By
Craig A. Philllips
Chapter 1
The Hanging
Barbour County Jail, West Virginia
November 11, 1922:
“Jesus Christ, Crowley, cut the man down for Christ’s sake!” Dr. Benjamin Foster angrily scolded Deputy Alfred Crowley as he entered the cell block. There inside the cell, hanging precariously from the top of the bars, was the lifeless body of Charlie Proctor, Dr. Foster’s newest patient, and no doubt the most famous resident of the Barbour County Jail up until that point. Charged with the stabbing and murder of his wife, it was questionable if Charlie was even sane at the time. A cold-hearted murderer or a raving lunatic, that was for Dr. Foster to decide. And now it doesn’t even matter, much to Dr. Foster’s chagrin. The case would have been an interesting case study too; Dr. Foster had no doubt about that. But could it have provided the prominence and prestige amongst his colleagues and peers that Dr. Foster so jealously sought and craved? He was unsure of that as he always seemed to be searching for validation, constantly trying to prove himself it seemed, sometimes even to his own detriment. All of that was unfortunately for naught now as Dr. Foster contemplated what all this meant for his career and for his future as he stood there before the lifeless body of his patient inside that dark and dingy cell.
As Dr. Foster took in his surroundings, he couldn’t help but notice that this was not a peaceful death by any stretch of the imagination. Charlie suffered, he was certain of it. The noose Dr. Foster observed clearly dug deep into Charlie Proctor’s neck causing various hues of bruising, any of which could very easily been described as severe, along with a laceration that was beginning to form as the skin struggled and strained, determined not to be ripped apart under the intense weight of Charlie’s body. This unfortunately led to the illusion of Charlie’s head appearing almost bulbous, comical even, despite the gravity of the situation, much like an over inflated ballon would be. And just as the various shades of blues and purples fought for prominence, Charlie’s head, and the imaginary string tethering it to his now deceased body appeared ready to snap at any uncomfortable minute. No doubt releasing Charlie’s poor “ballon head” up to the heavens in such a ridiculous scene that Dr. Foster couldn’t help but crack a small indiscreet smile to himself. Shaking this nonsensical imagery from his mind, Dr. Foster composed himself and proceeded to get back to the task at hand as he started to examine the noose that took Charlie Proctor’s life.
Upon examination, the noose appeared to be two towels braided together to form a kind of rope, strong enough to hold Charlie’s weight as his very existence gradually separated from his body leaving behind only a shell of a being for his corpse, an empty vessel no longer of any use to man. Dr. Foster could imagine the noose no doubt getting tighter and tighter with each twist and turn of Charlie’s body, choking him as he convulsed, stealing the very last breath from Charlie’s body in what must have seemed like an eternity to Charlie. Or perhaps Dr. Foster thought maybe Charlie was lucky enough to have the knot simply break his neck in an act of mercy from above, so he didn’t have to suffer the slow and torturous death some thought Charlie richly deserved. An autopsy sadly though will have to determine which method took Charlie’s poor, pathetic soul that day, Dr. Foster thought with a disappointing sigh. Continuing on with his examination Dr. Foster could tell the body had obviously been hanging for some time as rigor mortis had already started to set in and Charlie was cold to the touch leaving some lingering questions to dwell inside Dr. Foster’s ever inquisitive mind. Just as Dr. Foster was organizing his thoughts, Deputy Crowley made his presence known once again.
“Sheriff said to wait for you, Doc, to make the official call. He wants things to appear as official as possible since the newspaper boys will be all over this, once it gets out. You know, since he killed his wife and all. Besides, he was your patient Doc,” Crowley tried to explain.
“Crowley, I am the only doctor around here for ten miles, who else is going to pronounce him dead,” Dr. Foster wryly replied, “And, yes, Crowley he was my patient, you don’t have to remind me of it. I am fully aware of it even though I only talked to him a few times since I arrived here in town.”
But what did Dr. Foster actually know about his new patient, other than the crimes that he was being accused of? Unfortunately, not much to the sad dismay of Dr. Foster. Every single time Dr. Foster tried to get some background information on Charlie, all he got was a discouraging, “Sorry, I don’t remember, Doc.” Said in a melancholy monotone way, almost shamefully in fact, as Charlie tried to struggle with the uncertainty of what his life was before the night of the murder and what it had tragically turned into ever since. Now his life consists of nothing more than sitting in this small, dank cell, caged up like some crazed wild animal at the zoo, as visitors from all over the county, near and far, kept coming to the small jail, and oohing over its newest attraction. Charlie was nothing more than a strange oddity to them, the beast that had brought such evil to this sleepy little community, the boogey man that parents warned their children about and were told would visit them in the middle of the night if they didn’t eat all of their vegetables or didn’t get all of their chores done. Had he really turned into something so terrible and frightening? A monster of such epic proportions?
