Night of the Pentagram

by Barrymore Tebbs

  “I believe Mrs. Valdez gave you the grand tour. What do you think of La Casa del Mar?”

  “It’s lovely, more beautiful than I imagined. I think of mental hospitals as old and creepy.”

  “You mustn’t think of La Casa del Mar as a mental hospital.” As Dr. Abernathy spoke Bryce gave Elizabeth a knowing look. “I’ve gone to great lengths to make certain each of my guests feels as comfortable here as if they were at home. I’m sure you noticed that there are no signs anywhere announcing this building as the Abernathy Clinic, which is both for your security as well as your peace of mind. It’s a good deterrent to keep the prying eyes of the public away from our doorstep. As far as the public knows, this house is nothing more than another old relic.”

  “I like the fact that you think of us as guests. It makes me feel comfortable. Bryce and I were just talking about the colorful characters here.”

  “In my position one gets used to that sort of thing after awhile. Mr. Danvers told me quite a bit about you. I’m sorry to say that I haven’t seen any of your pictures. My work does not afford me much free time for leisure activities. Perhaps that is for the best though, dealing with the elite clientele that I do, so that I am not prejudiced with any preconceived notions I might develop due to someone’s public notoriety.”

  Dr. Abernathy turned to Bryce. “Mr. Avondale, I look forward to making your acquaintance in the very near future. However, at this time, I wish to speak with Miss York in my office. Miss York?”

  Elizabeth glanced at Bryce hoping for intervention. The moment of truth had come at last and she felt as though she were being escorted to the principal’s office.

  “See ya,” Bryce said with a wink that told Elizabeth he looked forward to seeing her again after her interview with Dr. Abernathy.

  “We won’t consider this a formal therapy session,” Dr. Abernathy said as he escorted her along the drive to the house. “Let’s think of it as a private ‘get to know each other” session. Did Mrs. Valdez introduce you to Joan Monaghan?”

  “Yes, but I don’t understand. I think she’d rather be left alone.”

  “Joan has an unusual form of agoraphobia. Her condition has deteriorated in the time she has been here. I can’t force her to socialize, of course, but I have forbidden Mrs. Valdez to send meals up to her room. If she wishes to eat, she must come downstairs. She needs to be around people. She must learn to trust the other guests at the clinic, to understand that others suffer as much as she suffers. It may appear to be an imposition on you to reach out to her, but I assure you such an act of altruism is just as much a part of your own therapy as it is hers.”

  “She said something about riots. There haven’t been any riots lately. Did she see something on television?”

  Dr. Abernathy held the front door open for Elizabeth to enter the house ahead of him. “Joan has an unnatural preoccupation with the state of affairs in the world today. Riots, assassinations, student rebellion, urban unrest. At times it is a wonder that any of us can continue to live in a world gone mad, if you will pardon the expression. Joan Monaghan has carried her anxieties about social disintegration to an extreme. You understand, of course, that I am not at liberty to be more specific, but it will be a tremendous help to me, and to her as well, if you can do your best to visit with her while you are here.”

  “Of course, I will do what I can.”

  Dr. Abernathy turned toward her and again opened his mouth showing his teeth. It occurred to Elizabeth that he might be smiling at her.

  Arriving at his study at the end of the hallway on the first floor, Dr. Abernathy held the door open for Elizabeth to enter. Two walls of the room were lined floor to ceiling with books. There were a number of leather chairs and couches about the spacious room, and a mahogany desk stood by the window where the open drapes allowed just enough afternoon light to filter into the room while still maintaining the room’s cool and shaded corners. The desk was spotless, the rich wood polished to an impeccable shine. A goose-necked lamp with a green dome, a set of fountain pens, and a crystal paperweight were all that adorned its surface.

  Dr. Abernathy gestured for Elizabeth to have a seat opposite his desk. The leather chair was large and soft and she felt as if she were being swallowed by the chair when she sat in it.

  “Now, let’s talk about Elizabeth. I’ve read the files forwarded by your general practitioner. I know about your husband’s death. Let me start by extending my condolences. Losing a loved one is a terrible ordeal, but the manner in which he was killed was truly monstrous. Has the killer been apprehended?”

  “No. The police don’t even have a suspect, which is one of the most difficult things about his death which I have struggled to accept. Did you know that my husband wasn’t the only victim?”

  “No, I was unaware of that.”

  “Two others, a cinematographer named Peyton Mills and a young actor named Scottie Ferguson were also killed, one right after the other in a matter of a few weeks. The entire Hollywood community was in a state of shock. Everyone scrambled to hire extra bodyguards.”

  “Were there any other murders?”

  “No. It seems the killer’s work was finished. The investigation is still open. It’s been five months. but the police have very few leads. It’s very disheartening.”

  “Did you know these other two men?”

