The Devil's Photographer

by Amy Cross

  "Please," I say, with tears in my eyes, "I'll give you anything, but don't leave me like this. I can't take it!"

  "Just one day," he continues. "You'll thank me later. Or rather, you'll thank the leeches. They're the ones who are helping you. The ones in your wounds are doing a particularly important job. Without them, you'd die. There's little doubt of that. So just hold tight and try not to wriggle too much. You'll only be wasting your strength."

  "Why are you doing this to me?" I ask, realizing that there's no way I can persuade him to stop. "What did I ever do to you -"

  "We're saving your life," he replies, removing one final leech from the box. "You'll understand eventually, but I know that it's difficult for now. Just try to focus on the fact that everything we do here is for your own good, even if it seems cruel or unusual at the time." With that, he leans across and places the last leech on the side of my face.

  "Get it off!" I shout as I feel a sharp little pain on my cheek.

  "Your reaction isn't uncommon," he says calmly.

  "I'll go to the police!" I shout. "I'll tell them you kidnapped me!"

  "If that's still how you feel when you leave this place," he replies, "then no-one will stop you."

  "There's something wrong with you," I continue, spitting in his face. "You're sick!"

  "No," he says, wiping his cheek clean. "You've been brainwashed by the modern world. You're not the only one, but fortunately you're going to be given a chance to see the truth. Just be patient."

  "Please don't hurt me," I whimper. "Just kill me..."

  "I'll come back and check on you in a few hours," he replies as he turns and heads over to the door.

  "Come back!" I yell, still struggling against the leather restraints. "Let me out of here! I demand to be let out of this place!" As tears rolls down my cheeks, I twitch first one way, then the other, all the while trying to get loose. Meanwhile, the leeches are starting work on my body, and there's nothing I can do to stop them, even as I strain at the leather straps and cry out in pain.

  Twenty-five years ago

  "Huh," I mutter, staring at the text on the computer screen.

  It's almost midnight, and I'm using my father's computer to do some research. Because of his work at a local technology company, he's got his computer hooked up to the phone line, and we can access various information pages over some kind of network. He says it's something called the internet, and he thinks it's going to be hugely popular by the mid-90s, but I'm not so sure. Right now, it seems to be almost completely useless. There's certain no mention of Dimone Halifax Industries.

  They're not in any telephone catalog, either, and I spent a few hours at the local library earlier, but I still can't come up with anything. It's almost as if they don't exist, but I know they're out there somewhere. They're paying millions of dollars to fund my treatment every time my cancer returns, and no-one does something like that unless they expect to get something in return.

  They want something from me, and I figure I at least deserve to know what's being promised.

  Today

  It starts with the sensation of a presence touching my foot. Just a faint nudge, and then nothing for a few minutes before it happens again, and then again a little while later. I'm still half-asleep, but eventually I open my eyes and stare up into the darkness for a moment, wondering whether I imagined the whole thing.

  Slowly, something takes hold more firmly, gripping my ankle as if it's trying to pull me down off the bed. And then, just as I'm starting to stir and realize that something's wrong, it grabs the other ankle too and I realize that it's not trying to pull me down at all; it's trying to pull itself up.

  I try to move, but I can't. There are restraints in place, and even if there weren't, my body would be far too weak to struggle. I can barely even move my head, so all I can really do is wait as I feel the creature moving further up my body, grabbing my knees and then hauling itself up until finally it grabs hold of my waist and drags itself toward my belly.

  "Help!" I call out, trying not to panic. "There's something in here with me!"

  It keeps coming. Slowly, one of its hands reaches up and grabs hold of my shoulder, and I feel it sliding against my body as it pulls itself closer and closer. Its hot, raspy breath makes the skin of my bare, scarred chest tingle, and finally a dark shape appear in my field of vision. The room is dark, of course, but I can just about make out the creature's charred skin and burned red eyes.

  "Help!" I scream, trying desperately to move. "Someone help me! Get me out of here!"

