Scary Creek

by Thomas Cater

  I returned to the notebooks: but not to simply read. I imagined many strange things occurring through the night and into the early morning. I knew that half of everything I imagined would lead nowhere, but would mean something later. I closed the notebook, stretched out on the bed and tried to sleep. Later, I would pick up where I left off and re-discover something new, but only for a moment. I was exhausted, brain tired and bone weary. I needed sleep. Nothing I did was making the least bit of sense. “Tza ba di jia.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Falling into a deep sleep did not happen: The pages in Elinore’s notebooks began revising and re-printing themselves. New words were taking form right before my closed eyes. It was as if by some overwhelming desire, the words were forming in my mind.

  I saw her, walking through the garden holding hands with a young man, staring at flowers through a piece of colored glass. Rays of sunlight formed images unlike any I had ever seen. We looked directly through the sun. She took her glasses off and invited me to gaze into her eyes. They were like diamonds with facets, and she could see things sparkling brightly.

  Elinore appeared in the dust-laden photos. She never spoke with anything but her eyes. They seemed to ask, but not demand; their wisdom made me see.

  *

  I was frying an egg and boiling water for coffee when someone rapped at the van door. I shouted for them to enter and removed a second cup from the shelf. I was not fond of instant coffee. I drank it for the caffeine and to remind myself of how much I hated it. A guest always provided a good opportunity to get rid of the stuff that was beginning to ‘set up’ in the jar as toxic waste.

  Walter Kepler hauled himself up and into the van, rocking it back and forth with each heavy step. His feet were dragging and his mouth was in a frown. I do not know why some men appear perpetually troubled, but just looking at him seemed to cast a shadow over the sun.

  We exchanged greetings and I offered a cup of scalded coffee. I asked him about his research at the library and he sadly shook his head. The book, he said, was there somewhere, but he could not find it. It was about castles and walls in Central and South America, Europe and Asia. There was also a story in the book about the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge. Airtight timber caissons filled with concrete were buried in the riverbed. The author talked to workers who said the bridge would never collapse because ‘mortar containing the blood and bones of men will last forever.’

  A fitting tribute, I thought, and wondered if their skeletal hands were reaching out to grasp living things. The story sounded similar to others. Many men had fallen into concrete footers and died. Some were mob figures, such as Jimmy Hoffa. After drowning in several yards of concrete, they were impossible to retrieve. Who could possibly create a more fitting tombstone?

  I wanted to tell Kepler about the skeletal hands in the wall, but I didn’t want to start a witch hunt that might result in my incarceration in the local funny farm. I told him it was all very interesting but unless we could corroborate with hard evidence, the story was just a story.

  “Is there more?” I asked.

  He nodded and pulled out a sheet of paper he had covered with notes. “The author also mentions the name of a man who was in charge of building Adolph Hitler’s secret bunker in Berlin,” he said. “There are pictures of the bunker and from what I could see the work is similar to the stonework at the Ryder House. I think they were built by the same man.”

  I felt as if I’d been dealt a low blow. The thought was also irritating. I hated to concede that I knew so little about something as basic as a wall that I was not able to distinguish one man’s work from another. I asked Walter if it was possible that two schools of masonry could have given birth at the same time on both sides of the ocean. He seemed amused by my suggestion and shook his head.

  “A stone cutter’s work is his own,” he said. “To you, it’s just a wall, but to other masons, it’s a statement. There are similarities too walls, but no two masons work is identical. It may seem a simple thing to lay one stone upon another, but believe me; a mason knows one man’s work from another. The differences are not as obvious as paintings. No one would ever confuse Michelangelo with DaVinci, but when I say to you that the man who built the wall around the Ryder mansion and the state hospital is the same man who built Hitler’s bunker, you can believe me.”

  The possibility I thought was bordering on lunacy, but at the same time he mentioned the hospital, it occurred to me they should have records on contracted work. I wanted to let the new information settle while I pursued the hospital gambit. I invited Kepler to join me, but he declined, which in a sense I was glad to hear. I was already beginning to feel his life-negating effect on me.

  I ushered him out the door and poured his untouched coffee down the drain. I listened for the sound that would reveal the condition of the RV’s holding tanks. I tried again to make a palatable and potable cup of coffee, pouring hot water over the dark brown granules and watching them turn into a black and bilious broth.

  If I was prepared to accept everything I’d heard as gospel truth, then there was surely some universal wickedness afoot. My next stop, I decided, would have to be the hospital.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Virgil was waiting in his office. He had already invested time and effort to make sure the transaction was swift and painless. The local bank had managed to clear the letter of credit from my DC bank and Virgil notified the county clerk’s office and told them we were on our way. The clerk advised me to re-survey the property and have another deed recorded. The fees and delinquent taxes were paid from my small and modest trust fund. I asked Virgil to review the paper work in his spare time. I had more compelling tasks to perform. He silently consented.

  We returned to his office and I told him about my plans to visit the state hospital and Kepler’s visit to my van. He showed very little enthusiasm. The thrill of the chase, or sale I suspect, begins to wear off after the commission is paid.

