The Teratologist

by Ward Parker

  Follett sensed that something was inside of Darryl with him. He screamed and screamed until he felt separate from Darryl and had sensation in his arm again. He yanked at Darryl’s hand as if he could pull him out of this nightmare, but it was like trying to tug a thousand-pound iron statue. Follett tried to pull his hand free and Darryl’s grip tightened, preventing his escape. Follett’s panic turned even more frenzied as he struggled. Somehow he wrenched his hand free, then was hit by a blow as if he had slammed face-first into a wall.

  The next thing Follett knew he was back in the cottage, lying face-down on the floor of the study.

  And Darryl was gone.

  * * *

  Where was Darryl?

  For a moment Follett feared he had left him behind in the Underworld, until he regained his senses and reminded himself that the entire ordeal had been in Darryl’s imagination and Follett had somehow had a telepathic glimpse into it. They couldn’t have really been in the Underworld. He wondered, with some guilt, if Darryl’s tightened grip had been trying to prevent Follett from escaping or trying to prevent him from abandoning Darryl.

  But Darryl should still be here with him. After all, it was only his consciousness, with Follett’s piggybacking upon it, that had made the journey.

  Please make that be true.

  Follett got up from the floor, dusted off his coat and trousers, and looked around the room. Darryl’s chair, on the other side of the table, was lying on its back on the floor. Did he regain consciousness before Follett and flee the room in a hurry? Or was he taken away?

  Though the unease and sense of unreality still clung to him like tobacco smoke, Follett forced the scientist part of him to return to control.

  Clearly he had had some sort of sympathetic connection that allowed him to share Darryl’s waking dream. And that was all it was. A daydream. A fantasy. Darryl snapped out of it before he did and simply walked out of the room.

  Follett left the room and stood in the hallway listening. There were sounds from the kitchen, but the rest of the small house was silent. He walked down the hall to the kitchen where he found the mousy housekeeper ironing trousers.

  “Have you seen Darryl?”

  “No sir,” she replied. “Thought he was with you.”

  “Did you hear anyone leave the cottage?”

  “No sir. I heard some loud words coming from you and Master Darryl, but then you quieted down and the house has been quiet as a tomb.”

  “I wish you’d chosen a different simile,” Follett said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Follett jolted awake to pounding at his door.

  “Doc Follett! Doc Follett!” called Chico’s voice through the door. “You have a visitor. Says it’s an emergency.”

  He switched on the electric lamp beside his bed and pulled on a robe. Opening the door, he saw Chico’s dark face looking in at him with concern.

  “Doc Follett, Mr. Connelly is downstairs and wants you to come with him. He says there’s an emergency with Mr. Stockhurst’s son.”

  “Tell him I’ll be right down.”

  Follett threw on the clothes that he had strewn about the floor in exhaustion the previous night. His watch, still in the pocket of his vest, said it was only 4:00 a.m. He grabbed his medical bag just in case Darryl was injured.

  Downstairs the lobby was deserted and he found Connelly pacing back and forth across the green carpeting of the rotunda. His face loosened with relief when he saw Follett coming towards him.

  “What happened to Darryl?” Follett asked.

  “He’s been arrested. For the murders of those Negroes. They have him in the calaboose.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not so much worried about him as I am about Mr. Stockhurst. He’s terribly distraught. He’s at the jail now and you must come with me at once.”

  They shared a pedicab which took them across the pedestrian bridge in the pre-dawn darkness, south to Clematis Street and then west a few blocks to Poinsettia where they arrived at the calaboose. Light poured out of the small, two-story building. Marshal DeBerry stood outside and watched with amusement as they climbed out of the pedicab, which seemed completely unsuited for their mission.

  “Where is Mr. Stockhurst?” Connelly demanded.

  “He went back to the hotel where he could find a decent telephone. He’s calling Daddy to help him out.”

  “I don’t appreciate the snide tone, Marshal,” Connelly said.

  DeBerry shrugged.

  “Is Darryl well?” Follett asked. “I’d like to see him.”

  “Sure, you can see him, but he’s not in his right mind. Be careful.”

  DeBerry led Follett inside while Connelly left to find Stockhurst. Three small cells occupied one side of the first floor and a couple of desks and gun cabinets were on the other. The young deputy, Jenkins, sat in one of the desk chairs facing the cell. Darryl slept on a wooden bench in the farthest cell, and the other two were empty.