Ever since that very first session with Charlie, it was the look in Charlie’s eyes that captured Dr. Foster’s attention the most. That look had played over and over in Dr. Foster’s memory, much like when you get a certain song stuck in your mind and your mind just can’t seem to let it go. Those eyes. God, those poor, sad, bewildered eyes. They begged and pleaded with Dr. Foster to provide answers to questions that Charlie simply didn’t even know how or what to ask.
All Charlie remembered was being startled as Sheriff Hicks placed handcuffs on him as if shaken from some sort of hypnotic or catatonic state. The sheriff had found Charlie cowering in the corner of the bedroom where his wife, Cecila, had just met an unspeakable death speaking incoherently and rocking back and forth. It was as if he was trying to hide or protect himself from some sort of monster or demon. His shirt, hands, and face were drenched in Cecila’s own blood. A knife being found on the floor next to a scared and very confused Charlie only contributed to the overwhelming evidence against him. Charlie never thought or believed he could be capable of such horrific deeds, especially to his beloved wife, a person who he considered his soulmate, the very essence of his life and everything that was good in it.
Just as Charlie was being helped to his feet by Sheriff Hicks, he got a glimpse of the terror that had unfolded within the room. The splattered blood on the walls seemed as if a painter had carelessly thrown a bucket of deep, dark red paint against it. The blood slowly and endlessly cascading down the wall, creating disturbing streaks and abstract images, almost mocking the solemn occasion by creating some sort of nefarious masterpiece. The sheets also became so saturated with blood that crimson droplets were dripping off the edge of them in a continuous rhythm adding a sickening and morbid soundtrack to the already unfathomable scene. The life blood of Charlie’s wife oozing out of her body with each droplet of blood coagulating into a puddle on the floor at the corner of the bed where she lay, her arm dangling by a few sinews of flesh and tendons off the side of the bed. The flesh covering the rest of her body, what was left of it anyway, was mutilated beyond all recognition. There was just no way to accurately determine just how many times Charlie had stabbed her with the condition the body was in. It was a scene that simply could not be imagined. It was almost mythical in fact, like a Greek tragedy with the ferocious and ravenous hounds of hell emerging from the underworld to partake in a glutinous feast and leaving nothing for their devilish master. It was incomprehensible, a true hell, and there needed to be some way, any way to make sense of the scene. As Charlie slowly absorbed all that he had seen, he passed by the body of the one person who truly loved Charlie unconditionally and with all her heart, he noticed Cecilia’s head was turned towards him, her eyes, though without life and hallow, were open, pleading with Charlie, “Why, Charlie, why?”
That is where the memory of Charlie Proctor began that awful night. He had no recollection of any of the circumstances leading up to those hideous sights that now tormented his soul and would for the rest of his short life. The blood, the body, those cold, dead, haunting eyes. He had for some unknown and peculiar reason completely blacked out, with no memory whatsoever as if it had never happened, a dream that was never dreamt. But it did happen, and this was no dream for Charlie, it was a nightmare. His and his alone. That is what made the case so unique in the mind of Dr. Foster. Was the trauma so great that Charlie’s mind just simply refused to acknowledge it and shut itself completely down almost like a safety valve, protecting Charlie’s psyche? Or was there another unknown reason just waiting to be discovered and explored? The thought intrigued and excited Dr. Foster as he wondered if he would have been up to the task to unlock the steadfast vault that housed the memories of that night and quite possibly any other secrets Charlie’s psyche wanted to remain locked away, never to harm Charlie ever again.
Though lost in thought, Dr. Foster was soon jilted back to reality, with the nasally piercing voice of Deputy Crowley interjecting his own theory of Charlie Proctor’s mental state. Never a scholar, Deputy Crowley, had his own unique interpretation of psychology, one that Dr. Foster had a hard time appreciating.
“Well, if you ask me, that guy was as crazy as a pet coon!” Crowley theorized much to the aggravation of Dr. Foster.
“Have you ever owned a pet coon, Crowley?” Dr. Foster asked warily, getting a little annoyed with Deputy Crowley’s foray into the semantics of psychiatry.
“Hell no,” Crowley protested, “I’m not crazy like this guy. I may be a little slow in the head, but I’m definitely not crazy! Besides, what in the world would I be doing with a pet racoon?” Crowley asked as if offended by the thought.
“One never knows what you people do up in those mountains and mines, Crowley.”
“Look here, Doc, I’m a respectable citizen here. My grandpappy settled this here town and I’m mighty proud of that. I’m not like some of these other hillbillies. I got respect, Doc, and this here badge tells everyone in this town that I am better than each and every one of them. Excepting of course, Sheriff Hicks, of course.” Crowly responded indignantly.