  “By name, but I wouldn’t recognize them in a crowd. My husband was better acquainted with them than I. Everyone knows everyone in this town.”

  Elizabeth watched Dr. Abernathy become distracted by a thread on his shirt. He picked at it for a moment, and then deciding it was a figment of his imagination he refocused his attention on her.

  “What is the connection between these three crimes?” he said.

  “Aside from the horrible mutilations inflicted on the bodies, the police think the killings are part of some sort of ritual.”

  Dr. Abernathy leaned forward in his seat. “Go on.”

  “The killer leaves a calling card of sorts, an inverted star scrawled in the blood of each of his victims. They call it a pentagram.”

  “The sign of the devil,” said Dr. Abernathy.

  “You’re familiar with it?”

  “It is an ancient symbol of the occult which predates even Christianity. The Pagan religions believed that the five-pointed star symbolized inner strength, the power of Mankind. However, when inverted, it took on a new and blasphemous connotation as the sign of ultimate evil.”

  “Doctor, are there any patients here who practice witchcraft?”

  “What a strange question. Why do you ask?”

  “This afternoon when I arrived I found a book on devil worship in my suitcase.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped. “Why would I have such a thing?”

  Abernathy’s eyes bored into hers, waiting for her to answer her own question.

  “Mrs. Valdez’s grandson took my suitcases to my room while she gave us the tour of the house. I’m not accusing him. Anyone could have slipped the book in there. My husband’s death was widely publicized so I am sure there are people here who know the details.”

  “Someone is playing a prank.”

  “That’s what I thought, but no one other than you knew that I would be coming here. Even if Mrs. Valdez’s grandson put it there, I don’t see how he would have known how much it would frighten me.”

  “Perhaps it is an only an unfortunate coincidence after all. I will speak to Balthazar.”

  “I don’t want to cause trouble for the boy.”

  “As you wish.”

  Elizabeth pinched her bottom lip, eyes darting about the room, anywhere to escape Dr. Abernathy’s probing gaze. So many books, could one person possibly have read them all?

  “Do you believe in witchcraft, Doctor?”

  “I do. Witchcraft is nothing more than a religion. It’s no different than Buddhism or Christianity. It is often misunderstood by those of us raised in the Judeo Christian Wes
tern Civilizations. It is a religion as old as the earth itself, and its practitioners must not be confused with the creatures from films and fairy tales. Today’s witches tend toward naturalism, moon worshippers. Their covens celebrate the cycles of nature, the continual cycle of life and death, birth and rebirth, much as we celebrate Christmas and Easter.”

  “Dr. Abernathy, the man who killed my husband is not a moon worshipper! Do moon worshippers go around slaughtering innocent people in the name of…of the Devil? This man or group or whoever killed my husband are sadistic animals. They must be insane!

  “It is easier to dismiss that which we do not understand as insane, isn’t it? “

  “You sound as if you are defending these people!”

  “I’m sure you can appreciate that someone in my position should not approach those with alternative religious beliefs with a closed mind.”

  “I’m not talking about hippies who want to dance naked around bonfires under a full moon. I’m talking about these…these people who commit crimes out of bloodlust. Isn’t that some sort of mental aberration?”

  “I agree that it goes against the morals and laws of our society, and as such it would be my duty to explore that criminal mind to ferret out the origin of such a blood lust and to encourage and assist that person into adapting their beliefs toward something more acceptable to society. I am trying to help you differentiate between witchcraft as an acceptable means of religious expression for those who wish to follow that path, and the sort of person who would kill another human being in cold blood, these so called Devil Worshippers. But I’m afraid I’ve upset you. Would you like to take a break, have something to drink, perhaps? I can have Mrs. Valdez bring something, anything you wish.”

  Elizabeth wanted to believe Dr. Abernathy was sympathetic, but he delivered his words without feeling. It was difficult for her to understand where he was coming from.

  “No, I’m fine. Are we finished with the interview?”

  “I have a few more questions, but we can change the subject. I want to know how you have been feeling, what sort of emotions you have been going through since your husband’s death, beginning with how you felt during the days right after his death.”

  Elizabeth drummed her fingers on the arms of the chairs.

  “Shock. Anger. Bewilderment. I wasn’t working at the time of my husband’s death. I had just been signed to play the part in the movie I’m now filming the day of Sven’s murder. When I found his body I went into some sort of blackout. I have no memory after finding his body. They told me they found me lying on the floor with him, my arms wrapped around him. All I remember is waking up in the hospital. They had me in the psychiatric ward at General. When I was discharged I went to stay with my friends Camilla and Diane while Gavin had the living room painted and refurnished. He thought I might not be able to work, but in spite of the few incidents which have happened, I believe work has been the best form of therapy for me so far.”

