I walked for what felt like an eternity in the blister cold with desensitized bare feet on awful stones. When I was finally able to find a telephone booth, I called for a taxi. It picked me up and I gave the driver my address. He looked at me strangely and I realized it was probably because I was wearing a gown from a mental institution and looked like I returned from the underworld. Luckily he did not mention anything, and on the long silent ride, I cried. Perhaps tears of joy because I was incredibly delighted to have finally escaped. Perhaps tears of anguish because of all the recent misery and pain. I was grateful to have successfully fled.

I told the driver to take me to the police station, and once I arrived, I ignored the strange glances and peeks towards me, and spoke to whoever I could find. I told the lady at the front desk about the asylum and all the cruelty that occurred there. She watched me with an expression that told me she did not believe a single word I said.

"Please," I begged, breathless, "could I just talk to a police officer or something?"

She slowly picked up the phone and mumbled quietly into it, something like, "There is a strange girl at the front desk, chief. She says she wants to speak to you."

A while later I was met with two police officers. I sat down at a table with them to discuss my experience. One officer was taking notes on a pad, and the other questioned me curiously.

"So, why were you in this asylum in the first place, again?"

"I was seeing...ghosts," I said. I realized he was for sure not going to believe me now.

"Right. Ghosts." He turned his head to the officer scribbling on the notepad. He continued, "And you said, you were tortured?"

"Yes," I answered, "and drugged, and they even murdered someone."

"They murdered someone?" he must have thought I was pranking him. "Who?"

"Dolly."

"Dolly who?"

"I don't know her last name."

"Of course you don't," the officer sighed.

"Look, I'm not making this up," I stated. "Look at me! I'm wearing a gown from that place!"

They stared at me with disbelief.

"What is the place called again?" the officer asked with the notepad.

"Letchworth Asylum."

They looked at each other. "Letchworth Asylum," they whispered to each other, as if they were trying to remember something.

One of the officers started typing on his computer, and then said, "Yeah, right, Letchworth Asylum." He chuckled.

"What?"

"Look — what's your name again—"

"Daisy."

"Daisy," he said, looking me in the eye properly, "Letchworth Asylum closed down in 1996."

"What? That's not possible."

He turned the computer over to me. "It closed down due to its violence."

I sat there staring at the pixelated screen, mouth gaping a little. There was an image showing the building, molding and broken, like a haunted house from a film.

"So," the officer continued, "how did you just escape Letchworth if it closed down five years ago?"

"I swear on my life," I said, "everything I said was the truth." And I walked out. I figured it would not be worth trying to convince them.