Madame Ellington's Home for the Troubled

A Story by Megan Benoit

Montreal's finest establishment has finally been opened.

If a person were to pass by the old building, there would be no doubt that their heart would plummet and their skin would crawl. Indeed, even as I begin to describe that awful establishment, it gets harder to breath. Windows barred with thick poles, dirtied with rust and bacteria. The heavy scent of decay could even be smelt among the grounds, and the gentle echoes of screams long since screeched could be heard. The building seemed to be in a permanent state of dread, and whoever passed, certainly felt its effects.

Madame Ellington’s Home for the Troubled. I suppose it sounds pleasant; a home for those with struggles in their lives, a safe haven for those unfortunates. But, I promise you, that hellhole is nowhere near a sanctuary. I’ve visited it myself, and I can attest that it is literally an establishment out of hell. I still get nightmares to this day.

However, this is not my story. This is the story of a young Canadian man named Elliott J. Archambeau Jr.

Elliott Jr. couldn’t have been more than 24 years old, however he was already top of his class in medical school. Indeed, this was quite the accomplishment during the late 19^th century. Especially since his father, Elliott Sr., and his father, Elliott Sr. Sr., were both successful medical practitioners. The Archambeau family was quite popular among the people of Montreal, being one of the top contributors to creation of Quebec’s newest establishment �" Madame Ellington’s Home for the Troubled

Finally, the citizens of Montreal did say, a place to stick those “good-for-nothing dangerous menaces to society’. Quite rude, if you ask me, but this was far before my time, and people then were rather horrible.

In the outside, Madame Ellington’s Home for the Troubled was beautiful. Sprawling gardens of rich greens and vibrant reds, and paths dotted with the finest marble imported from the fabled India surrounded the building. The building in question was brick, light in colour with arching windows, which, of course, were blacked out. Mustn’t let its occupants see the light of day.

The inside was a nightmare. Halls that never seemed to end, connecting with one another as if their builder was playing a little game with the poor souls that found themselves stuck in it. Many of them would stick to their rooms, too afraid to venture out for fear of getting lost in the endless labyrinth.

But, back to our lovely ol’ chap Elliott J. Archambeau Jr. You see, due to the fact that Monsieur Archambeau was so advanced in his studies of Medicine, and, of course, due to his reputation, he quickly found work in this asylum.

It was a respectable position, to say the least. Three hundred and seventy-eight dollars a year, just below the wages of the simply rich, but far above the measly forty dollars the common folk earned. All in all, Monsieur Archambeau was rather content with his life.

So much so, that the man started to explore more and more of his mind. Elliott would spend his free time sitting in the hallways of the asylum, listening to the agonizing screams of the poor souls as they squirmed in their own filth. And, Oh Lord, the scent! Bile mixed with liquid feces, so potent that it could burn holes through the concrete walls. Our lovely little Elliott J. Archambeau Jr. couldn’t feel anymore at peace.

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“Oi! B******s!” A booming voice filled the hollow hallways, gentle splash of water, and a more metallic substance, drip in the distance. ‘Twas but our dear Monsieur Archambeau �" as handsome and rich as the time we met him. But it had been many years since the opening of Madame Ellington’s Home for the Troubled, and the nightmare had but continued to increase inside those damned walls.

“Wakey wakey!” Elliott J. Archambeau Jr. bellowed, his call responded with the voices of agonized men and women who had the infortune to land such an existence. “Come on, mes petites merdes! Time to begin yet another day of l’amusement!”

Indeed, Monsieur Archambeau had climbed the ranks of this blasted establishment, and had made it his own personal playpen. The citizens of Montreal, however, turned a blind eye. As long as those troubled beasties were locked away, no one would ask questions. And for those with a curious eye could be paid off… The Archambeau family, after all, was one of the richest families in all of Quebec.

The many years of working in such a solemn place had taken its toll on the horrid man. Our once charismatic and kind medical prodigy had changed; his eyes no longer held the warmth, the hope, and the sanity that they once held.

Of course, if you would ask Monsieur Archambeau (and I’d tip my hat if you’d get close enough to) about his sanity, well, he’d certainly assure you that he was complete sane. Yes, no doubt about it! Was all for science �" just experiments, and indeed the act of it, was keeping him sane! Ha-ha!

But if you were to ask the occupants, the victims of this warped man, they’d tell you quite the opposite. Monsieur Archambeau’s talents in the medical field had translated to that of darker means. Experiments, trials, tests �" observations of the human resistance! How easily bones could break, how soft and vulnerable human skin was… Our dear Elliott was fascinated, and this purgatory was the perfect collection of specimens.