  Things weren’t proceeding well at the Ryder house. After getting ‘tuned up’, or mauled in the attic and watching Virgil vomit snakes, I suspected things were not going to end well there either. I also knew that if I were ever going to get something out of my investment, I would need to put some delinquent spirits to rest. The house, for want of a better word, was haunted, but it was like no conventional haunt I had ever margined, which is usually the way it works.

  *

  I enjoyed the drive to the hospital and seeing it for the first time. It was more formidable than the house. There were mammoth buildings incarcerated around grounds that made correctional centers look like summer camps. The wall was nearly 15 feet high, higher than functionally necessary and impossible for anyone to scale.

  It looked as if a truck could have driven through it, but like the wall surrounding the Ryder house, there was not a stone, brick or block out of place. I walked along the outside examining the work, the mortar, and the overall configuration of the structure. It pleased the eye the same way the Ryder’s wall tended to fit dimensionally into the world better than nature itself. If ever a god had chosen to work as a man, he would be a stonemason, not a carpenter. God was like a bubble in a level; composed of nothing, yet he keeps everything on a perfect keel.

  The stone and the texture of the mortar were similar, smooth as glass and hard. If I had to swear an oath, I could believe the same man had built both walls; they were identical.

  I entered the main gate and found my way to the administration building. It was cavernous and nearly empty. A patient, or an employee, slowly pushed a broom down the empty corridor. From behind a closed door, I heard the staccato dance of a lone typewriter. I entered, found one secretary adrift in a pool of empty desks and dust-covered covered office equipment, and delivered my most ingratiating smile.

  “I’d like to see the head man,” I said, “no pun intended, if it’s possible.”

  Her smile was carnivorous. It chewed its way into my heart.

  “I’m sorry, he’s
not in,” she said.

  “When will he return,” I asked. She tossed her head and dark curls danced on her shoulders.

  “He likes to keep everyone in suspense,” she said. “He has a private practice in New York and he’s only the administrator here about two weeks a month.”

  I decided to find out if it was possible to see old hospital records without paying tribute to administrative officials.

  “I’m curious about the wall,” I said, none too convincingly.

  She raised an eyebrow, but smiled, which gave me hope.

  “I’m a student of masonry,” I added.

  She smiled and shook her head in disbelief. Her tongue touched the middle of her lip and quickened its shine.

  “All right,” I said, “I lied. I’ll tell you the truth: I want to know who built the wall around the hospital. I bought a house in Elanville with a similar wall and I’m running out of options.”

  “You bought the Ryder mansion?” she asked.

  I smiled and nodded, and asked her how she knew.

  “Samuel Ryder was a board member here years ago,” she said, flashing a knowing smile toward the opposite wall. “That’s his picture,” she indicated.

  Our eye met, not for the first time, but in a jarring collision. I had seen that threatening physiognomy before. He was staring at me, straight through me, actually, warning me off and away. There was nothing kind in his expression. He looked like the type of man who specialized in destroying things that displeased him.

  “So that is Elinore’s father,” I murmured.

  “Did you know Elinore?” She asked.

  “I know about her, but I didn’t know her personally,” I said, which I realized was a lie. I probably knew her better than her father did.

  “You know she went mad.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Several times,” she continued.

  I stopped nodding and stared. “Can you do that? Go mad several times?”

  “I can’t, but she did,” she said. “Elinore would trip off and come back two or three times a year. She spent lots of time in this hospital, in and out for several years.”

  “Was she ever cured?” I asked.

  She smiled doubtfully and shrugged. “Not in the popular sense of the word. She was, I don’t know, was rather old when she was permanently discharged.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked. “You’re obviously not old enough to have been here.”

  “We have files,” she said confidently.

  “And you read them?”

  “Of course!”

  “I don’t suppose you’d let me read them, would you?” I asked hopefully.

  The request created a moral dilemma. She was shaking her head and I could see the wrong words forming on her lips. I pleaded with my eyes.

  “We can’t allow the public to walk in and read our files, but if you are a student, I might be able to let you take a ’historical’ look. She’s been deceased for many years,”

  “I wish I could be sure of that,” I muttered.

  “Hmmm?” She said in a playful way.

  “Nothing,” I replied. “Tell me what happened when Elinore was a patient?”

  “We had a really famous head surgeon, no pun intended,” she repeated, “someone Samuel Ryder employed. He was one of the early pioneers in psychosurgery. You have to remember, this was in the 1920s and 30s when most people thought mental illness meant demon possession, or someone was just looking for a place to dump troublesome relatives. Anyhow, this Dr. Ezekiel Grier was one of the greatest living, et cetera, et cetera, to attempt behavioral modification on a human being by drilling holes in his head. We have hundreds of cases he worked on.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked.

  “I’m a grad student in psychology,” she said. “I intern here and go to school at night and on weekends. I also get extra credit and pay for counseling.

