by Thomas Cater
I sat down with Grier’s journals and started thinking about Elinore and those who had gone before her, and the new and unexplained business regarding eyes. “They had no eyes,” the Alberichs had repeated over and over again, which led me to believe that during autopsies, Grier must have removed brains and everything connected with them. It made sense for a neuro-surgeon to take an interest in brains.
“They had no eyes.” Since Samuel Ryder was his patron, I suppose it would not be jumping to conclusions to assume he may have coerced the good doctor into performing experiments to benefit Elinore’s sight. It was even possible to assume that a man like Grier, years ahead of his time, may have been planning an eye transplant. Is that a possibility? I am sure it was, or might have been, even if medical science wasn’t ready.
The answers to those questions, I hoped, might be in his journals. Another supposition occurred: that remote possibility may have been the sole basis for Elinore’s prospects to see. On the other hand, why did the Alberichs lead me through the mineshaft to the Ryder mansion and then ditch me? Did they imagine I was going to wander around in there forever? Even if I did not break through the coal seam to the house, I would have eventually found my way back to the furnace room, unless there were other unfriendlies wandering in the underground.
Someone had also knocked me out. What was that all about? Who or whatever it was that put me to sleep in the dark certainly was not a blind girl. Then again, who knows what blind people are capable of doing, especially dead ones.
Grier had mentioned the ‘screaming things’ in his notes. I was about to concede they might be dangerous when I turned the page and the words i jumped off the page: As defined by Helena Petrovna Blavatsky. “The Klikouchy are afflicted with strange disorders. The clergy and the people attribute their possession to the devil. They are miserable creatures drawn to the entrance of holy places. Where the bones of canonized saints abound, screaming and howling things will always be around. They fear controlling demons will tear them to pieces if they transgress. One can always find them congregating in hideous groups and hanging about the gates. With the celebration of Mass, or the beginning of prayer, these maniacs crow like cocks, barking, bellowing and braying like animals or fall down in convulsions. They cannot bear to hear prayers spoken. Some charitable souls administer to the afflicted and distribute alms. Occasionally a priest performs an exorcism, for the sake of love. The miserable creatures also prophesy and see visions. Common sense suggests they are victims, but demons control their actions. The worst that can happen is for a priest to douse them with holy water. Klikouchy, left to the will of god, will survive. They belong to no age or country; they form attributes of every man.”
I gathered we were both on the same page, but I still did not know why screaming maniacs from the asylum were haunting the buried bones of men occupying my home in Upshyre County. In the future, I decided to wear the murdered man’s suit at all times especially if the slightest possibility I might enter the house existed. There, I said, and I did not feel any worse.
I sipped tea slowly and tried to make a few assumptions from the new information I had discovered. After fifteen minutes of silent reflection, I was finally ready to concede the house on Scary Creek was demented, or a house gone mad. Yes, I could live with that. It was easier to believe than the truth, or whatever form it chose to take.
Elinore said, “He is coming?” Without going through too many literal interpretations, that could possibly mean she was expecting someone or something, or maybe even me.
“He must never know … I think he knows…”
He, being Samuel? That scandalous declaration may have portended dire consequences for a girl in Elinore’s delicate condition, and for Frank Harmon. It would help if I knew.
There were plenty of Harmons living near Elanville. They seemed to be as prolific as Mayflies. It was possible that one of the Harmons may have been related to Frank in the early 1900s. That possibility, I decided, would be tomorrow’s objective.
I closed the journal and stuck it in a drawer. Even if I wasn’t close to finding answers, it felt good to know I could remove myself from the problem simply by closing a book. When Connie inquired about my brief absence, I would ask her to call the Alberichs and ask if they knew my whereabouts. I’d like to know what kind of alibis those little gnomes were capable of concocting.
Chapter Thirty-Five
To climb out of bed was becoming more difficult than I imagined. My spine was convulsing. Arthritis and rheumatism were setting up branch offices in my joints. I was saddened by my image in the mirror. My face was red and scratched and my eyes were swollen and blood-shot. I looked like a baby harp seal that had been unmercifully bludgeoned.
Even though I looked terrible, I felt better than the broken capillaries in my face and eyes were willing to concede. My mind was still functioning, or so I thought, and I was honestly trying to stay aware at all times. I could not help but try to believe events were coming together for me. For the first time, I felt as if I were actually in a position to solve one of life’s basic riddles: ‘Does life after death proceed in a cyclical manner, according to the wisdom cultures of the far East, or in a straight line as expressed by the West’s ‘desire for direct and immediate gratification?’
I could not wait to tell Connie what the gnomes had done to me. I wanted her to help me check them out, test their credibility. I had to know if they were scheming, or did they just operate on a very different program than others.
When she arrived for work, I was waiting. I gave her some of the details of my research and my anxious encounter with the Alberichs. Then I started issuing instructions.
“I want you to ask them if they know where I am, and do they remember talking to me? I want to see if they are honest and reliable witnesses.”
