In the House of Mirrors

by Tim Meyer

  After our brief conversation ended, I thought about the last thing he said to me in person, the day I questioned him about my predecessor, Lester Resnick (who I would come to find out was L, Geoffrey's friend in Benton). “Anything else you want to know, you can ask him,” Sheldon had said to me. I planned on using my week off, while Aurelia was in class and working her part-time job at the local grocery store, to follow up on this.

  I called Benton Health Facility and asked to speak with someone about visiting a patient there. “Lester Resnick,” I said. The receptionist transferred me to Doctor Kimberly Parsons. She sounded young, around the same age as me, maybe a few years older.

  “This is Dr. Parsons,” she said, in a hushed tone.

  “Yes, Dr. Parsons, I'm looking to see if I can come visit a patient. Perhaps today, or tomorrow?”

  “Lester Resnick?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you family?”

  “I'm a close friend,” I lied.

  “What's your name?”

  “Denlax. Ritchie Denlax.”

  “Hold on one second,” Dr. Parsons told me. She returned several minutes later, when I was beginning to think she wouldn't. “Lester seems very excited you're coming to visit.”

  “Well, it's been a long time.”

  “Because Lester's in a different section of Benton, you won't mind if I interview you briefly before your visit, would you?” she asked. I knew what she meant by different. I could tell by the way she said it. He was in the part where the real whackos are, the ones that drool all over themselves and talk to voices in their head. “It's standard procedure,” Dr. Parsons added.

  “I wouldn't mind that at all,” I told her.

  “Excellent. Lester is looking forward to your arrival.”

  2

  I arrived at Benton the following day. The institution was secluded from the rest of society, built in the middle of an open field behind a wrought-iron fence intended to keep people from escaping. It was miles from the closest suburban development, in case one of the really bad inmates happened to break loose. I'd later find out that Benton only had a handful of attempted escapes. The only one Kimberly Parsons knew to be successful was Johnny Anderson.

  Dr. Parsons met me at my car and took me through the garden, which consisted of a few colorful flowers and some bushes trimmed to look like animals. There was a bear, an elephant, and a lion. There were others, but I was too busy listening to the doctor's introductory speech to take notice. We trotted up the stairs and proceeded to walk between two fiberglass columns, across the white deck which led us to the front door. A security guard welcomed me and opened the door for us. Once inside, Dr. Parsons told me to sign in with the receptionist. The lobby was fairly empty, only the receptionist's desk sat in the middle of it. Behind her, was two doors. One was labeled “Left Wing” and the other was signed “Right Wing.” After I jotted my name and telephone number down on the blank sheet, Dr. Parsons led me to the Right Wing. “Stay close behind me. And try not to get caught up in any conversations, if you know what I mean,” she warned.

  She opened the door and we stepped into a long, rectangular-shaped room. The doctor told me the visiting rooms were just beyond the doors across the way. The only thing that stood in our way were perhaps thirty mentally-unstable patients, all of them appearing too doped up to bother us. Nevertheless, I intended to abide by Dr. Parsons' generous tip. I counted four security guards walking the floor, while there were two others stationed behind a glass window in another room attached to the one we were in. They watched the floor from there, probably telling each other jokes judging from the smiles pasted across their faces. They were probably making fun of the lady who sat in the right-hand corner of the room, her forehead pressed against the wall, mumbling to herself in some language that no one had ever heard before. Or maybe it was the two elderly gentlemen who were discussing which of their favorite superheroes had the biggest genitalia that had them cackling to each other, hands over their mouths to mask their immaturity. There was also a young man trying to observe the inside of his lip by stretching it as far away from his face as he possibly could, which also could've attributed to the guards' behavior.

  One lady approached me while we were only ten feet from the door. She was old and haggardly. Her eyes sagged in their sockets. Most of her other features sagged as well. She looked like she had weighed a ton at some point, but lost most of it during her stay at Benton. Her skin was drooping off her bones, her hair white and frizzy. “Have you seen my...” she asked, and then whispered a word I couldn't quite make out.

