That Which Should Not Be

by Talley, Brett J.

  “Jacob is one of our orderlies. He keeps things quiet around here.”

  Jacob coughed out a laugh. “We can barely hold on, doctor. There are just too many of them.”

  “I know, Jacob. Do the best you can.”

  Jacob simply frowned. I could tell this conversation had happened many times in the past, and the result was always the same. I looked around the corridor in which we stood. It was brighter than I had expected, with high windows arrayed along the walls. Patients, wearing ill-fitted white gowns, milled about, more or less oblivious to our presence. Dr. Winthrop said a few more words to Jacob, and we continued walking.

  “Don’t worry about Jacob,” he said. “He is less than pleased with our current patient population.”

  “About that,” I began, “you said earlier the hospital was designed to house five hundred, and yet you have four times that number. Why is that?”

  “Honestly, you’ve put your finger on a bit of a mystery,” he replied as we passed an elderly man sitting on the floor, rocking himself back and forth while muttering a bit of unintelligible gibberish. “We take all who come to us, of course, but we never could have predicted the last few years. It seems they come in greater numbers every month. I fear the situation will only grow worse. Sometimes, it’s as if the whole world has gone mad.”

  As we walked toward another door at the far end of the corridor, Dr. Winthrop returned to his description of the hospital layout. “In this section,” he said, “we house our most docile patients, the ones least likely to cause problems. But I caution you to remember that, although there is little to worry about here, these men and the women across the way are disturbed. Do not trust them.”

  We reached the other door, and Winthrop once again removed the key from his pocket. “Now, in the next corridor we have our less well behaved guests.”

  He slid the key in the lock and threw open the door. What met my eyes was something out of Dante’s Inferno. There seemed to be ungodly screams and howls emanating from all around me. Directly in front of us, two orderlies were struggling to attach a strait jacket to a wild beast of a man. I knew now why the old London Royal Asylum had spawned the term Bedlam.

  “The previous ward,” Dr. Winthrop yelled above the noise, “houses the curables. Here are the incurables. Our job is not to fix these people. We treat them as humanely as possible, we study them to the extent they are interesting, and we try and keep them from killing themselves, other inmates, and most importantly, us. There will always be a large number of orderlies in this area, for obvious reasons.”

  We strode into the midst of that hellhole, the viscous, vulgar taunts, the hate-filled howls, the threats of violence and death. And, then, we reached another door. Dr. Winthrop unlocked it, pulled it open and gestured for me to enter. The next chamber was dramatically different. It was not, as the previous one, a dormitory. Instead, it was a short antechamber of sorts. Dr. Winthrop closed the door behind us and locked it. He then moved toward the other door only a short walk away. He unlocked and opened it, and, once again, waited for me to enter.

  I was surprised at what I saw. Given the extra security provided for this section of the hospital and considering my previous experience, I had expected it to be somehow worse, louder, more frantic. Instead, it was eerily quiet, darker, the air thick and unmoving. There were no patients I could see here, and none of the rooms were open as they had been in the other wards.

  Dr. Winthrop closed the door behind him, acknowledging two orderlies who stood guard at the entrance. He turned to me and said, “And this, my new friend, is the A wing. It is here where we house the particularly dangerous — the criminally insane, the psychotic.”

  “It’s quieter than I would have expected,” I said. Dr. Winthrop smiled.

  “Surprising, isn’t it? But no, the wildly mad are the howlers, and while they can be dangerous, theirs is a more animalistic rage. They are no more threatening than the beasts of the fields,” he said as we continued to stroll, almost leisurely, through the darkened corridor. “Man has long conquered them, no? The truly dangerous are not men who have lost their ability to reason, but those who retain it while being thoroughly evil, those without remorse or compassion. No, my friend, it is not reason that separates us from the rest of the animals, it is our moral nature. It is these creatures — I dare not call them men — that are truly demonic.”

  As we walked, Dr. Winthrop enlightened me with the stories of horror each of the locked doors along the corridor represented. Most had murdered, many more than once. There were cannibals and demon worshipers and slaughterers of sons and daughters, mothers and fathers.

  “Obviously we will start you off with the curables. Once you have been here a while, there will probably be some more difficult cases that spark your interest. Everyone has their own personal projects. You will find yours, no doubt.

  “A few other things,” he continued as we walked back into the main administration wing. “This is not a building. It is more like a town. We have multiple structures around the campus, including a pump house for water, greenhouse for food, machine shops, and extra staff dormitories. Basically everything you can imagine one might need. In other words, we are entirely self-sufficient. Particularly when the snows come in the winter.

  “This place was built on this hill primarily for its aesthetic value. Unfortunately, the winter snows do not seem to appreciate our delicate sensibilities. There will be weeks at a time when the roads up the hill are blocked. Fortunately, there are underground tunnels connecting all of the buildings. If one wishes, there is no need to ever go outside in the winter. When the time comes, I will take you down there. Bit of a maze, that. There is another set of tunnels below that one, but I can’t imagine why you would ever need to go there. Very dark, small, dirty.”

  After what seemed like quite a long time, we finally arrived at the room that was to be mine.