“Witnesses?” she replied, “to what?”
“I want to know if they have integrity and know the difference between truth and falsehood. They said a lot of strange things to me and I want to know if they can be trusted.”
“Trusted? How can you trust them? They tried to bury you in a mine.”
“They may have tried, but not very hard. Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t; I don’t know. They are not very clever guys. They probably took it for granted that I would find my way out.”
“You want me to go and talk to them?”
“They won’t come up here,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“I know because they are funny looking little men who would more likely scare hell out of everyone, including your patients, or whoever sees them out of their natural habitat, the boiler and furnace room.”
Constance was thoughtful, but deliberately difficult.
“They’ve got a phone down there, can I just call them?”
I shrugged. It was too easy to lie on the phone, but at least it was something. She dialed three numbers and the phone rang for a few seconds before a voice replied.
Connie set the phone to ‘speaker’ so I could hear the conversation, but they spoke too low.
“Mr. Alberich, this is Connie Pennington in administration. Could you tell me what happened to the man who came to visit you yesterday? Is he still in the building, or what? He never signed out.”
I called that the direct approach. I held my breath. He spoke so softly I could barely hear. I wandered away from the desk and conversation.
“Thank you, Mr. Alberich. No, thank you, if I need any more help, I will call.” She hung up.
“What did he say?”
“He said they took you into the mine, and for all they knew, you may still be wandering around down there.”
I was confused. Their reply was as direct as the question. Apparently, they weren’t concerned about my welfare. If someone turned up missing under their watch, they weren’t going to lose any sleep over it.
“He also asked if I wanted him to go and fetch you out.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
; “I told him it wasn’t necessary and if I needed help, I’d call.”
“Thoughtful of you.”
She pushed a pencil and several paper clips into an open desk drawer.
“So does that answer your question about their credibility?”
“I guess it does. They tell the truth after a fashion.”
“Are you going back?” She wanted to know.
“I don’t think so.”
There was a hard edge to her voice this morning. I couldn’t help wonder if it was because I stood her up the previous night.
“Don’t you want to know what happened to the ‘ones without eyes?’” she said.
“I think I know what happened to them,” I replied. “I don’t have to go back there to find out.”
“You don’t?” She asked.
That was the response I missed, a voice filled with respect and amazement.
“Yes, of course. I may be slow, but I’m not a fool.”
Her eyes were trying to pin me down.
“Well, tell me what happened?”
I tried to get comfortable on the edge of her desk, but the position cut the circulation off in my leg.
“They’re all buried in the Ryder family cemetery. That is why the graves appear to be so shallow. They are not shallow; the coffins are stacked one on top of the other. There are probably three or four coffins to a grave.”
I wasn’t showing off, or being mischievous. I could see the obvious conclusions coming together, but I didn’t have a clue as far as the haunting was concerned.
“If you know for sure, do you also know who they are?”
“I don’t know who, that’s not important, but I think I know why. They were Grier’s patients, wards of the state, homeless waifs, poor folks without families or money, but all with mental problems. Grier treated them and operated. For one reason or another, he autopsied the ones who didn’t make it.
“He also removed their brains and eyes. I think he was conducting a test or research in preparation for performing an operation on Elinore. He didn’t plan to do it, unless he knew it was going to be a success. I get the feeling Samuel was not far behind and looking over his shoulder. If anything went wrong, if anything happened to Elinore, Samuel was going to make Grier’s life miserable. Mind now, this is just idle speculation, but I may be able to find something in his journals to support my theory.”
“You think he was performing unauthorized operations on mental patients, wards of the state?”
“I don’t know how unauthorized the experiments were. In fact, I don’t know if there were any experiments. Examining the brain of a deceased mental patient may have been legal and transplanting eyes seems to be an act of charity. It may be the finest gift one human being can give another. What he did may give him many sleepless nights, but I believe he should have been given an award.”
“But what about the lobotomies; all those useless operations; all those people turned into vegetables.”
“Grier may have been more aggressive than other surgeons, but who’s to say he wasn’t doing the best he could? In the 50s, lobotomies became an acceptable procedure and one of the most effective ways to deal with mental problems, and the treatment is coming back. His death rate may have been a little higher, but how about his success rate? I think he lost more sleep over the death of those people than anyone. There have been greater indiscretions.”
“What if the operations weren’t necessary? What if his patients were only emotionally upset?”
“There is that possibility, but he didn’t have to operate on marginal cases. There were enough troubled ones to provide him with an unending supply of brains and eyes.”
“He should have received permission from someone.”
“We don’t know that he didn’t. In all likelihood, he probably did. Grier was working on the cutting edge. His ideas on transplanting eyes and psycho-surgery may have seemed strange in the 1930s, but he was probably the best man for the job.”
“Do you think he was passing himself off as someone he wasn’t?”
I shrugged and gave an ambiguous nod."We shouldn’t go fishing for remote possibilities.”
