Cherry Hill

by James A. Moore

  “How about the Devil?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Would you say that you’re a religious man?” He looked over the top of his note pad and back at his patient.

  “Not in the least.”

  “If you believe in God and the Devil, how is it that you’re not religious?”

  “I don’t practice any organized form of religion.”

  “Why not?”

  “I believe that the moon is in orbit around the planet Earth, Doc. That doesn’t mean I’m obligated to offer it any sort of obeisance.”

  “Okay, let’s try something a little different. Do you believe in Good and Evil?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What do you think of the concepts?”

  “I think they’re lovely notions. Good is all around us.” His voice fairly dripped with sarcasm.

  “So how about evil?”

  “Oh, that’s definitely all around us.”

  “Humor me, Jonathan. Try to explain the two concepts to me as best you can.”

  Crowley shrugged again. “Good in the context you are describing would be the orderly nature of the universe. It simply is, and has always been. Nature is good. Life is good. Order is good. Good is the notion that all men and all life spawns for a necessary reason and that in every case the order of the universe is running along a designed plan. Theoretically ‘God’ would be in charge of all that is good in the universe.”

  He sighed. “Evil is a counter-argument to the notion that all should be orderly. Evil is all the negative emotions that we’re supposed to suppress, all the violent tendencies and the irrational actions that people make. In a place like this, I suppose the patients would be considered evil by a lot of people’s standards.”

  “Do you think you’re evil, Jonathan?”

  “Do YOU think I’m evil, Doc?” The man stared hard at him, hard enough to make him nervous despite the chains.

  “We’re not discussing me, Jonathan. We’re discussing you. Do you think you’re evil?”

  “No.”

  “You also said that you’ve killed a lot of times.”

  “Killing does not immediately equate to evil, now does it?”

  “Can you explain that for me?”

  Crowley leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and smiled. “Let’s skip all of this nonsense. You’re beating around the bush and trying to make a point with me. Get to it.”

  “According to your session yesterday, you’ve killed on several occasions. You said that you did not, in fact, kill your family, but that you watched them die. You claim that you were ‘Nailed to the wall’ and made to watch as your family was tortured, murdered, and then devoured.”

  “And?” The man kept staring, harder than before if that were possible.

  “You also said you did everything to the monster who killed your family that it had done to them.”

  “And?”

  “I’m trying to judge your moral compass as it were, Jonathan. You say you believe in both God and the Devil. You say you believe in good and evil, but I still can’t quite decide where you believe you fit into the equation.”

  “Maybe I don’t fit in. Maybe it’s not a puzzle or a machine that you can get to run just so, Doctor Harrington. Maybe some pieces were never designed to fit into the grander scheme of things.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “If there is a battle of good versus evil, Jonathan, who do you think is winning?”

  “Who said either side is winning or ever will?”

  “Humor me. Take a guess.”

  “If there is a battle like that going on, then I suppose good has the upper hand but not by much.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if good and evil exist in the way you’re thinking, good has to follow the rules. Evil by its very nature cheats.”

  “How could evil cheat, Jonathan?”

  “It’s harder to follow the rules than it is to bypass them.” He shrugged. “That’s the way the rules are set up.”

  “How so?”

  “Let’s switch this around. We’ll use God and Satan for this answer. God gave rules to follow. Satan gave temptations that would convince people to break those rules.”

  “Do you think the temptations are all that overwhelming, Jonathan?”

  “Me personally? No. But plenty of people might.”

  “Give me an example.”

  Crowley smiled. “Okay, sure. I’ve got nothing better to do. Okay, let’s try this one on, something you can relate to.” Crowley leaned back again, relaxing a bit, and stared into his eyes. “Let’s go on the subject of temptations. Little ones. Nothing major like any of those commandments, really. Let’s take a doctor right here in this building as an example. You folks have to deal with mental cases all day long. You get tired of it, I’m sure. So let’s say you had a particularly belligerent patient. The guy doesn’t want to learn his lessons, doesn’t want to be treated. After a few weeks or months of having to deal with him, I bet the temptation to do something about his attitude must be amazingly high. So when you realize he’s just never going to change, you go ahead and up his medications to make him more compliant. It won’t teach him, it won’t help to cure him, but damn, it feels nice to shut him up for a while, doesn’t it?”

  Harrington thought about that for a moment and finally nodded his head. “And that would be the definition of evil?”

  “No. That would be an example of how doing small acts of evil can become easier and easier. You dose him a little more and things become easier, so you keep the doses higher. When the time comes and the patient is no longer as quiet as he was before, you can always increase the dosage again.”

  “How would that be helping the patient?”

  “Well, that’s just it. You and I both know that most medications for calming down a patient also cripple his cognitive abilities. So by upping the dosage you’d be destroying any chance of the patient becoming able to reason or seeing the error of his ways.” He smiled and leaned forward. “But, really, no one here is expected to work miracles, and no one will really notice if that patient just sort of stays at the same level of nuts instead of getting a little better after every session.”

