present condition I could have quite easily been locked away for the rest of my life. The next morning after I had recovered from my nightly experience I checked the photos so hurriedly taken in my camera. Not a single image of a ghostly apparition, just pictures of darkened rooms filled with little round bubbles*. Oh, and not to forget James Kelly’s signature scratched in the icy window pane.

• The 'little round bubbles' Alan refers to are commonly referred to as 'spirit light'. There is growing evidence that the communicating entity requires physical energy that is in the appropriate frequency range, is strong in amplitude and is sufficiently chaotic to allow many optional stable states. In photography, bright light with ample texture has been found to provide the necessary chaotic energy - as seen in the examples above (if you believe in that sort of thing). For further reading visit AAEVP.

Link:
Alan Crichton web site Ned Kelly Tales