I wish I hadn’t done that.
I am unsure if it was a simple case of my mind playing tricks on me due to fatigue or if I truly did see something. No, it simply can’t have been. I am a man of science and there is a rational explanation for everything. I will record my hallucinations here nonetheless, so that there is a record of them.
At approximately six o’clock it began. I was sitting in my office in the boiler room. Now, there are always strange sounds that surround me there, but that night there was no noise. It was as though someone turned the sound off. It was as though I was under water. I could hear the usual noises, but they seemed so far away. Perhaps my ears were blocked. Perhaps the pressure had changed because of the boiler room.
I’m not sure.
The next thing I knew, he was standing there. He was standing there in my office. I could see him clearly, as though he was material and right in front of me.
It was Wellbottom. He looked sick, his skin paper white. I could almost see through him. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I felt as though my penis had shrivelled to nothing. He just stood there. At first I thought I had fallen asleep, so I pinched at my skin, trying to wake myself up.
A large red welt remained on my arm and, to my horror, Wellbottom remained as well. His skin began to blister and his mouth opened far wider than should have been likely. His mouth grew large enough to consume me whole.
The room then started to fill with the most god-awful shrieking and the stench of burnt flesh. A flame started at Wellbottom’s feet and spread slowly up his body.
I watched in horror as his face began to melt off and his eyeballs dripped out of his eye sockets, hanging by the ocular nerve. They rolled down into his over enlarged mouth and, with that, he exploded.
I raised my hands to protect my face from the inferno I was expecting, but nothing happened. When I lowered my hands Wellbottom was gone and the regular noises of the boiler room returned with full force.
Despite the return of warmth, I felt chilled to my very core. I quickly poured myself a large glass of whiskey, neat, and downed it before pouring another. I needed to steady myself so that I could continue working.
I sat, trying to focus my mind back on my work; I needed to record my notes while they were still fresh or run the risk that I would forget something. I had my shorthand notes, but I didn’t manage to write everything down due to time constraints.
Then I heard a shuffling. No, a shuffling is not how I would describe it. Maybe a clanging. Yes, I could describe it as a clanging, of metal on metal. I got up to inspect what was happening, expecting one of the orderlies doing rounds. When I entered my laboratory my instrument trays were overturned and my various scalpels, saws, clamps and retractors all lay on the floor.
As I bent to pick them up, something clanged behind me. A gurney had wheeled itself into the wall. That was when I heard it. Strange laughter echoed throughout the lab. At first it sounded feminine, but gradually dropped several octaves until it was a raspy, masculine laugh. I looked around for the source, wondering if a patient had perhaps escaped his or her room, but there was no one, and very few places anyone could conceal themselves. I shivered; it had gotten cold rather suddenly, rather like it had in my office in the boiler room.
Except for the laughter.
The laughter continued and I found myself turning in circles in the middle of the laboratory, doing my best to find the source. It seemed to come from the left, but when I looked to the left, it suddenly came from the right.
Had my mind snapped? Was the stress getting to me?
I do not know. I left. I left and went directly to my quarters and stayed there. Holed up and hiding, too afraid to come out and work. I excused myself by saying I was ill. The nurses didn’t question it.
The only communication I have had since is with the odd nurse, coming by to give me food and check if I was feeling better, and one orderly who came up let me know that the head physician will be coming for an inspection. I need to ensure everything is above board and clean, so that he feels I am a fit candidate to run the Asylum. I don’t need someone else like Wellbottom trying to stop me from helping patients.
Hopefully all goes well. As for the other events that took place, I can only assume it was due to stress and late nights. And that these few days of rest have restored me back to my right mind.
Chapter Seven
HANS
24 November 1950
Again, it has been awhile. I don’t know why I struggle so much to keep this journal updated. It’s not as if I am not studious. It is not as if I am not dedicated. I suppose it has been a bit busy, and I have been more tired than usual.
The head physician came for inspection and said, although he found the institution satisfactorily run, he was not happy about the deaths that occurred under my watch. He has given me a probationary period in which to prove myself capable of running this Asylum. I know I can impress the man - he is so easily impressed - and once I have a confirmed gender modification therapy he will wish he offered me the permanent position immediately, especially when other Asylum’s will offer me better positions with better pay.
Once that was dealt with, I rescheduled the way I did everything. I needed to pay more attention to the running of the Asylum, and therefore I was up earlier.
I will review all the patients’ medications and make sure the other doctors check on them regularly. I have asked the doctors to deliver daily updates on the progress of their patients.
From the nurses I requested detailed charts of how often they washed patients, when they fed them, what they fed them, amongst numerous other particulars. I also charged them with monitoring the cleaning staff and ensuring that the wards are kept constantly clean.