  Elizabeth saw that Dr. Abernathy had become transfixed by a crystal paperweight on his desk. She followed his gaze, expecting to see a chip or crack in the crystal. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and diligently wiped an apparent smudge from the globe, then opened and refolded the handkerchief and placed it back in his pocket.

  As if there had been no break in conversation, he said: “What exactly are these incidents?”

  “You’ve read my history.”

  “I want to hear you tell me in your own words.”

  Elizabeth told him of the time she had been found curled up beneath a palm tree in a neighbors yard, the incident where she had been found walking trance-like along Mulholland Drive, and the two occurrences on the set of Masquerade when she had lost track of time and emerged, as if from a fog, with no memory of what had happened.

  “Do you experience any sort of warning sign before these amnesiac blackouts?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “I have headaches.”

  “What sort of headaches?”

  “Here,” she said and circled the top of her head with her index finger. “It feels like a band tightening. Like a bowl of darkness clamped onto my head. The tighter it’s wound, the more trouble I have seeing. Everything I see fades to black. I feel it in my chest, pressure on my lungs.” Even now her breathing became irregular. She felt the pressure in her chest, the tightening around her scalp. She pleaded to Dr. Abernathy with her eyes.

  “Take a deep breath, Elizabeth, you are not experiencing one of these headaches now are you?” Dr. Abernathy’s voice seemed to come from far away, but she clung to it, afraid that any moment she would slip away into that dark place.

  “Deep breaths, Elizabeth,” he said. She breathed slowly, deeply, inhaling as much air into her lungs as possible. Within moments she felt the room begin to brighten again, the tightness around her head diminishing.

  The corners of Dr. Abernathy’s eyes crinkled as he bared his teeth. “Better?”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Now tell me, prior to your husband’s death did you experience headaches on a regular basis? Have you had a history of sinus headaches, migraines, that sort of thing?”

  “I might have a hangover the morning after drinking too much wine, but I can’t say that I have history of headaches, at least not until now.”

  “When you have these blackouts, do you ever come out of them with any sort of imagery, a real or imagined memory, such as you might experience in a dream?”

  “No,” Elizabeth said. “It’s just a feeling I have, as if I have been somewhere else, but I am never able to remember where I might have gone, or what I have done or seen. The time when I was found in my neighbor’s yard and the time I was found walking along Mulholland Drive, I simply woke up there, so I can’t say when or where I was when I lost consciousness, or anything I might have done during the blackout. The times when I had blackouts on set there were witnesses. From what I was told I was only out for a short period of time, and I was surrounded by people, so there was no possibility that I could have gone anywhere or been harmful to myself or anyone else, if that’s what you’re are driving at.”

  “Did you kill your husband?”

  Elizabeth felt the room begin to tilt beneath her.

  “What?” Her eyes blazed. “No! How dare you? My husband was murdered by some sort of…Satanists or something. You know this. How dare you!”

  “I know what the police believe and I know what the other doctors believe. Now I am asking what you believe. You were hospitalized after your husband’s death, and each of these incidents you have related were followed by short-term hospitalization as well, is that correct? Yet you have refused the advice of your doctor and your agent and chosen not to pursue any sort of psychiatric treatment until now. Why is that Elizabeth?”

  “Because I am not mad,” Elizabeth said through clenched teeth. “Everyone seems to think I am insane, but I’m not. I’m —”

  “Go on.”

  Elizabeth was silent. Her face was flushed and she felt the throbbing threaten to return to her temples. She was angry that she had allowed herself to become unwound so easily. She took a moment to compose herself. She wished she was anywhere but here in this room with this man who was probing into her subconscious. She felt like an insect under a scientist’s magnifying glass. She looked at Dr. Abernathy, feeling helpless and vulnerable, but wanting to lash out at him for the accusation that she might have killed her husband. He should be helping her, not antagonizing her.

  “There is miraculous progress in the world today in every scientific field,” Dr. Abernathy said, “including the field of psychiatry. Your views on mental illness are outdated. What might have been labeled ‘insanity’ one hundred years ago is today diagnosed as any number of treatable maladies. Until recently, homosexuality was considered a mental illness, but advancements in psychiatry have proven this is not so. Repressed memories from childhood do not make one ‘insane’. A fear of heights, fear of being around crowds of people, these things are not insanity.
We have names for them such as acrophobia and agoraphobia. They are no more than stumbling blocks to our living happy, healthy lives. There is no shame in them. Elizabeth, you are a bright young woman. I’m curious why you insist on using the word insanity. Have you experienced something in your life that you associate with the word, something that frightens you, that leaves you with bad memories?”

  “What was that about a drink?”

  “Is it time for a break? We can continue later.”

  “No. I can’t put this off any longer.”

  “Would you care for some tea? Water? Something stronger?”

  “Something stronger.”

  She watched him go to a sideboard and tong a pair of ice cubes into a glass. He poured two fingers of vodka, splashed it with water, and handed her the drink.