Disturbia

Do bricks and mortar hold the secrets and souls of those departed? Has your spine ever tingled as you walked past a particular building? What echoes would we hear if we had the capacity? What voices would leak from rotten timbers and cracked doors? It seems those feelings of unease can come to me anywhere in the world.

We were bored and wished we’d arranged a shorter stay in this town. It had an important function – a major interchange for a well-known scenic railway – but it had offered us little in the way of entertainment. So we’d struck out, jumping into our hire car for a diversionary drive, hoping to find something of interest. The landscape felt strange in this province of snow-capped peaks. The barren, dry brown of it was more rural Australia than pine forest Canada. The sun shimmered off rocks and road, scorching eyes. It had that gritty, tangerine texture, sharp and hostile. A side road beckoned, an excuse to avoid some of the glare, so we drove on, unusually silent, apprehensive.

From a distance, it should have been impossible to tell. But my stomach clenched before my eyes confirmed what I was seeing. Something foreboding and sad. The closer we got, the more sure I became. A cluster of houses and larger structures, isolated from normal life and community. I swear there’s a look, a style, like no other. Broken windows may have signaled its decommissioning, but the sensations remained. I knew with absolute certainty it was an abandoned asylum or, at least, it was devoid of human occupation.

This one had peeling paint, overgrown gardens and rusty pipework. Others I’ve known have looked grand and formal, with tended grounds and Victorian architecture. They follow a blueprint, a replicated design, and can be found in the dales of England or ten thousand miles away in Australia. This one was nothing like them, with its metal sun awnings, striped render, pink and jaunty. There had been some attempt towards cheerfulness and welcome. Nevertheless, I knew its purpose and was once again besieged by the unsettled energy trapped inside. It’s hard to describe but feels like a jittery hum or vibration, a chilly grey cloud that strokes at the edges of my vision, demanding my attention, appealing for us never to forget the practices of the past, however well intentioned.

Taking in the decay, the graffiti, I wondered how many former residents were now at peace or whether some still stalked the hushed hallways, lonely, bewildered, and afraid. After all, most former asylums have stories of restless ghosts and why not? As we skirted the grounds, a large display board came into view. We read the name and absorbed the final irony - it was called Tranquille.

THE END

Copyright © Diane Clarke 2020

Author’s note: As soon as I had access to the internet, I went searching for information about Tranquille Farm. It was built in the early 1900’s as a sanitorium for people with tuberculosis. Away from the amenities of the town, it was a thriving, self-sufficient community. In the 1950’s there was no further need for such an institution and it became a facility for those people diagnosed with mental health illnesses and intellectual disabilities. It ceased operation in the 1980’s as more enlightened practices and forms of care swept the world. And, yes, there are stories of ghostly sightings and organised tours that include access to the network of underground tunnels that functioned as all-weather highways for the vital services of the facility. The current owners try hard to promote the earlier, more positive history of the establishment, and continue to run a farm shop, nevertheless, it has a palpable sense of sorrow. Plans to redevelop the site may finally bring a new energy to the area.