  Twenty-five years ago

  It's like being reunited with an old friend.

  The camera feels pleasantly heavy in my hands. The weight alone is strangely familiar, and I swear to God, this is the first time in months that I feel even vaguely relaxed. I know it's kind of freaky, but I'm getting more and more attached to the camera, and all I care about is getting away from the house and taking photos. I've even applied for a bunch of part-time jobs so I can try to earn enough money to buy extra film.

  I only feel like I'm really myself when I'm looking at the world through the camera's viewfinder.

  As I reach the end of the street, I spot a small crowd of people up ahead, gathered on the sidewalk. An ambulance is parked outside Mr. Hermann's house, and a couple of paramedics are carrying a stretcher out, with a sheet covering someone's body.

  "What happened?" I ask as I join the crowd.

  "Poor Arthur Hermann passed away," says one of the neighbors. "They think it might have happened weeks ago, but no-one found him until this morning. He'd been partially eaten by his cats."

  Fascinated, I raise my camera and start taking photos of the stretcher as it's loaded into the back of the ambulance.

  "Don't do that," the woman says, reaching out and pushing my camera back down. "It's not respectful."

  "What does that even mean?" I ask, before turning and walking away. I got a couple of shots, which is all I really need. I don't know why people are so funny about cameras, though. They just record the truth, but oftentimes people act like there's something dangerous about them. There are some cultures that believe cameras steal souls, but I'm starting to think that even here in the suburbs of America, some people feel the same way. It's crazy, though. Cameras don't take anything from us. If anything, they add to our souls.

  I'm only really alive when I've got my camera.

  Today

  "Don't push yourself too much," Winifred says, untying the last of the leather straps. "Baby steps, remember? Your body is still recovering from the surgery, so it would be very wise to go slowly."

  "I don't think I can move," I tell her.

  "Of course you can. Just take your time."

  "I can't..." Taking a deep breath, I try not to show my frustration. "I had that nightmare again last night."

  "Which one?"

  "The one with the thing on the bed."

  "It was just a dream," she replies. "Try to put it out of your mind. There's no point torturing yourself. Just try to focus on the positives and see if you can sit up."

  Still flat on my back, I stare at her, convinced that there has to be a catch. There's no way these sadistic bastards would keep me tied up for days on end and then suddenly decide to just let me go. I keep expecting some kind of trap to be sprung, but as I slowly sit up and try to ignore the searing pain running up my chest, I realize that there's a small, old-fashioned wheelchair waiting for me over by the door, as if these people actually care about how I feel.

  "You don't have to use that thing," Winifred continues, holding up a gown for me to wear. "It's just in case you feel too weak. Dr. Mammone has been keeping you well-fed and hydrated, but still, you might be a little dizzy after spending so long on the bed. Whatever you need, just let us know and we'll try to provide it."

  I take a deep breath, trying to work out what the hell is actually happening. I should be feeling like crap, but instead I feel strangely strong and vital.

  "Are you okay?" s
he asks after a moment. "If you don't feel up to coming through -"

  "How long?" I ask suddenly, interrupting her.

  She pauses.

  "How long have I been here?" I continue, looking down at my scarred, naked body and realizing that the leeches have disappeared. "Where did they go?"

  "Where did what go?"

  "He put leeches on me."

  She smiles. "That was five days ago."

  "Five -" I pause. Having been drifting in and out of a kind of fevered dream-state, I was vaguely aware that I must have been in this bed for a while, but five days is a little hard to believe. Still, the wound on my chest has clearly begun to heal, and although there are a few little red spots on my skin from where the leeches were doing their work, I can't deny that I feel... better. No, I actually feel good. For the first time in many, many years, I feel completely healthy.

  "Perhaps this is too soon -" Winifred starts to say.

  "No," I reply quickly, getting to my feet but feeling a little woozy at the same time. "Just give me a minute," I continue, as Winifred moves behind me and starts helping me into the gown.

  "There," she says as she ties it up at the back. "You look a lot better already, Kate. There's some real color coming back to your cheeks."