  I looked at Dr. Parsons. She had reached the door, while I was still six steps away from it. She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head ever-so-slightly. I thought I caught a faint smile forming on her face.

  “What?” I asked, confused.

  “Have you seen my...” she started to say, and then leaned in so she could whisper in my ear. “Vagina?” she asked, straight-faced.

  I pulled back and looked at her. She looked worried, as someone who lost their reproductive organ should.

  “I can't find it anywhere,” she said wistfully.

  “I haven't seen it,” I said, and turned away, trying my hardest not to laugh.

  “Well, if you find it, you'll let me know, won't you?” she asked, but I didn't respond. Dr. Parsons and I were already through the door.

  3

  She sat me down in a small room that looked like it had been stolen from the set of a popular detective show. There was a single table in the center, with two chairs on either side. A one-way mirror used to observe conversations was to my left. Dr. Parsons sat across from me, flipping through a seemingly endless pile of papers secured to her clipboard.

  “Okay...” she said, “what is the nature of your visit?” she asked.

  “Just to catch up. I haven't seen Lester in quite some time,” I said.

  “Childhood friends?”

  “Co-workers,” I corrected.

  “Have you ever been committed to a mental health facility, Mr. Denlax?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever taken any medication to help with any problems concerning mental health?”

  “No.”

  “Are you taking any prescription drugs—this includes any for recreational use—at this time?” she asked.

  I had no idea what this had to do with my visit. She could see the confused expression on my face. “No,” I said, smiling, almost chuckling to myself.

  “This is just procedure.” She flipped the page. “It's state law that we have to interview any visitors coming to see patients deemed extremely dangerous to themselves, and others.”

  “Extremely dangerous?”

  Dr. Parsons narrowed her eyes at me. “Of course.” I guess I couldn't hide the look that sprung onto my face well enough. “Certainly if you worked with Lester, than you know how dangerous he is.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, trying to keep my face expressionless.

  “I should hope so,” she said. “He only tried to kill your boss.”

  4

  “Sheldon,” I said, although it came out more like a question.

  “That was his name,” she said, as if she just remembered. “Sheldon Daniels?”

  I nodded.

  “Lester talks about him. He says that he is in on it, although Lester won't explain to us what it was,” she said.

  “What do you think it is?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I dunno. Probably just another delusional episode. Lester is always confused. He can't tell the difference between reality and fantasy. Like most dangerous patients, fantasy is his reality and he becomes lost in it. I'll be surprised if you can actually hold any sort of conversation with him.” She paused, observing my reaction. There was a small part of me which thought she caught onto my little escapade. “Anyway, I'm the one supposed to be asking the questions here, Mr. Denlax.” She grinned. “Shall we continue?”

  “Please.”<
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  5

  The questionnaire lasted another ten minutes. The state apparently wanted to know everything about me; where I was born; where I went to school; even my work history, which I had to lie about so that the dates when Lester worked there and mine matched. I didn't really think it was going to be a big deal. It's not like Dr. Parsons was going to fact check everything I said, at least not now. Maybe later. And by then it would be too late. I'd already have my conversation with Lester Resnick, who apparently tried to kill my boss at the Treebound Tribune. No wonder Sheldon spoke about Lester apprehensively. Lester had tried to murder him because, according to Dr. Parsons, he was part of it. This got my brain wondering if Sheldon was a part of it somehow, and to be perfectly honest—it would not have surprised me. Everything and everyone was becoming a part of it, whether they were aware of it or not. Even Aurelia—who at this juncture did not know just how a part of it she was—was caught in the very tricky web that the Denlax had spun.

  This was the Denlax Effect, ladies and gentleman, watch as its seeds bloom chaos.