  Phil was still trying to come up with a proper defense for the scenario when Crowley started talking again.

  “I heard that this place has been around for a long time, Doc. Is that true?”

  “Oh yes, well over a hundred years now.”

  “Did you ever do much research on what mental institutions were like a century ago?”

  “Well, they weren’t up to today’s standards.”

  “They were where the people with enough money buried their family secrets, Doc.” Crowley smiled again his eyes issuing a challenge. “Your son keeps looking at other boys instead of at girls? He likes to sneak into his mommy’s wardrobe and dress in her clothes? That is socially unacceptable. Send him to an asylum and pay the bills on time. He is now somebody else’s problem. Your daughter got fresh with the stable boy and now she’s carrying an unwanted child? Off she goes! If she behaves herself later, you can always get her out, minus the embarrassment of a bastard child, of course.”

  “What has that got to do with anything, Jonathan?”

  “It was easy. For the son or daughter or whoever got locked away, I’m sure the decision was seen as evil.”

  “Interesting. So evil is a matter of convenience?”

  “No. Evil is just easier. Evil makes it easier. Evil gives people the excuses they need.”

  “So how does that work with the idea that monsters are real?”

  “First you’d have to define what a monster is.”

  “Supernatural things that eat people?”

  “Oh. Well that’s easy, too. If all they ever do is eat people, all they have to do is wait for people to show up.”

  “That could make for some awfully hungry times, couldn’t it?”

  Crowley g
ot that grin back on his face. “Not really.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Evil just gives an inviting package.”

  “What’s inviting about a werewolf or a boogieman?”

  “You’re looking at isolated cases where Evil has a different outlook. Why would someone sell their soul to the Devil?”

  He had to think about that one. “For profit or revenge?”

  “Very good. You go to the front of the class.”

  “You think it’s that easy?”

  “I think it’s exactly that easy. Want the girl of your dreams? Sign here. Want that promotion and a nicer house? There’s the dotted line. Want Joe Sidbury, the kid that beat your ass every day for a year to die a painful death? Here’s the pen.”

  “Wouldn’t most people manage on their own?”

  “Sure. If they weren’t lazy. Why risk having good old Joe kick your teeth in when you can have someone else do it?”

  “But at the cost of your soul?”

  “Once again, evil is a liar. If it said up front it would cost your soul, no one would ever do it. Assuming they believed in souls.”

  “So how would evil get to them?”

  “The guy you keep hearing about that will take on your troubles for a few hundred dollars. The book that has spells written down, spells that work.”

  “If those books really existed, why aren’t more people using them?”

  “How do you know they aren’t?”

  “Can you explain that one for me?”

  “Doc, if you had a book that could give you power, would you advertise that fact?”

  “You know, I really don’t know.”

  “Most people wouldn’t. If they did, they might have to share.”

  “Did you ever have a book like that, Jonathan?”

  “If I did, why would I tell you?”

  ***

  John was on the way back into his cell when they pulled what was left of the Screamer from his cell. For the second time since he’d been in Cherry Hill, he saw something that didn’t look human buried under a sheet and still twitching.

  The thought that whatever was under that cover had asked him for help the night before took all the fun out of his day; mostly because he knew in his heart that he probably could have helped.

  He was too afraid. That was the part that bothered him the most. He was scared shitless and he still couldn’t understand why. The guards didn’t talk to him and that was just fine. They were busy worrying about what had come out of the Screamer’s room and maybe wondering if what had happened to him had happened to their buddy from the night shift. It couldn’t possibly be a comforting notion.

  The door was closed and locked and John watched as the twitching mass was wheeled down the long corridor on a gurney that insisted on rattling and squealing the entire length of the journey.

  He had more soap waiting for him, and new plastic knives, too, which was good because the old ones had lost all their teeth in the battle to carve images.

  He had four soap sculptures currently. There was a woman’s face, a hound dog, a fairly good likeness of Harrington and a hand. The hand had been the hardest to do.

  He picked up the soap and the new plastic blade and started whittling as he thought about his current situation. As he whittled, he let himself relax.

  Which was precisely when something tried to possess him.

  ***

  The detectives were back and justifiably worried. That was all right, because Roger was starting to get worried himself.

  There had always been tales of strange things happening at Cherry Hill, but the situation was rapidly going from strange to fully obscene.

  Carl Branaugh was understandably perturbed. It was a long drive over treacherous roads to get to Cherry Hill.

  “You have no idea what could have caused either of the mutilations?”

  “Detective, please believe me, if I knew how to help you with your investigation, I would. So far all I know is that we had a body in a drain, two physically healthy men deformed over night and that a lot of my patients are getting agitated.”

  The man looked at him and shrugged. “Any idea what’s agitating your patients?”

  “Apparently there are ghosts haunting the asylum.” He shrugged back. “I’ve had no less than ten of the inmates here claiming that they’ve been haunted in the last week.”