Most of the staff complained about the additional work for patients that aren’t even aware enough to appreciate it, but I need to keep them busy, and out of my way. I have daily meetings with the staff in the morning, before it’s time to wake up the patients and take them to the day room. Then I spend the rest of my day working on my gender modification treatment and occasionally doing rounds on other patients, to add my notes to the file, for visibility when the next inspection happens.
I regularly check in with both Clara and Aubrey. Aubrey has been strapped to a bed in the medical wing since he was attacked. He still mumbles about a ghost, but he’s not as shaken as he was. When asked if he would like to resume his treatment, he got a bit crazed, saying he was no longer homosexual and needed nothing further.
I am disappointed, because Aubrey was such an excellent case. I am not sure if I attribute his cure to the treatment or the attack from another patient. I have to exclude him from my study. I don’t want outer factors to influence results.
Clara has been a lot more open with me, talking about how much she wants to get better. When I asked about why she doesn’t feel her mother loves her, she divulged further information. I feel the mother is the source of all the child’s problems and if I can get the two into a room together, then I will be able to reconcile the issues and begin Clara’s physical treatment.
I am going to make contact with Mr and Mrs Marx and request they come to the Asylum for a consultation. Our previously scheduled meeting did not happen due to the events over Halloween. I won’t include Clara in the first session; I need to address them first and let them know what I intend to do. I am sure Mr Marx will agree, but Mrs Marx may be harder to convince. I am still considering speaking to Mr Marx on his own and making him aware of how emotionally abusive his wife is.
The day to day running of the Asylum, coupled with my treatments that run well into the night, are exhausting me to no end, but in order to use the facilities for my research I need to ensure it is run correctly. I must not arouse suspicion from anyone. I will find a way to even out the work so I can get some rest in between; perhaps I can sleep in the afternoons rather than at night. I’ll have to think about it.
27 November 1950
I need to sl
eep. After the incident in the boiler room, I decided to move my office back to my laboratory, and to simply increase the heat in the room. It makes more sense; I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Also, I can consult with all patients here during the day while working on my research.
I attribute what happened to me - the Wellbottom hallucination and the laughter - to a serious lack of sleep. Without proper rest the mind often concocts its own version of reality. Now that I am back in my usual laboratory, I will rest more this week.
The updated charts the nurses keep for me are piled on my desk. I go through them every morning and again at night, ensuring that everything is taken care of, every step for care is recorded, and every item is accounted for. The last thing I need is for nurses to slip medications out to sell on the streets.
Mr Marx is due tomorrow. I am most excited to give him an update on my progress with Clara. I feel as though without Wellbottom here dogging my every move, I can finally achieve what I have always wanted - to help problematic patients overcome their crazed desires.
Mr Marx has requested an unattended visit with his daughter and I am happy to give that to him, despite the fact we do not normally allow it. Clara poses no threat to her father, she clearly loves him, adores him, and I am sure that seeing him will assist with her recovery.
Aubrey has been discharged from the Asylum after being certified cured. Although I will not include his case study in my publication, I have garnered due respect from the nurses and visiting doctors for having healed him of his homosexual tendencies.
If I can cure him, I can the others and, with their success stories, my name will go down in history as one of the greatest doctors. I will be acclaimed, awarded various prizes I justly deserve. It will be my time to shine.
I have two more patients arriving tomorrow for Gender Modification Therapy.
28 November 1950
I cannot remember the last time I slept so well. I am happy to report I went right through the night and got the rest I needed. A few more just like last night and I will be back to my usual self, energised and able to take on more work.
Mr Marx came to see me today. I explained to him, carefully and in detail, about my sessions with Clara and how I felt her mother was emotionally abusive, which is possibly the cause of what drove her to do what she did. Mr Marx quickly agreed with me - I knew I was right - and explained how Mrs Marx never felt ‘connected’ to Clara the way she had to their other children, and often shunned Clara for the others.
Afterwards I took him to see her. It was the sweetest reunion of love one can ever hope to imagine. The sweet soft kisses that Clara gave her father the minute she laid eyes upon him serve to further confirm my suspicions about her mother. I explained to Mr Marx that I had to remain outside the door at all times, but I would award them some privacy.
I heard them giggling through the door as they whispered to each other. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but there were several exclaims of ‘oh, Daddy’ from Clara, so he clearly brought her the joy she deserved.
After twenty minutes I heard Mr Marx opening the door and assisted him, smiling brightly. I enquired about his visit and he said he was happy with me having a session with Mrs Marx and Clara, if it meant that his baby girl will be allowed home to him. His face was flushed and my heart bled for this man who wanted nothing more than to take care of his child.
I will contact Mr Marx later in the week to discuss when he should bring his wife in for an appointment.
Another patient has caught my eye and if it had not been for my brilliant idea to keep logs, I will never have known about him. The nurses have nicknamed him Pickle, because he has deformed genitalia. According to his records, his mother made him wash in acid to ‘cleanse’ his body from the impurities of the outside world.