  “Well, Dr. Hamilton . . .”

  “Please, call me William.”

  “Yes, William. I am sure you are quite tired. Take the evening. We will reconvene in the morning.”

  With that, I was left to my own devices. Somewhere below, I heard a man scream.

  Chapter

  22

  The next few weeks came and went in a blur. It was chaos, a rush of new names and people, of learning my role in the asylum and the nature of the patients within it. Late fall gave way to winter. The snows came early, as they often do in New England, though not in such quantity that we were isolated. Not yet, at least.

  Dr. Winthrop turned out to be right; I did find a project, a patient whose particular neurosis fascinated me. It was Dr. Winthrop himself who brought him to my attention.

  “I’ve someone I want you to talk to,” he said, taking me aside after breakfast one day. “His name is Robert.”

  “Robert what?” I asked.

  “Well, we don’t really know. He's been in the care of the state for virtually all his life. He was left on our doorstep ten years ago.”

  “Left here? You mean he is a child?”

  “Well, he’s probably fifteen now.”

  Winthrop nodded, and for a moment I looked away. I had never dealt with a child before, and I wasn’t sure I was ready.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “he’s been with us for several years, and he’s always been a model patient. Quiet, keeps to himself. Completely insane, of course. Lives in a world of his own creation. But, nonetheless, never a problem. Lately, however, he’s gone into a sort of mania. He won’t eat. He barely sleeps. The orderlies find him staring into the corner

  of his room, rocking back and forth and mumbling to himself. Frankly, we are not as concerned with that last bit as we are his appetite. If he won’t eat,” Dr. Winthrop said as he stopped and turned to me, “well, he won’t last. Take a look at him?”

  “Of course,” I said, “as soon as I finish with some other things.”

  “Excellent,” he replied, slapping me on the shoulder. “Let me know how it g
oes.”

  Three hours later, I entered the incurables ward to find my new patient.

  “I’ll take you to him,” one of the orderlies offered.

  “Why is he being kept here?” I asked as we walked towards his room. “I was under the impression he wasn’t a danger.”

  “He never has been, sir. But Dr. Winthrop thought, with the sudden change in his behavior, it would be better to keep him in a more secure area.” The man pulled out a large ring of keys from his pocket and slipped one in the door, opening it. “Just in case.”

  I stepped inside, and the orderly slammed the door behind me. As I heard the bolt slide in place, I looked at the boy sitting in the center of the room. It seemed he had been crying. But now he was simply sitting there, staring at nothing in particular, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He rocked ever so slightly, but there was nothing about him that bespoke violence.

  I stood there for a second, letting him, to the extent he was capable, come to accept my presence in his world. But it was clear he didn’t notice me.

  “Mr. Robert,” I said, still not approaching, still afraid to invoke any latent rage that might be simmering beneath the surface. We had the ability to chain potentially violent patients to the wall, but Dr. Harker was deeply opposed to the practice, and so it was used only in the wing for the criminally insane. If Robert decided to attack me, there was nothing to stop him until the orderlies arrived. That would take at least a few minutes. He was only a child, that was true. But one who has never seen it cannot imagine the fury of a human being, bereft of his reason and mind, completely uncontrolled.

  “I’m Dr. Hamilton. I’m here to help you.”

  Up until that point there was no indication he was aware, in any way, of my presence. But now he stopped rocking and looked up at me with a thoroughly blank look. Then, he smiled.

  “You can’t help me, doc,” he said. “I’ve been here as long as I’ve been alive. Do you think you are the first?”

  “Well, no,” I said, taking a step closer, “but Dr. Winthrop told me something has changed recently. You’re not sleeping or eating. We can’t have that, Robert. We want you healthy.”

  The blank look had returned. He stared at me dumbly, as if nothing I said had penetrated his mind.

  “My mother always told me, when I was little, before she brought me here,” he said, looking up at me earnestly, but his voice had that unnerving sing-song chant the insane will often have, “if I shut my eyes and counted to ten, they would be gone when I opened them. And they always were, but now . . .”

  His voice trailed off, and he simply shook his head. Then, he closed his eyes and started counting. “1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . ” He counted in time, and I could feel a strange sense of anticipation building inside of me. I’m not sure what I expected to happen. “4 . . . 5 . . . 6 . . .” The air grew heavier, thicker, denser. “7 . . . 8 . . . 9.” A shadow seemed to fall upon the room, a gloom, as if darkness were a thing itself rather than the mere absence of light. “. . . 10.” Then, he opened his eyes.

  For a moment he looked in mine, but then, his gaze shifted. It landed somewhere above me, somewhere beyond me. Then, his mouth fell open, and the blood left his face as he went as white as a New England winter. He scurried backwards across the floor, not stopping until his back slammed against the wall.

  He buried his head in his hands, moaning and crying a string of unintelligible words. For a moment, and only for a moment really, I felt as if there was someone else in the room. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. It was ridiculous, my mind said, but I nevertheless found myself turning around to see what was behind me.

  As I did, I thought I saw a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision, as if a bird had just flown across the back of the room. But it must have been nothing. We were, indeed, alone. I turned back to where Robert was cowering in the corner.