“Of course.” Dr. Foster answered back as he thought what a fool and complete moron Crowley actually was and how, if true, that Crowley and the Sheriff were the only respectable citizens in this town, well, God help them all! Dr. Foster then proceeded to continue his investigation of the body, looking over it impatiently, just wanting to get this uncomfortable conversation and experience finally done and over with. Maybe now he could go back to Morgantown to the university and return to his medical research on the intricacies of the human mind.
The only reason Dr. Foster was even in Barbour County was because the judge here, Judge Randolph, asked him to determine whether Charlie Proctor was sane enough to assist in his own defense or crazy enough to be locked away for lengthy period of time in the West Virginia Hospital for the Insane in Weston. Judge Randolph was a close friend of Dr. Foster’s father, Judge Benjamin Foster, Sr., who always thought and expected Ben, Jr., to follow in his footsteps with his own career in law and quite possibly entering into state or even national politics. Dr. Foster or Benny, as family and friends called him, was bored to tears with all the legality and technicality of the law though. Benny instead became fascinated with the human mind, how it worked, how it controlled every aspect of the human body and how it determined the course of each human’s life. The mind molded your personality, made you arrogant or humble, could make you rich or poor, it was the pathway to your very soul and all that you were and ever would be. Put simply, the mind was the key to your destiny and all that you could become in this world.
For poor Deputy Crowley though, the keen Dr. Foster had already assessed that Crowley’s mind was not too advanced, to say the least, and quite often affected by the moonshine that Crowley usually drank to excess. No doubt, Crowley was trying to masquerade as someone of importance in this one-horse town. Making himself bigger than he actually was. The only problem is that you can’t hide stupidity no matter how hard you try. As old Crowley would say, “You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” God, what an imbecile, Crowley was, furthering affirming it to Dr. Foster, every time he opened his mouth, just like now.
“Yes, sir, this one,” Crowley continued pointing to the hanging body of Charlie Proctor, “he’s el loco as them Mexicans say. Hell, he sort of looks like one of those pinatas! Wonder how much candy he has in him” as Crowley shoved the body causing it to slightly to sway a little.
“Go ahead, Doc, give’em a crack!” Crowley snorted and laughed at his own macabre humor.
“Not like anyone is ever going to give a damn, Doc, what a poor sick bastard, he was,” Crowley interjected in between his own sickly laugh.
“Crowley, just cut the man down,” Dr. Foster reiterated as Crowley felt perturbed at the doctor for putting an end to all of his fun. He wasn’t hurting anyone, he was just funning. That damn doctor needs to learn to lighten up some, Crowley thought. The world is a cruel place; he’s seen it in the war. Things he wished he had never actually seen seared forever in his memory. Disturbing and unsettling images and sights, ungodly and terrifying sounds, and putrid and nauseating smells all became imbedded in his mind, defiling the innocence of not only him but an entire generation. In Crowley’s view in order to protect yourself from all the world’s misery and pain, you need to laugh at it, right in the world’s fucking face, be as defiant as possible, otherwise you’re not going to survive. Unless you find a way to stand up to all the evil in this world, it will eat you up inside like a parasite until you’re empty and completely dead inside. Everyone needs a way to cope with all of life’s cruelties and wickedness and sick, twisted humor was Crowley’s way of doing just that.
“Ok, Doc, let me get somebody to help me,” Crowley dejectedly respondent, his fun abruptly ending.
Once Deputy Crowley left the cell for help, Dr. Foster started to take the scene all in making mental notes that he would include in the file of Charlie Proctor that the doctor kept for his research. He could smell the death in that little cell. It wasn’t just the dead body of Charlie Proctor, it was more profound, more distinct. Charlie once said to the doctor during one of the few sessions they had together, that death followed him, like a bird. A raven to be exact. The doctor had brushed it off as a mere happenstance, a comment made by someone not completely in tune with their own mind. A hallucination if you will, of an unsound mind.
For the first time, though, Dr. Foster completely understood what Charlie was talking about. Death was indeed in that little cell with him, rattling Dr. Foster to his very core. As stagnant and as damp as that cell was, a slight breeze passed over the neck of Dr. Foster, like Death was there trying to whisper something in Dr. Foster’s ears. Maybe it was, trying to tell him who was next on the Reaper’s fatal list, maybe it was even him the Reaper was after. The breath left the lungs of the doctor for a brief moment, and he had to catch himself against the side of the sink in the cell. Dr. Foster bent over the top of the basin of the sink, took off his glasses, and took a deep breath to calm his nerves and splash some water on his face. God, he could smell the sweat and body odor throughout that entire cell, even the water that he used to splash a little bit on his face was tainted with a horrible septic smell. It almost made the poor doctor gag from the stench of the water as drops of it slowly dripped down his face as he quickly wiped the excess water off with a pristine handkerchief from his pocket.