  Dr. Parsons returned five minutes later, along with two security guards, who accompanied Lester Resnick. His wrists were handcuffed, and so were his ankles. He looked much like I expected. Long brown hair fell to his shoulders. His face had gone unshaven for quite some time. He wore a navy blue shirt with matching pants. He seemed unhappy, but his face instantaneously brightened when he realized that he was not headed to a psych evaluation or to take his medication; he realized he was meeting me. I was unsure whether or not he knew me. Well, not knew me personally, but knew who I was and what I had come to talk about. I figured he'd have a good idea judging from the phony last name I had given the hospital, which I was pretty sure they wouldn't go through the trouble of checking out anyway. If they had found out my true intentions, they would have put a stop to this already.

  “Lester, do you remember your friend Ritchie?” Dr. Parsons asked.

  Lester grinned, much like how I envisioned a madman would. “Yes, Dr. Parsons. We go way back.”

  Dr. Parsons smiled genuinely. “I'll leave you boys to it. Your conversation will be private,” she said, nodding toward the one-way mirror, suggesting that no one would be observing our conversation behind it. “If for whatever reason you need anything,” she said to me, “the guards will be right outside.” This was code for “if my patient decides to try to kill you, just scream, and we'll be right in.”

  I nodded.

  The three Benton employees exited the room, and Dr. Parsons shut the door behind them. Once they were gone, Lester and I locked eyes for a brief moment. I was clueless as to how to begin, and I was hoping Lester Resnick would take the reigns.

  He obliged.

  “So,” he began, “you're my replacement.” The delusional man's wild grin stretched across his face.

  6

  His smile faded. He looked at me sternly, as if maybe my presence here had insulted him in some way. I felt hot. I could feel the perspiration bubble from my pores. “At first, when Kimberly told me that Mr. Denlax was coming to visit, I got real excited. But... somehow I knew better than that. I knew it was going to be you instead. I know why you're here. You seek answers.”

  I nodded. “What do you mean by it 'was me instead?' Who else were you expecting?” I asked.

  His grin returned and his eyes grew wide, like a home-run specialist getting served a soft underhand toss. Before he spoke, he studied my eyes closely, as if they were going to give away some sort of secret. “You don't know, do you? You really don't know... anything, do you?”

  I stared at him blankly.

  He erupted into a fit of laughter and started slapping his hands on the table as if he were playing the bongos. “Really? Come on, man. You don't even know who he is?” he asked, wiping tears away from his eyes. Over his shoulder, I saw one of the security guards peeking through the door's window. I waved to him, telling him I'm having a grand old time. He disappeared a second later. “I can at least assume you've seen him—the old man from the photograph—or at least you wouldn't be here. Right?”

  “I've seen him.”

  “The woman too?”

  I said I had.

  “The old man in the photograph. His name is Arthur.”

  “Arthur?” I said.

  “Arthur,” he confirmed. “Arthur Denlax.”

  “Denlax,” I repeated.

  “That's right. And you happen to be the next poor bastard to get caught up in his... big plan.”

  “And what big plan might that be?” I asked.

  “Well... to break free, of course,” he said, as if I should have known this. “To bring his act back home, if you will. Back to our world.”

  7

  I looked at him much like an infant being explained the intricacies of quantum mechanics would. The smile stretched across his face once again. I could see he was enjoying this position of power. He knew things I didn't and he was temporarily proud of this fact. “Look,” I told him. “I really don't know anything. All I know is that my camera is taking pictures of some pretty weird shit. Things I cannot explain. I just want to know what the hell is going on. Simple as that.”

  He grimaced. “Okay. I'll tell you what someone once told me. But it will have to be quick, because you're running out of time.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I mean as we speak, our good friend Geoffrey Boone is probably constructing an escape plan. If you're here talking to me, that means he's close to opening the portal.”

  I continued to stare at him, swallowing this nonsense for the first time.

  “Right. Basically, you're gonna have to be the one to stop him, because, as you can see, I'm a little bit busy.” He illustrated his point by spreading his confined wrists apart. “So, it's gonna have to be you.”

  “Why? I mean, what's the big deal? Honestly, I think this world could do without Geoffrey Boone.”