  "Sure," I mutter.

  "Look," she continues, grabbing the small mirror from the bedside table and holding it up for me to see. "See?"

  "It's fine," I say, carefully avoiding looking at the mirror.

  "Go on," she insists. "Just take a look."

  "I don't need -" I start to say, before spotting my reflection and realizing that Winifred is right: I do look better. The shadow of death seems to have left my face entirely: my eyes no longer look so small and sunken, and my cheeks seem fuller; hell, my skin has regained some of its old color and I even have a little vibrancy back in my cheeks. Licking my lips, I realize that my mouth is no longer so dry, and although I still feel slightly dizzy, overall I'm stronger than I've been for a long time.

  "See?" she says with a smile. "I told you that you'd start to feel the benefits soon."

  "That's not possible," I whisper.

  "I assure you, you've made a complete recovery. It's amazing how the body is able to recover so quickly once it's given half a chance."

  Taking a couple of steps forward, I try not to let myself get my hopes up. Still, the absolute, honest truth is that I feel more normal than I've felt in... six months, maybe even a few years. It's no longer as if something is dragging me down; instead, I feel as if I could actually keep walking and go do something active. Hell, right now, I feel as if I could go run a marathon.

  "What happened to me?" I ask, turning to Winifred.

  "You've been cured," she replies calmly.

  "Bullshit. What happened to me?"

  She smiles.

  "It's psychological, isn't it?" I continue, my mind racing as I try to work out what's really going on. "He's hypnotized me somehow, to make me feel as if I'm getting better, or maybe this is just what happens when someone's about to die. One last little flush of energy to make the body feel better before it's all over."

  "You're so keen to invent unlikely explanations," she replies, "when the truth is much simpler. It's not some kind of trick, Kate. How cruel would that be, and what purpose would it serve?"

  "I have cancer," I tell her firmly.

  "Not anymore."

  "There's no cure for cancer," I continue. "Especially not mine. I'm dying. It's spread to my lymph nodes, my liver, it's everywhere. There's no way to get rid of it. I've known about it for months."

  "No," she replies, "you were dying, until Dr. Mammone intervened, and now you're better. Well, almost. I believe Dr. Mammone still wants to complete a few other minor treatments, just to make sure that you're responding well, but the main tranche is over now." She pauses. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? We have a wonderful chef here, and he'll be happy to make almost any meal you could possibly want."

  "Meal?" I pause as I realize that for the first time in months, I actually do have an appetite. I'm so used to feeling nauseous, I barely even recognize the pangs of hunger in my belly. "Steak," I say cautiously. "Steak and fries and salad."

  "Steak's one of his specialties," she replies.

  "Of course it is," I mutter, making my way slowly over to the door before looking out into the stone corridor. It's like we're in some kind of old church, and I can feel a fine layer of dust or sand against the soles of my bare feet. "Where is this place?" I ask, stepping out into the corridor. "This doesn't look like any hospital I've ever seen before."

  "But it is a hospital," Winifred replies, wheeling the chair after me. "You accept that now, don't you?"

  "I'm not sure," I reply.

  "This way," she continues, pushing the chair past me. "I'll take you to Dr. Mammone, and he'll be much better-placed to answer all your questions. Meanwhile, I can get the chef to prepare your steak. How would you like it cooked?"

  "Rare," I say, in something of a daze as I shuffle along the corridor after her. I keep expecting the old pains to return, but apart from a certain soreness running through my chest and a slight throbbing sensation in my head, I feel remarkably good. I honestly can't remember when I last felt so energetic, and although I keep telling myself that miracles cures don't happen and that the cancer is still coursing through my body, I can't deny that deep down, in the depths of my soul, there's a very faint voice that has started to shout out, with tears in its voice, that I might just have been saved after all.

  It's false hope; it has to be. And yet I can't stop wondering whether there's any chance at all that this might all be real. Logically, it has to be a lie, but there's a part of me that's desperate for even the faintest hint of a chance. Despite the pain in my chest from where I was cut open, I still feel better than I've felt for a long time.