Once the doctor put his glasses back on, he noticed all of the graffiti inside of Charlie’s cell. There were drawings of people with horrid, disfigured faces on the walls as well as people missing limbs, things that could most certainly unhinge a mind if it wasn’t already gone from all reality. On the far wall at the back of the cell was a picture of a young man precariously balancing on a crutch as he steadied himself on one leg. Dr. Foster could see in the man’s face and eyes an anger and hatred that was unmistakable. It could bore a hole right to your very soul like a dagger dripping with vengeance and malice. And as Dr. Foster bared witness to the drawing, something told his body to flee the cell, but he couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move. It was as if he became paralyzed with fear, a sensation he never felt before, all from the sheer hatred displayed in the young man’s eyes and face. Dr. Foster’s mind kept telling his feet to flee and get away as fast as he could, but for some unexplained reason, they would not heed the brain’s outcrying plea for safety.
Dr. Foster closed his eyes and took several deep, slow breaths, to calm his nerves and to remind himself that the drawing was not real and only represented the failings of some deranged mind. Inhale ……exhale……, inhale……, exhale……, just like the exercises he learned from his studies. As Dr. Foster slowly let the air out of his lungs the fear remained, refusing to leave its new host. After a few minutes, although it seemed like eternity to Dr. Foster, the fear slowly started to weaken its grip on his nervous system. Once the feeling began to retreat, the rigidity of his soul started to loosen inside, building up his courage to confront the young man once again. Finally, with his courage now somewhat restored, he felt he could safely reopen his eyes. The eyelids slowly started to lift, preparing itself for the reappearance of the young man. It was then that Dr. Foster saw the chilling words that encompassed the drawing in an eerie, haphazard way, surrounding the figure from every conceivable direction. Yelling and blaring from the wall the young man declared, “You did this to me! You did this to me!!”
Dr. Foster had to quickly snap himself back to reality as he stumbled backwards, unnerved from the accusations of the young man, and very nearly falling over the toilet that jetted out from the side wall of the cell. As Dr. Foster steadied himself, a feeling of nausea overwhelmed his stomach, and he sat warily down on the bunk of Charlie Proctor. Taking his handkerchief from his pocket and once again removing his glasses, Dr. Foster mopped the cold sweat from his forehead and cheeks. Putting his glasses back onto his face, Dr. Foster saw the next mural on the wall right across from Charlie’s bunk. In it, Dr. Foster saw someone propped up on his elbow completely engulfed by flames and ruins. But once again, it was the face that took Dr. Foster aback or lack thereof. Half of the skull of the individual was missing, the brains were exposed and slowly leaking out of the cranium, as the blood from the individual flowed freely, covering the poor person’s face. Dr. Foster sat there aghast at the detail and horror of the scene. He spied poking out of the crimson mask much to Dr. Foster’s utter disgust, an eyeball lazily dangling out of the socket, just hanging there, pleading for help, any help. And above the drawing, hovering over the flames of the hellish scene, were words frantically scratched into the paint of the cell in what must have been forlorn desperation. The words only made the unearthly scene even more fiendish. As Dr. Foster read those words coming from the poor, hapless soul on the wall, he could hear the whimper and outright terror of the person echoing throughout his head, reverberating with fear. The words were stinging and pierced deep within Dr. Foster’s heart, “Don’t let me die!! Don’t let me die! Save me! For God’s sake, HELP ME!!”
Dr. Foster could feel the nausea again starting to rise to the surface even though he tried to ignore the souring, bubbling sensation churning within his stomach like a witch’s brew. But try as he may he could not stop the bacon and eggs from making an uninvited appearance, traveling up his esophagus and shooting out of his mouth into the toilet. The nasty taste of bile overcame Dr. Foster’s mouth, and it was all he could taste as he spit the last remnants of vomit into the toilet, as it joined its liberated brethren floating casually inside the toilet bowl. Dr. Foster sat there, stunned, as if he just ran an emotional marathon and was completely exhausted and spent. He never experienced anything like this as he laid his head into his hands in between his knees. Hoping, praying that he could leave soon.