  “Robert,” I said calmly, “there is no one there. No one but me and you.”

  For a second, he stopped shaking, and the color came back into his face. He looked sternly at me and said, “You should say what you mean, doctor.”

  “What?” I asked, honestly confused.

  Robert shook his head and said, “You say there is nothing there, but you mean you see nothing. It’s not the same thing. I know you felt it, too.”

  I considered challenging him on this point, but decided such a move would not be productive.

  “Alright, why don’t you tell me what you see?”

  Robert began to laugh, and soon that laugh had turned into a cackle. “You want me to tell you what I see?” he asked dismissively.

  “Well, yes. I can’t see it, but I would like to know what it is. Describe it to me.”

  It was a tried and true method for dealing with Robert’s particular kind of psychosis. Make him describe what he saw, or what he thought he saw I should say, and the construct would fall apart. It was always easier to imagine a thing in one’s mind than to describe it to another.

  “Tell me, doctor,” Robert began. All of the sudden, there was a coldness to his voice, a determination that was not common with the other patients I saw that suffered as he did. The insane, even those who were older, are all too often like children. And, like children, it is easy to grow attached to them, to feel as if you must protect them. My first impression of Robert was he would stay true to this form. But somehow, he was different. He had changed.

  “How would you describe love to a man who has never known it, or fear to one who has never felt it? No, what I see, your mind is not capable of comprehending.”

  I admit, although I had been trained to control my feelings in situations such as this, at that moment, I was angry.

  “You would be surprised what I can comprehend, Robert. Why don’t you just try?”

  He nodded once, and I saw some of the coldness, some of the distance, melt away. When he spoke, the fear had crept back into his voice.

  “I see clearly,” he began, “what you see darkly.”

  “What?” I asked softly. It was an answer unlike any I had ever heard. He spoke now in a whisper

  “The shadow in the night,” he said, raising his hand and waving it in front of his face, “that moves across the room, that you catch in the corner of your eye. But then you turn your head, and it’s gone. You have seen it. All men have. You saw it earlier, just now.”

  “No,” I lied, even though I wasn’t sure why.

  “Yes. You did. I saw it in your face. The wind blows. You see the trees bend at its touch, but you are blind to the force that moves them. I see the wind. I see the hand that smites.”

  “Can you describe it for me, what you see?”

  Robert coughed out a laugh. “I told you I cannot. It is not of this world. A bending, curving line, a plane turned in on itself. It is an impossibility, a thing that cannot be. A shimmering darkness, a three-lobed, burning eye. That which is and is not, that was and will be.”

  “And you see this here, now?”

  “No,” he replied. “It is gone now.”

  “Does it see you?”

  “No,” he repeated, “it does not see me. It sleeps. They all sleep. We view this world through a glass, darkly. But when the sleeper is awakened, we will all see them, then. We will all see him, then. Clearly.”

  “Him?” I asked.

  Now his voice fell to the barest of whispers. “The one who sleeps beneath the waves. That rests in the citadel of that ancient city, spoken of now only in legend and song. He walks in other realms, dances beneath the Beltane moon. His mind is vast, and he comes to me in my dreams. Horrible dreams, they are. Filled with violence and darkness. They hurt me,” he said, his voice growing more feverish.

  “Just relax, Robert.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” he screamed. “It’s too much! His mind is too vast! The pain has become unbearable!”

  “Become?”

  “It wasn’t always so,” he continued, his voice falling back towards normal. “Befor
e, it came only in flashes, only in moments. An image, a shadow. Then, it was gone. But now it fills me, it fills my mind and rips at my soul. He is the molder of dreams, and though he may sleep, the power of his intellect does not rest.”

  “That’s why you don’t sleep.”

  He didn’t speak then, only nodded.

  “Why does it grow? Why do you see it more now than you did before?”

  Again, he was silent. I thought for an instant he wouldn’t answer me, that I had gone too far or he had told me all he knew already. But he nodded again, as if agreeing to an unspoken request.

  “That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange aeons, even death may die.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  He only smiled. “And that, doctor, is why you cannot help me.” He put his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. I knew he was done with me. I tried to ask him more questions, but he had no more answers. I left him with more mysteries than when I had first entered.

  Chapter

  23

  “So how did it go?”

  I’d barely slept the night before. I had been anticipating Dr. Winthrop’s visit with much trepidation. My encounter with Robert had not gone as I had expected, and frankly I didn’t know what to think. His mind was clearly broken, but I had not expected the clarity of his hallucinations, the detail with which he spoke, or the authority behind his words.

  “I don’t know what to make of it, Dr. Winthrop,” I said as we walked down the hallway towards the cafeteria.

  He arched one eyebrow. “Really? What do you mean?”

  “Well, the way he spoke. It was unlike anything I have ever heard from a fifteen year old, particularly one who is mad. Does he have any education?”

  “Education?” Dr. Winthrop repeated, sounding somewhere between surprise and disgust. “Some of the nurses may have taken pity on him at one point and taught him to read. Other than that, no.”

  “I just don’t understand how he could manufacture the things he was saying.”