  “Yeah?” The detective got a sour expression on his face. “That’s more than normally claim they’ve seen ghosts?”

  “At least twice the number I’ve had in the past. Believe me, I’m not laughing about it anymore. I don’t believe in ghosts, but something is going on here and I can’t begin to explain it.”

  “Any chance I can talk to the inmates who say they’ve seen them?”

  “I’m not overly fond of having some of my patients talking with unfamiliar faces. It’s nothing against your work, Detective, but we’re dealing with very troubled psyches.”

  “How about if I promise only to ask about the ghosts?”

  “I think we can work something out, but I’ll have to insist on the doctors in charge of the patients being with you in the room.”

  “I can work with that.”

  “And I’ll have to keep them restrained.”

  “I was sort of hoping you’d say that, too.”

  ***

  The first interviews went well. Branaugh listened to the comments and made notes, and even without a degree in psychology, he could tell which patients were trying to get noticed (about half of them) and which ones were at least sincere in their claims.

  One woman swore that something had been touching her every night and had only recently stopped. He made note of her claim primarily because the first victim of whatever was happening had been found in her room. She was very upset and justifiably so.

  Two of the patients swore they’d seen not just ghosts, but the ghosts of famous people who had never had a reason to be in the asylum and probably wouldn’t have bothered to come to it if they were stuck in the afterlife.

  One woman said that she’d been haunted for a long time, but the ghosts that had been haunting her disappeared. Ever since then it had been fairly quiet for her.

  The fifth patient was Jonathan Crowley, an old man who immediately claimed to have a headache. The geezer was walking on one fake leg and seemed about as dangerous as a titmouse, but they brought him in locked in manacles, and Branaugh reassessed his opinion when he was told the man had successfully beaten the crap out of several policemen in the recent past.

  He perked up even more when he heard the old coot was a parapsychologist.

  “Mr. Crowley, I understand you’ve seen ghosts in this building?”

  The old man nodded his head.

  “Can you tell me where you saw them?’

  “Better to ask me where I haven’t. They’re all around this place.”

  “Are there any in the room now?”

  The old man looked at him for a few seconds and a small smile played around the edges of his lips. “You want to know if there are any ghosts here? You mean aside from the one you brought with you?”

  “The one I brought with me?” He was amused and let it show. “Can you describe this ghost?”

  “Looks about five feet, seven inches in height, dark brown hair. I’d guess her age is around…maybe twenty. She has similar features to yours, close enough to be blood, but there’s a pretty sizable mole just below her left ear.”

  Branaugh stared at Jonathan Crowley with his mouth open. “Who’ve you been talking to?”

  “Mostly the good doctor over there. They don’t let me out to socialize all that much.” His voice was dry and sarcastic.

  Branaugh stared hard for several seconds as the heat left his body and an arctic chill spread through his bones. “You just described my sister.”

  “Been dead a while, has she?” If he’d expected sympathy or even a kind turn of phrase from the old man, he was obviously mistaken.


  “What’s she wearing?”

  “A pretty tacky dress, actually. Like she was ready to go to a formal. Her hair is pulled up into a loose bun. She’s wearing earrings, looks like simple hoops. Thin gold necklace around her neck, with a capitol E as the only adornment.” The man squinted and tilted his head a bit. “She has multiple lacerations on her wrists. If I had to make a guess, I’d say suicide.”

  Branaugh shook. Not just his head, in a negative statement, but his entire body shook.

  “How can you know that?”

  “Because I’m looking right at her. She’s been standing next to you the entire time you’ve been sitting here and asking me questions.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “Yes, I know, she’s dead.” Crowley shook his head. “She is also the only ghost currently in the room.”

  “My sister Elizabeth died when she was eighteen. She didn’t leave a note, we just knew that something went wrong after the spring formal.”

  Crowley looked at him and shrugged. “Should I ask her for you?”

  “You can talk to her?” The old man was either making up the most amazing line of coincidences, could read his mind, or could actually see a the ghost of his dead sister standing next to him. Not a one of the notions lent the detective any comfort.

  “If she feels like talking.”

  “Can you make her talk?”

  Crowley tapped his skull again. “Not all there in the upstairs, remember? I guess there are ways, but none I can think of off the top of my head.”

  “Can you ask her why she’s here?”

  Crowley smiled. “Sure.” He looked over the detective’s shoulder. “Hey. Hey! Yes, you. Your brother wants to know why you’re hanging around.” He listened for several seconds, and when the detective opened his mouth to speak, the old man held up a hand to silence him.

  “Okay, in a nutshell, your sister is here with you because she doesn’t know where else to go. She’s been with you several times in the past and has tried to find her way, but she always comes back to you.”

  “How did she die?”

  “She killed herself. Allen Wurtz, the guy that took her to the formal dance, dumped her halfway through the evening because she wouldn’t put out. She was depressed; she cut her wrists. Now she wishes she hadn’t done it.”