Sitting there trying to make sense of his emotional letdown, he could hear Crowley coming down the walkway leading to Charlie’s cell. Dr. Foster slowly raised his head from his hands and that’s when he noticed who or what the individual was reaching out for. It was a bird. And it was sitting on the limb of a tree also engulfed in flames, feeding the fire that was being depicted in the hellish scene upon the cell wall. But it wasn’t just any bird. It was a raven, the kind of bird that Charlie always talked about and feared. Dr. Foster recalled how you could see the unbridled fear in Charlie’s eyes and face, and you could hear it in his voice, shaking and quivering, whenever he spoke of the ravens. Nervously moving around in his seat, wringing his hands, as his glance darted all around the room, looking for some kind of escape route out of the room, away from the ravens. Charlie would repeatedly claim during his sessions with Dr. Foster that the ravens were following him, stalking him in fact and watching his every move, never allowing Charlie to find the peace that he so desperately sought. Squawking at him and taunting him, letting Charlie know that there’s no escape, no place to hide from the bird’s dark, evil eyes, judging Charlie and condemning him to a lifetime of torment and hell.
The paranoia was palpable when Charlie spoke of the ravens and so was the psychosis or so Dr. Foster initially thought. But could there be more to it than Dr. Foster’s preliminary diagnosis suggested? Dr. Foster couldn’t help but wonder if his skills failed him and led him to make a premature judgment before he could fully investigate what truly was going on in Charlie’s mind. Almost like tunnel vision, refusing to see any other diagnosis or explanations as it seemed like a clear-cut case of psychosis there at first although under unique circumstances. Unfortunately, Dr. Foster no longer had the luxury of examining Charlie, being able to ask him poignant questions or watch his body language as he answered, or any other innumerable cues that could help lead to a proper diagnosis now that Charlie was dead. As Dr. Foster stood up from the bunk, he looked around again. In shock, he was startled to discover that there wasn’t just the one raven sitting on the bare branch of the burning tree, but there were several throughout the cell. All over the cell in fact, almost like a flock of them were circling the dead and hurt, waiting to transport the damaged souls to the devil himself for his own personal collection.
How could he not see all the ravens flying around inside the cell? Was Dr. Foster’s sight betraying his senses, how could he miss all those ravens? Or did the ravens do something more, something much more, something completely and totally unexpected? Did they actually open Dr. Foster’s eyes fully to another dimension, to a world not yet explored or understood by any mortal man? Could the ravens be the guides Dr. Foster unknowingly needed to lead him down the beguiling path into Charlie’s petrifying world?
Dr. Foster now started to frantically question himself, his skills, and his logic as he became more and more unsure whether all of this was indeed just a fragment of Charlie’s distorted imagination or was there more to it, a lot more? Was Charlie’s incredibly fragile mind crumbling into the abyss of madness or was it terrifyingly real? It certainly appeared to be real to Charlie. You could tell it by the details in the drawings. That was undeniable. Were these monsters stalking Charlie like a group of deviants, plaguing his mind, destroying his psyche and forcing him to do things he never dreamt he was capable of, including robbing Charlie of his sanity and peace of mind? If so, where did these monsters manifest from and how did they create such a noxious reality for Charlie? What tragedy or trauma could cause the mind to believe in such atrocities and give birth to such an ungodly brood? What made the memories fade forever from Charlie’s mind? These questions and more started to invigorate the mind of Dr. Foster, making it come alive as he contemplated the possible answers.
“I couldn’t find anyone, Doc, so you’ll have to help me,” Crowley’s voice proceeded him as he walked down the catwalk to Charlie’s cell.
“Couldn’t handle seeing a dead body, huh,” snickered Crowley as he pointed to the toilet with the floating debris of Dr. Foster’s breakfast in it, making it look like some nasty stew or goulash, ready for the stove, that no one in their right mind would want to eat.
“Don’t worry Doc, it happens to the best of us, especially if it’s your first one. It was, wasn’t it, Doc?” Crowley said in a very unsympathetic, almost patronizing tone. Before Dr. Foster could respond though, Crowley continued, “Me, I’ve seen a ton of ‘em during the war. Hell, I caused most of ‘em being a machine gunner. I mowed those poor Hun bastards down like there was no tomorrow and without any remorse. The bastards deserved it, each and every one on of ‘em,” Crowley boasted arrogantly with hatred enunciating every word.
“Colonel McAlexander, “The Rock of the Marne”, God bless his soul, always told us to kill as many as you can because they would kill you just as soon as look at you. Those dirty fucks. And by God, we did. He used to say that they might kill you, but, by God, they will never whip us. And they never did,” Crowley declared proudly almost puffing his chest out as he lived out those days of kill or be killed.
“You didn’t serve, did you, Doc? Oh, that’s right you got that crippled leg of yours, and your eyesight isn’t all that good either, I’m sure, wearing those spectacles and all. But I’m sure you sold a lot of war bonds to help support us, troops, though,” Crowley condescendingly mocked the doctor.