Once his mother passed on and nothing held him back anymore, he began his spree of picking up victims that looked exactly like his mother, and attempted to rape them. When he couldn’t achieve orgasm, due to the defects and deformity, he tied his victims to a pole and raped them with a stick covered in barbed wire. Leaving them to die, he became known as the Mutilator for the way he left the genitalia of his victims. He was eventually caught, and found unable to stand trial due to insanity.
He has been in the Asylum for the last two years, and although he receives regular medication to keep him calm, he is kept in a straitjacket at all times. I heard that the nurses wash him down, ridiculing his penis as they do so. When I catch them doing this, I will put an instant stop to it. There is no room in my Asylum for this sort of treatment.
No.
This man must be cured, and then he must stand trial for the acts he perpetrated.
I will arrange a time to have this patient, Eric Carver, brought to my office to start his evaluation process and begin working out the best treatment plan for him.
29 November 1950
Tomorrow is the day! Mr Marx is bringing his wife to have a sit down with Clara. I have it all planned out. I have prompting questions to ask, and will give each of them a chance to answer freely and without judgement of their feelings. This way we can begin to see where the true problems lies - obviously with Mrs Marx - and from there we can start the healing process.
If all goes well tomorrow, Clara may not require any advanced physical surgery to speed up her recovery.
My two new patients arrived today. I didn’t get their names yet, because I have been busy, and resting as much as I can during afternoons and the early hours of the morning, but their treatments are already underway and my orderlies keep me abreast of how those are going.
I am a bit concerned about Eric. I have requested several times that he be brought to me for evaluation and thus far the nurses and orderlies constantly have excuses as to why they cannot bring him. I fear they have done something fiercely immoral with him, which has caused him great physical or emotional pain or both, and I feel it is up to me to correct this.
If they do not bring him to my office today, I will seek him out myself. After all, they cannot deny me access to a patient when I control the Asylum.
30 November 1950
The maltreatment of Eric is far worse than I can ever have imagined. I cannot get the sight of him, the condition he was in, out of my mind. He had been strapped in ropes, instead of a straitjacket, because they didn’t want to waste the jacket on him. He had been bound so tight, and for so long, that his arms are now deformed and are wrapped around him permanently. They had broken both his arms and, of course, with not releasing him from his bindings or seeking medical attention for him, the bones set at those angles.
The worst part, however, was the way in which the rope had been pulled so tightly in some areas; it had literally cut into his skin. His skin had then grown around the rope.
His body was permanently bound in his restraints. He only had underwear on. He howled, banging his head against the padded wall of his cell constantly when I reached out to undo his bindings, those I could undo. He liked them; it was his punishment for being naughty. These were the words he sobbed out whenever I said I wanted to help him and reached out.
He urinated on himself and I could hear from the sigh of the nurse behind me that this was not the first time he had done so. His underwear was stained and gross, as though it had been on him for longer than the day or two as the nurse proclaimed. She complained about how hard it was taking care of him, that they did the best they could with him, and that this was the only way he was calm.
Outraged, I demanded to be notified the minute his ‘doctor’ arrived, because I would have him fired for such inhumane treatment. This didn’t go down well with the nurses, the orderlies or the doctor in question. He was a short man, barely up to my shoulders, slender, and wore thick-rimmed glasses. He spat and spluttered as he ranted at me, wanting to know who I thought I was getting involved with his patients, claiming I had derailed the boy further in traumatising him by removing his bonds.
Naturally I explain
ed my theories to the good doctor, but he scoffed at me, claiming I was no man of science; I was a man of fanatical things. The rude man suggested I quit playing doctor, and join the real world. I am not sure how I feel about this, but I do know, given half the opportunity, I’d gladly shove him into a room with eight of my most afflicted Gender Therapy male patients prior to their treatment and see how he likes that.
In happier news, today is the day I am to reunite Clara and her mother. I feel that together we are going to achieve great things for this young girl missing out on so much in her life because of a simple case of poor parenting on her mother’s part.
Further to that, I have managed to schedule most of my daily work for the Asylum so that I can do everything and still get some rest.
Sometimes, just sometimes though, I wake up in the dead of night in a panic and I swear I can smell charred remains, or I hear strange laughter echoing throughout my room. On nights like that I take a heavy dosage of brandy to ease my nerves and send me back to sleep.
1 December 1950
I am bitterly disappointed Mrs Marx failed to show up for our session yesterday. I contacted her husband, who was irate that she had not bothered to make the meeting, or to at least inform him or me of her intentions. Clara was equally disappointed; I sat with her for a spell in her room as tears slowly ran down her face. I tried my best to comfort her, and at one point she climbed onto my lap and hugged me tightly, burying herself into my neck. Her hair smelled of honeysuckle and jasmine and it reeled my senses. She felt like a grown woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders as she rested in the crook of my neck.
Asylum Box Set Page 6