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Laughter filled the room. Was it hers? No, no… She was perfectly sane, she was.

It must’ve been years since she had found herself in that nightmarish home. Couldn’t have been more than 12 when she was shipped off to Madame Ellington’s Home for the Troubled. Her parents, being strong Catholics who ‘believed in the power of God, and all that is holy in this world’ were certainly convinced that Lynn, the girl in question, certainly did not fit the ‘holy bill’.

Lynn Josephine Malin, a small woman for her age, was ‘diagnosed’, and I use that term lightly, with ‘demonic abilities’. Certainly, to us today of sane mind, this is rather preposterous. But, as I’ve mentioned before, people in that time were rather horrible, and, consequently, very judgemental. B******s.

Then there was Cameron. Not much was known about the lad �" In fact, he didn’t know much about himself either. Standing at an impressive 6’5, Cameron, or Cam, as he preferred others to call him, was certainly intimidating. Dear Monsieur Archambeau, who claimed to fear none of these ‘menaces’, was even wary to go near the brute.

So Cameron spent most of his time in the dark recesses of his cell, brooding and muttering obscenities to himself, or taking out his aggression on the crumbling walls of the asylum. Of course, the lad wasn’t exempt of the sadistic practices that Monsieur Archambeau was so fond of.

So, as these two oddities found themselves trapped, used as experiments in this horrid place, they found companionship between each other. And from that shared pain, anger grew.

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“Cam, we have to get out of here…” Lynn whispered, her voice shrill and agitated. “We’ve already lost Steven, I can’t… Oh, lordy, I can’t lose any more.”

Cameron inclined his head, his breathe ragged. It had been too long since they had fresh air, and the room was starting to go stale. The lad could feel his lungs struggle to fill with the thick vapour. “Lynn, ya needa calm down.” Cameron’s voice was low and quiet, as he attempted to keep his face stoic. “Freakin’ out is not gonna ‘elp the situation. We gotta stay calm if we got any ‘ope of gettin’ outa ‘ere.”

All was silent except for the rough breathing of the pair, before a scream filled the hallway. A sudden burst of noise like a firework was heard, and - once more - silence.

Lynn snivelled, her head burrowed into the crook of Cameron’s arm. The thin fabric of the lad’s poor excuse for a top muffled her sobs, before her head shot up at the sound of a voice.

“Wakey wakey!” The voice could be heard in the distance, and the duo knew it could no other than Monsieur Archambeau. “Come on, mes petites merdes! Time to begin yet another day of l’amusement! Where oh where are my dear little favourites?” With a groan that caused the whole room to shake, the door was swung open to reveal a thin man with a walking stick. Indeed, it was Monsieur Archambeau.

Lynn’s eyes widened, her pupils dilating as she shimmied back and away from the imposing man. Squeaks of protest, along with the sound of ripping, filled the room. The room trembled with the screeches, ear-splitting and garbled, like someone trying to cover a sputtering faucet. Cameron sat a short distance away, his jaw set and his gaze low. His large frame shook as he stared at the dirty concrete floor, and soon a thick crimson liquid mingled in. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring as he shakily stood up.

“B*****d!” He choked out, his once stoic face beginning to drip with salty tears. “Oh, my Lynn… My dear, sweet Lynn…” He murmured, his eyes wide and filled with rage. “Y-You killed ‘er!” His knees failed him, and he kneeled to her side. “S-She’s gone… What ‘ave you done…”

Monsieur Archambeau watched the younger man weep over the girl, his gaze transfixed on the visual despair. His eyes sparkled with excitement, his body jumping with enthusiasm. It was so beautiful… The young girl’s head was twisted to the side, her throat twisted inside out and pouring with vermillion fluid. Her arms were cocked at impossible angles, and her leg was torn from its socket.

Coming up behind Cameron as he wept over the corpse, Monsieur Archambeau trailed a blade along Cam’s throat. With a swift slice, the lad’s head snapped back, and his decapitated body crumbled to the ground. The bodies of these two unfortunates were intertwined, the crimson sulphuric liquid merging together.

Laughter filled the room again and Monsieur Archambeau left the vicinity. It was time to return home, to his wife and children. He supposed there was going to be scones waiting for him, and his stomach grumbled with anticipation. It had been another long day at work at Madame Ellington’s Home for the Troubled.

And our dear Elliott J. Archambeau Jr. couldn’t have been more pleased.