Crowley hit a sore point with the doctor. Dr. Foster DIDN’ T serve in the war, but did that make him any less of a man because he never killed anyone? Hell, Dr. Foster was unsure if he would even be able to do such a thing, kill a man. Dr. Foster was more of a pacifist, like President Wilson, before the president’s hand was forced and the United States entered the Great War. Was he even capable of making that difficult primal leap into barbarism needed for the strongest to survive, that kill or be killed, mentality? That same killing mentality soldiers are forced out of necessity to develop and hone so it becomes second nature to them the same as breathing is? The point was moot though and Dr. Foster would never be quite sure how he would measure up to others of his generation who had served during the Great War. Whether that was a curse or a blessing, Dr. Foster couldn’t definitively decide, but it was a question that dogged Dr. Foster for the rest of his life.
If it wasn’t for his damn leg, then maybe Dr. Foster would know whether his fate was one of cowardice or one of a heroic soldier doing his duty for his country when it beckoned for him. As much as Dr. Foster would like to forget, he was a cripple, he couldn’t hide it. It was his own scarlet letter denouncing himself unworthy of life’s happiness, announcing to everyone that he was different, that he couldn’t do certain tasks like running or jumping, that he was simply a freak. His body was defective and because of that he didn’t deserve, let alone could ever receive love, within the strict confines of this world. His heart would break whenever he saw his damaged and distorted leg and then that heartache would turn to anger towards the world, towards life, and towards God for cursing him this damn deformity.
Dr. Foster never forgot that day and knew ever since the carriage accident that mangled his leg that life as he previously knew it was over. It was never discovered what spooked the horse that fateful day he and his father were riding in the carriage, although there had been numerous rumors over the years, none were substantiated though or even dignified by the family for that fact. The family horse, Pacer, usually so dolce and tame, especially under the reigns of Judge Foster, for some unknown reason became so stricken with fear that all sensibility left the stead as tragedy loomed on ahead. The horse with terror cursing through its body, broke out into a full gallop caught up in a spirited race with some unknown entity as Judge Foster futilely struggled and strained, cursed and yelled, to bring the frantic horse back to his senses. Each profanity though only angering Pacer more as he galloped faster and faster paying no heed to his surroundings and all but ignoring his passengers’ welfare. The carriage by this time was being tossed side to side like an unmanned ship in a hurricane sometimes with the wheels even coming off the ground like it was being powerfully tossed by some gigantic wave.
The rage from the horse radiated down to the carriage and threw Judge Foster from it as he tried unsuccessfully to control the horse with the reins and his pure unadulterated will, throwing him mercilessly to the ground. Miraculously, Judge Foster only suffered from scratches and bruises and a heavy dose of embarrassment and humility for not being able to control his own horse. That though was the least of his worries as poor Benny wasn’t quite as fortunate and lucky.
The horse darted around a sharp curve as Pacer continued with his deadly race bound and determined to win at any cost. Benny, however, would pay the ultimate price when the torque and pressure snapped the rigging from the horse, and the carriage went crashing down a steep embankment, rolling over and over again. Benny felt the excruciating pain as the shine bone snapped and tore through the muscle and flesh at some ungodly angle. As Benny lay there on the ground trying to breathe to make sure he was alive, the pain in his ribs radiated throughout his body like a lightning bolt with each labored breath. But at least, Benny knew he was alive. Benny then tried to move his arms and to his surprise they moved. There were sore and stiff but thank God they moved. Next come his legs. Slowly the left leg moved ever so tediously but it moved. Then came the right leg. Nothing. Benny could feel the pain, but his leg wouldn’t listen to his brain and move. “Move damn it, move!!” Benny thought but to no avail. He tried again, and again his leg would not heed his brain’s commands.
“Move, please God, move!!” Benny commanded as tears began to stream down his cheeks and then the nausea and lightheadedness started to take control of Benny’s pain-racked body. The sky started to spin with the clouds forming a kaleidoscope of shapes and sizes.
“God, I’m going to die,” Benny spoke to himself as the world continued to spin out of his control until Benny could no longer fight to keep his eyes open. Try as hard as he did, his eyelids slowly closed to what Benny thought was for the very last time. Darkness mercifully descended upon Benny’s mind and Benny would not wake up for another five days. During that time, the doctors urged Judge Foster to let them amputate Benny’s leg to save the boy’s life. But Judge Foster was a stubborn old fool who loved his son and couldn’t bring himself to handicapped Benny like that. He knew Benny would have enough trouble to handle now in life; he wasn’t going to let his son face those troubles with one leg.
The doctors finally relented to Judge Fosters demand to save the leg before relinquishing all responsibility as to whether the boy will ever walk again. The doctors sawed off the jagged pieces of bone where the break occurred causing Benny to lose about an inch in length in his right leg. The doctor then popped the knee back into the joint that it had so viciously been separated from and set the bone like any other broken leg before suturing the open wound closed. The rest was up to God and poor, poor Benny.