She was unwilling to admit defeat.
“Is something wrong?” I asked. “Am I leaning too far to the left or right?”
“What about Elinore?” She asked. “Did she ever get her eyes?”
“That’s why I want to read the journals. I want to know what Grier did the day he arrived until he finished with Elinore. If he helped her, my theory is correct. If he didn’t, it may have something to do with the house and why it’s haunted.”
I had to give that theory more thought. “I don’t know what it has to do with the wall, either. But after last night, I am grateful to whoever or whatever is watching over me.”
A curious idea inside my mind started working its way up through a lot of detritus and debris.
“Spirits, Satan’s fist, the battle of Jericho, and the walls came tumblin’ down.” I shook my head doubtfully.
“There’s got to be a logical answer somewhere. Can I borrow your phone?”
I pulled a chair up and thumbed through the phone book.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“The number for the Catholic Church’s rectory,” I replied. I found the number and dialed. “Is Father Rooney in?”
I was asked to wait, but was assured my call was needed and appreciated. A few seconds later, Father Mike Rooney spoke.
“Father, this is Charles Case. We met in my motor home.”
“Ah, yes, the ghost buster,” he said. “Having any luck?”
“Yes, all bad.”
A sudden gust of hearty laughter filled my ear.
“Any more encounters of the weird kind?” He asked with a wheezing snort.
“A few,” I replied.
“Oh, really,” he said in his Irish accent. “Perhaps you would like me to perform an exorcism on your vehicle?” and laughed again. He made no attempt to conceal a strong disliking for my self-appointed mission.
The thought of an exorcism had entered my mind, but I hadn’t completely lost faith in my primitive investigative techniques. I was convinced there might be more than just an unwanted spiritual guest wandering around my house.
“I called to ask you a biblical question. It’s about the battle of Jericho, the one Joshua fought when the ‘walls came tumbling down?’ If I remember correctly, didn’t Joshua have his army march around those walls for a few days blowing on their horns to bring them ‘tumbling’ down?”
“Yes, I believe so,” he replied, “Though the Bible isn’t my strong suit.”
“My question is ‘what kind of horns did they use?’ Does it say? And did they blow a particular tune, or maybe some kind of a Souza march, or were they just blowing away?”
There was too much silence on the line. “Hello, Father Mike, are you still there?”
His reply came like a vindicating tongue of fire. “How the hell am I supposed to know what kind of horns they used? Do I look like a rabbi? You think anyone would know the answer to that question? Besides, it doesn’t have anything to do with blowing horns or marching. It has to do with obedience and faith, and the power of the Lord to destroy his enemies.”
Who were the enemies of God, the philistines or all the enemies of Israel? Was god in the destroying, or the life-promoting business? I suspected he was wrong. Churchmen have been going in the wrong direction for the past 2,000 years.
“If it doesn’t have anything to do with blowing horns, then why did he make them march around the wall blowing for days before the walls finally came tumbling down? Who built that wall? Do you have any idea? Were they Medians, Manicheans, or maybe Mayans? Have you ever seen an Incan wall? They’re remarkable feats of engineering. Has anyone ever examined the remnants of Jericho’s tumbled down walls? Do they even know where it’s at?”
“Jesus, Case, are you some kind of a wide-ranging basket case? It's bad enough the woods are
full of faith healers and evangelists. In other camps, we got atheists, anarchists, devil worshipers and godless communists, but you have to combine atheism with some kind of supernatural stone masonry. I’d like to help you, but the only way I can is if you come in and go to confession and take the sacrament. You don’t need an exorcism on that house, and knowing what kind of horn Joshua blew in Jericho isn’t going to help you. You need to get down on your knees in front of the Virgin and pray. That’s what you need.”
“Father Mike,” I asked. “What did Christ mean when he told his apostles that if they did not announce his arrival into Jerusalem, the very stones of the street would cry out his name? Did he mean that stones possess spirit, or did he mean that men alone possess souls?
“What are you driving at now?” He asked.
“I read a verse in Genesis which proclaims, ‘and to every beast of the earth, and to every fowl of the air, and to everything that creepeth upon the earth, I gave a living soul . . .’ Well, last night I saw a stone wall drink my blood. It scared the piss out of me, it really did.”
The priest was reconnoitering. I could hear his breath capitulating to the power of his oratory.
“Case? What kind of name is that? Irish, Russian, Hebrew? Never mind, it makes no difference. I like good theological discussions as much as the next man, but I stay within reason. There is nothing in the good book that says stones can talk or cry out. I think Christ was speaking ‘parable-bolically’, or trying to make an elliptical point. As far as a wall drinking blood, I think your clutch is slipping. Why don’t you go to bed early tonight, stay away from that house, and come see me first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll talk about this separation with your wife.”
“How did you know we were separating?”
“I didn’t mean to pry, but Virgil and I had a talk. I thought you might be exercising undue influence.”