  “Grier was into lobotomy; only it was called “leucotomy’ or ‘trephining.’ Lobotomies became accepted surgical procedures in the 40s, and that was in Europe. The first one wasn’t ‘officially’ performed in the United States until 1956 by Freeman and Watts in Washington D.C.”

  “Then you’re saying…”

  Yes, Elinore’s father brought her in and had her…”

  “Lobotomized?” I said.

  “A leucotomy, or trephining,” she corrected.

  “Ouch,” I said, for lack of greater understanding.

  “I know what you mean, but we don’t do that anymore, not even to the really hairy cases. But in the 30s, 40s and 50s, they did it to those who had bad headaches and back pain.”

  “You are doing a study, aren’t you?”

  “The books and the case studies are all here,” she said, “why not read them?”

  “Is there anything in her file to suggest why they did it? Was she hallucinating, or violent?”

  “I don’t know. She has a file, but it’s not complete. I have never read it, only a glanced at it for a few minutes; it is background material. She was a celebrity, you know, because she was the boss's daughter.

  “The students use the historical data in their papers, that’s why most of the papers are missing, or misplaced. If you like, I'’ll show you where we store them. If anyone asks, you can say you are a graduate student researching a paper. They’ll know you came to the right place.”

  “I will be forever in your debt, Miss….”

  “Constance Pennington, but you can call me Connie.”

  “Thank you Connie. If you’re free, I’d like to buy you lunch…someday.”

  She was effusive, almost too eager.

  “That sounds great. I don’t get out much. Dr. Weismann wants me in the office at all times. I’m to call him immediately if anyone from the state tries to make contact. I’m not supposed to say where he is only that he will be in touch.”

  By the time she finished explaining, we had descended to the basement, or the catacombs, as she called them. It was similar to an abandoned railroad system, miles of shadowy hallways full of dark, unoccupied rooms gathering gloom and dust.

  “In the ‘30s and ‘40s there were nearly 2,500 patients in this hospital, but now three are less than 100. Three, sometimes four people at a time occupied all of these rooms. In the mid 1940’s, the population peaked. There were only two full-time psychiatrists, four psychologists and about 200 nurses and aids. It was a genuine ‘crazy house’ then. There was more confusion in these halls than in a Chinese restaurant. No one knew what to do with, or how to care of crazies in those days. The caretakers just locked them up and threw away the keys.”

  “How long have you been here, Connie?”

  “The hospital has been here over 175 years, I’m a newcomer,” she said, “only three years. Some of the aides have been here longer than the mice. There are a few cooks and maintenance people who have been here longer, and the three guys in the boiler room have been here forever. I know as much about this place as anyone. It’s not as if it has its own private historian, not like some famous hotel.”

  “I imagine some strange and unusual cases have come through those doors.”

  “From every walk of life,” she said, “now it’s mostly men and women with addiction problems.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  At the end of the hall, we reached a pair of double doors with small glass windows at eye level. It was the only room on the basement level that had a light inside. She unlocked the door and pushed it open. There were several dozen filing cabinets lined up against the walls and forming narrow aisles. Library tables were scattered between the cabinets. Identically shaded lamps were standing at each table.

  “It’s not the sexiest place in town, but it is quiet, and if you came to read, you won’t be disturbed.”

  “Do any of your patients ever wander down here?” I asked, fearing the worst.

  “It’s off limits to them, and they know it.”

  I examined the dates on a row of fi
ling cabinets. I would have to find files for the appropriate year to start looking for Elinore’s records.

  “The files you need are somewhere in that far corner,” she said, pointing a polished nail,

  I started walking slowly.

  “Stop by the office before you leave,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to get locked in overnight.”

  I obliged with a nod, thanked her again and started down the narrow row to the corner. A thin layer of dust covered the filing cabinets. My sneakers were creating impressions on the floor. The tables I noticed were similarly disposed to neglect. There were dry, dusty shredded rags and towels in abundance for those who wished to engage the dust in a territorial battle. I scooped one off the top of a cabinet, shook it out in my wake and set about dusting off the aging tags and files.

  I was searching for dates in the 1920s to 30s. The dates kept receding back in time and into musty darkness: 1938, 37, 36. I was surprised to discover how ignored things gathered about them an aura all their own. The files acquired the composure of lost decades. It was as if by some quirk of fate, they had memorialized the past lives of those forgotten men and women.

  The big wooden cabinets prominently displayed the ghosts of cigarette burns and coffee rings beneath the dust.

  I discovered the proper cabinet and files. They were dated: March 1925 to March 1935. I started wiping dust from envelopes and folders with a towel and unearthed stacks of nearly indiscernible pages. I began tracking down names. It was disturbing to discover how many men and women died under the mistaken belief they were getting help. There were, in one out of the way mental institution, Raders, Reeds, Reeses, Ridenours, Rizzos, Rickles, Rudys, Ruggles and of course, a lone Ryder: Elinore.

  Seeing her name typewritten for the first time was gratifying, but also unsettling. It was if she had not really existed, until something official validated her troubled life. It was like learning what the high priests of life and living claimed: ‘life is incredibly fragile and less meaningful than any sonnet dared make you believe.’