On the fifth day, Benny finally woke to the tragedy that would become his new life. For his previous life died the day of the accident and Benny knew it. On that day a new, pathetic, worthless cripple was born, and Benny’s life was forever altered and his trajectory completely changed. It didn’t matter to Judge Foster though that his boy may be a cripple, he just loved his son with all of his heart, unconditionally and forever. During the whole time Benny was in a coma his father never left his side and the Judge wept bitterly when he had to tell Benny that he may never walk again. Benny being as stubborn as his old man, vowed that he would and not only that, but he would live a life that would make his father proud too. Benny accomplished both of those feats, first by walking, and though it wasn’t through the law or politics as Judge Foster had hoped and wished, he did make his father proud when he became a doctor of psychiatry. A fairly new field of medicine that Benny could blaze trials and set precedents, both of which Benny would accomplish in due time.
It took over a year of frustration, indescribable pain, heartache, and many, many tears before Benny could make headway in the new life that God had bestowed upon him. No one ever saw the tears, Benny kept those hidden behind a facade of determination, strength, and fortitude. A mask to hide all the pain. But Benny survived it all, conquered every single adversity and even thrived because of it. Though Benny overcame monumental obstacles and was able to walk again, his leg however still became withered and weak from the damage heaped upon it. There was just nothing Benny could do about that. And try as he could, Dr. Foster would always walk with a limp, sliding his damaged, crippled leg across the ground with each step that he took.
There were rumors around town after the carriage accident that some neighborhood boys were seen running from the area where the horse got spooked. It was also whispered amongst the gossipy hens who paid more attention to inuendo than facts, that it was revenge for Benny flirting with a girl known around town to be “loose” and of low moral character and who had her share of jealous gentlemen callers. Benny heard the rumors, of course, and vowed revenge if it was true, but that rumor and many others could never be proven as fact and only acted as pure fancy to satisfy those who thrived on other’s misery and misfortune.
Dr. Foster knew he had been in his own war and was a casualty because of it. Just because he never went to France and killed Huns, Dr. Foster knew suffering all too well. He became friends with heartache and despair. He had gambled with fate just as the soldiers did over in France. Sometimes he won the bet, other times the house would claim all the chips. He had feasted on pain and agony like it was expensive caviar in a doomed ship sinking to the bottom of the ocean after being torpedoed by a German U-boat. Yes, he had been to war. His war was different, but it was still a war. Fuck Crowley and his condescending and bullying attitude. That worthless little prick!
“I bet this guy was in the war,” interjected Crowley as he looked over the drawings inside of the cell, “I’d come back here at night to check on him and he would be drawing, frantically, like he was possessed by the devil. I’ve never seen anything like it. Two, three o’clock in the morning drawing and mumbling to himself.”
“What was he saying?” Dr. Foster curiously asked.
“Hell, if I know. I couldn’t understand it. Like I said the guy was bats. Then other times when he wasn’t drawing, he’d be in that corner over there, all hunkered down and rocking back and forth with a faraway look in his eyes. Like he wasn’t even here. I mean, of course, he was here physically, I saw him there, but in his mind, who knows where the hell he was at. I saw some of the same shit in France, they called it shell shock, but being a doctor, you probably already heard about that. Maybe even studied it.” Crowley said as he shook his head in pity.
“I’ve heard of it, but no, I’ve never studied or researched it,” answered Dr. Foster.
Crowley continued, “The few times when he would sleep, he would start to cry out. I heard those cries before over in France. It’s the same cries that I heard as men laid there in no man’s land dying, almost begging to be put out of their misery. It’s hard to get used to that sound, Doc. And I made a lot of Huns make that sound too, but it still rattles you. Never thought I would hear it again once I made it back to the good ol’ U.S. of A.”
Dr. Foster was momentarily stunned and taken back at the brief glimpse of vulnerability shown by Crowley.
“And then I saw what he drew. Sent chills up and down my spine, Doc, cause I seen similar shit in the war. Not exactly the same, but similar, enough to make your blood run cold, that’s for sure. Yes sir, I have no doubts he was in the war. Hopefully, the poor bastard is at peace now,” Crowley said almost sympathetically, “Now, Doc, grab him by the waist and hold him up while I cut these towels. Don’t want him to fall and hit his head, not like it would really matter though.”
“God, what a fucking prick,” Dr. Foster thought as Crowley nonchalantly chuckled, “Just as he was actually acting human with real emotions, his true asshole self comes shining through once again.”