  Twenty-five years ago

  Sitting on a bench in the mall, I look through my latest batch of photos.

  Nothing.

  He's not there.

  Even after I've examined every shot in great detail, I can find no sign of the man who appeared in the pictures I took before my latest hospital visit. It's as if he's suddenly lost interest in me, or maybe my camera can no longer pick him up. I thought I'd be pleased to get rid of him, but I feel strangely lonely now I know he's gone.

  I was hoping to find a way to talk to him. Instead, he's disappeared as quickly as he arrived.

  Today

  "We deal with spiritual as well as physical ailments here," Dr. Mammone says, opening the glass door of a cabinet in his office and carefully removing what appears to be a long, thin metal drill. "Not that we really distinguish between the two, of course. The soul affects the body, and vice versa. All of it in a wonderful balance."

  I watch as he attaches a small handle to the drill. An elderly man with graying hair, Dr. Mammone has a kind face and a calm, authoritative voice. He certainly doesn't come across as a madman, even though I'm still not entirely convinced that everything he says is true. The idea that this man could have cured my cancer... It's just too crazy to take seriously, but I don't see why else he'd be bothering with me, unless he's completely out of his mind.

  "Do you know what this is?" he asks, holding the drill up for me to see. "Go on. Take a guess."

  "Something for..." I pause. "Cutting bones?"

  "Not quite," he replies with a faint smile. "It's a drill that was used many centuries ago for trepanation. Now, do you know what that is?"

  "Cutting holes in people's heads," I reply.

  "Most people would consider such a thing to be primitive and barbaric."

  "Something tells me," I continue, "that you have a different opinion."

  "Men were cutting holes in other men's heads as far back as seven or eight thousand years ago," he continues. "It's quite possibly the oldest surgical procedure in the world. There are prehistoric cemeteries in parts of Europe and Africa where up to forty per cent of the bodies show evidence of such an opera
tion. Of course, back then, no-one really knew how the body worked, but they weren't stupid. Trepanation was popular because it delivered results, or at least it did when it was done properly. All the great civilizations in human history, from the Sumerians and Akkadians of Mesopotamia to the people of pre-Colombian Mesoamerica, they all practiced trepanation in one form or another. It has been a part of every religion, every culture, every society, stretching back thousands of years." He places the drill in my hands. "Heavy, isn't it?"

  I nod, surprised by the weight of the instrument.

  "Of course, today we use much lighter tools," he continues. "The one you're holding now is more than two hundred and fifty years old."

  "Today?" I reply. "No-one still does this, do they?"

  "It's seen as a pseudoscience," he replies. "Craniectomies still take place, but usually for some specific reason. The idea of treating the humors as a distinct part of the mind and body, however, is something that has quite gone out of fashion. In some regards, this is a good thing, but in others..." He pauses. "I don't just start using any old medical technique, you know. I study them and determine their worth, or not, and then I decide whether they have any kind of practical application. Most old ideas are forgotten for good reasons, but occasionally one comes across something that has been unfairly maligned."

  "You're not using this on me," I tell him.

  He smiles.

  "You're not!" I say again.

  "Are you familiar with the concept of the four humors?" he asks.

  "I've heard of it," I reply cautiously.

  "Hot, dry, wet and cold," he continues. "Or fire, air, earth and water." He pauses. "Or, to be more specific, blood, phlegm, black bile and yellow bile. The Ancient Greeks and Romans believed that the human body was basically controlled by these four types of bodily fluid, and that many ailments could be treated by focusing on the balance between these fluids or humors. I'm afraid it all sounds rather superstitious, and modern science has very much shown that the human body is far more complicated. Nevertheless, the idea of a balance existing within each of us is, to say the least, rather interesting. Most modern doctors would sneer at the mere mention of the humors, but I have chosen instead to study them and see if they couldn't be twisted and changed so that they became more relevant."