  “Idiot, don't you understand? If Geoffrey holds open the portal and he gets in, who knows what he'll let out.”

  I understood. Sort of. I had many questions. How many of them would actually get answered was still up for debate. I leaned toward not many considering the way this conversation was going. He was speaking to me as if I already knew things. I tried to keep up, but I had to stop him.

  “Why don't you tell me what you know, and start from the beginning. Tell me about Arthur Denlax.”

  The madman smiled, a guttural growl escaping between his lips which I understood to be laughter.

  “Once upon a time...” he began, and I listened attentively.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Upon a time ago, there was a man named Arthur Denlax. He was born in 1929, on the same day his mother died, in either Mobile, Alabama, or a town near Jackson, Mississippi. Nobody knows, not even Arthur himself, because his parents traveled a lot during those days. His father, also an Arthur, owned a traveling carnival, passed down from his father. They were always on the road, and many of the workers and performers never knew a real home. The road had become their home. The Great Denlax Carnival was their livelihood, one of seventeen popular traveling carnivals that toured the United States during the thirties and forties.

  They traveled all over the States. They saw many things. When he was younger, Arthur got to experience more than most children his age.

  The world was constantly changing, but Arthur Denlax Sr. refused to change with it. Arthur Jr. promised his father that he'd never change either, no matter how much the world did. It was a promise he intended to keep.

  Arthur Denlax Sr. passed away in 1941, exactly two years after Germany invaded Poland, from Tuberculous. Arthur Sr. and many of the carnival performers, were lucky enough to be left out of world warfare. This was because the United States government was unaware of their existence. They had no numbers attached to their names; they had no identities whatsoever. They had no homes. The road was their home, and it kept them free from the stern eyes and inviting finger of Uncle
Sam.

  They simply did not exist.

  Before Arthur Sr. drew his last breath, he left control of the traveling carnival to a man named Donald Wilko, a close friend and trusted ally. Donald had great stage presence, much better than his good friend Arthur. Donald led the carnival, taking over as the act's ringleader. However, Arthur Jr. knew his uncle would not be the man his father hoped he would be, and this became a huge disappointment to Arthur, and the other performers. Uncle Donald was considered a cruel man, but not until after the untimely death of the very respected Arthur Denlax. It was as if a switch had flipped following his friend's expiration, instantaneously becoming an evil, grumpy bastard. Alcoholic beverages replaced the friendship he once had in Denlax, consuming way more than the recommended daily amount, which caused him to wake up most mornings in a pool of his own vomit. Drinking often made him do things very few men were capable of. Ted Wood (or the ever-so popular Lobster-Boy! if you so prefer it) felt the wrath of Uncle Donald's alcohol-fueled fury. The two argued one night about which direction the carnival should head in (North to New York, or South to Jacksonville), about which one made more sense financially. Arthur was fifteen at the time, and he had spied on their secret conversation. He watched from a nearby tree as his uncle went on—practically incoherent—about how Florida had more promise than New York, and Lobster Boy rebutted, telling the drunkard that the only reason Jacksonville had become a priority was because his friend owned a whorehouse there, and none of the women on the traveling carnival's roster would ever dream of sleeping with him. Lobster Boy's cheeky comments would cost him a broken bottle upside his head, and sixteen stitches which Evelyn Morse (the Six-Eyed Beauty Queen!) would apply using her sewing abilities. Evelyn would eventually feel Uncle Donald's wrath too, when Arthur was about seventeen. The son of a bitch would rape her in the late hours of the night, deep within the woods, somewhere not too far from their camp, but a place far enough where no one would hear her screams and cries for help. It happened several times before she finally ended up slitting both of her wrists hours before a big show outside Memphis, Tennessee, a few months after the first incident. Lobster Boy would eventually quit the show, leaving behind a note stating that he was retiring at the tender age of thirty-two. No one believed this, of course, mostly because Ted Wood's resignation had been in Uncle Donald's handwriting.