Dr. Foster wrapped his arms around Charlie’s waist and lifted him up as Crowley used a knife and sawed through the towels. Because of Dr. Foster’s leg, he could not hold Charlie’s body very securely, and Charlie’s body would shift back and forth to the rhythm of Crowley’s sawing motion with his knife. As Dr. Foster tried to strength his grip, he felt something fall and hit his good foot. Dr. Foster looked down to see a small book that looked like the journal he had given Charlie during their first session together, thinking it may help Charlie to piece together his past or provide a little more insight into what was actually going on in Charlie’s mind. Without Crowley noticing, Dr. Foster, gently kicked the journal under Charlie’s bunk to be sure that it didn’t get confiscated by Crowley or the Sheriff who was also looking for answers concerning Charlie’s past and his subsequent death.
Finally, Crowley’s blade sliced through the thick interwoven towel as Charlie Proctor’s body crumbled against the body of Dr. Foster almost knocking him over from the weight of the body. Crowley quickly came up beside Dr. Foster and helped steady the body as they both placed the body onto the bed inside of the cell.
“Sleep well, sweet prince,” Crowley cackled as he patted the dead body on the head, “Guess, the only other thing that needs done now is call the funeral parlor. You coming, Doc.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Dr. Foster responded waiting for the right moment to retrieve the journal under the bed.
“You going to kiss him goodnight, Doc?” Crowley laughed hysterically at his own sickly joke as he exited the cell to make the call to the funeral parlor.
As soon as Crowley was out of sight, Dr. Foster picked up the journal from underneath the bed. Briefly flipping through it, he noticed that the book was practically full of Charlie’s writing. Dr. Foster held the journal tightly as if it was some great ancient artifact that begrudgingly held all the secrets to a world Dr. Foster was eager to explore. His mind began to race faster and faster as it roared to life. He never felt so invigorated as he did right at that moment. For so long, his mind was dormant, nothing to feed it, nothing to nurture it. It was hopelessly starved, causing Dr. Foster to become complacent in his profession, allowing him to blow Charlie Proctor’s mind and hallucinations off as simple psychosis. But all of that was about to change now. This journal could be the key to opening his mind to a whole new world governed and influenced by unmitigated fear. A world bountiful in all that could be discovered and with unlimited possibilities. Dr. Foster could only imagine learning and mapping this uncharted territory, learning the intricacies of how the mind could manipulate the body into doing the unthinkable. This could be groundbreaking, an unprecedented study with unprecedented findings, and very well could alter the course of the world in so many ways. God, the unspoken possibilities and ramifications could be extraordinary! A whole new realm just waiting to be explored and Dr. Foster was now going to be at the forefront of it all, all thanks to Charlie’s journal!
Dr. Foster had once theorized that hallucinations are only hallucinations for those who don’t believe what is being seen or heard. For those who DO believe, they become real, the lies told by them believed beyond all shadow of a doubt, just like Charlie unquestionably believed them, falling prey to the unimaginable. For it certainly was frighteningly real to Charlie Procter, Dr. Foster could certainly attest to that after seeing all the drawings in the cell and hearing Crowley’s testimony. Those drawings echoed a raw, primal evil, many believe could not exist, and provided a small poignant glimpse into Charlie’s troubled mind and psyche that could be backed up unequivocally by his journal, in his own words.
Dr. Foster tried to stop his racing mind. He hadn’t even read the journal, it might be useless, ramblings of a psychotic person making no sense at all. Or it could be priceless. It could illustrate how the mind works like some sort of puppet master that pulls the strings this way and that so that the body will do and believe whatever the mind tells it to. All in some quixote mission to protect the person and his psyche due to the trauma the person suffered. Or does there even need to be trauma to set this process in motion? Can the mind be manipulated, fooled into thinking it’s protecting its host by making it do whatever YOU, the manipulator, want it to do? But Dr. Foster was getting ahead of himself. Remember, he told himself, this must be researched scientifically, no other way, as he placed the journal in the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Thank you, Charlie,” Dr. Foster whispered to himself as he patted Charlie’s dead body on the shoulder, like they were buddies, as he exited the cell. Walking up the catwalk, Dr. Foster could hear Crowley talking to the funeral home and making the arrangements to have the body picked up. Exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster he had been on since the discovery of Charlie Proctor’s hanging body, Dr. Foster couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and get a couple of hours of sleep. Best to look at the journal with a fresh, relaxed mind instead of in the current state it was momentarily in. Yes, he thought, sleep would do him well.
Dr. Foster gave Crowley a brief wave as he walked past him, exiting the jail. He hadn’t gotten very far when he heard squawking coming from behind him. He tried to ignore the obnoxious sound, but it just wouldn’t quit. Over and over the sound continued getting shriller and shriller, grating on his already frazzled nerves. Dr. Foster finally turned around and there stood a raven, on the roof of the jail, looking and talking directly to Dr. Foster. The blood in his veins turned ice cold as the chill radiated up his spine and an overwhelming fear harkened to his very soul. What could it be telling him? What could it mean?
Literary Works of Craig Phillips 