  “Where is James?” Follett asked.

  “I released him, and Dr. Greer generously agreed to care for his injuries. Turns out there were people giving him alibis for when both the woman and the child disappeared. Besides, I’ve got the real perpetrator now.”

  Follett approached Darryl’s cell. His clothes were torn and his hair matted and covered with dirt, bits of leaves, and hay. He appeared to be having a nightmare—twitching and moaning, legs kicking out.

  Follett said, “Where did you find him?”

  “A pineapple grower up in Mangonia found him sleeping in the barn. It took four men to subdue him and one of them is now wrapped head to toe in bandages.”

  “Was Darryl injured?”

  “I’m sure he’s bruised pretty good, but you can’t tell under all that hair. What concerns me is I can’t get a statement out of him. He’s acting like a stark, raving lunatic.”

  “Are you absolutely certain he’s the abductor? Mr. Bishop said it was a white man with a limp. If the man looked like Darryl people would have said so.”

  “Oh, I’m certain, all right. The evidence isn’t ironclad, but it’s the best I’ve had in years of folks disappearing. First of all, there are lots of white men with limps in this town; just because one was in the area doesn’t mean he did it. But more important, I’ve found another witness who says she saw a man wearing a dark, velvet hood—the kind Stockhurst’s son wears—prowling around the Bishop’s neighborhood early the morning their daughter disappeared. The perpetrator,” he nodded toward Darryl, “was not at home and his whereabouts were unknown at that time. And I have this.” He went to one of the lockers and pulled out a small, pink blanket. “This was found in his closet in Stockhurst’s cottage. Belongs to Angelica Norris, the Angel Worm as they call her. Her parents identified it.”

  DeBerry clenched the blanket with his long, weathered fingers as if he wanted to squeeze recompense from it for his years of frustration at his inability to solve the crimes. Follett remembered seeing it wrapped around the limbless child as her mouth inexplicably uttered the words of his wife.

  DeBerry’s intense eyes sought Follett’s as he said, “You’ve been spending a lot of time with the perpetrator, I am told.”

  “Yes, I have. It began out of medical interest, but the young man has surprised me in many ways.”

  “Personally,” DeBerry said, “I don’t have any interest in freaks and monsters. But I got nothing against them, either. Except this one here is bad. Maybe it’s because of his deformities or because he was a spoiled rich kid. I don’t know and I don’t care. All that matters is that I have the evidence to convict him. And I want to send a message that those robber barons and captains of industry—whatever the hell you want to call them—can’t treat this place like their private playground where laws don’t apply to them and indulge in their deranged appetites.”

  He glanced back at the cell where Darryl twitched in restless sleep. “So, Doc, did you make any observations of him that would pertain
to this case?”

  “My patients have an expectation of privacy with me. But no, he gave me no reason to suspect him for these crimes. Quite the contrary. He’s a very gifted young man and if he didn’t look like he does, he wouldn’t be your top suspect.”

  “You’re ignoring the evidence.”

  “How do you know that the blanket wasn’t—”

  A thud of flesh against a hard surface made them turn toward the cell, where Darryl lay on the floor thrashing about. Foam flecked his fur around his mouth.

  “He’s having some sort of a fit,” DeBerry said. “Jenkins, toss a bucket of cold water on him.”

  “No,” Follett said. “Let me in the cell. He’s having a seizure.”

  The volunteer deputy hesitated, then looked at DeBerry.

  “I insist!” Follett said. “This is an emergency.”

  Jenkins retrieved a key and opened the door. Follett couldn’t catch Darryl’s flailing wrists to take his pulse so he tried for the jugular in his neck. His pulse was racing at a dangerous rate. Follett took his best hypodermic needle from his bag and filled it with 22 grains of chloral hydrate to tranquilize the patient.

  “I need help holding him down so I can administer an injection.”

  DeBerry and Jenkins joined him in the cell. DeBerry took the key from Jenkins and reached through the bars of the door to lock them all inside, placing the key in his pocket. His face in a scowl, he fought to capture Darryl’s arms, finally holding them down by kneeling on the shoulders while Jenkins sat on the legs. Follett found a fleshy part of Darryl’s right thigh to insert the needle and press the plunger.

  Seconds later, the struggling ceased. Darryl lay there without resisting. The room was quiet except for the sound of four men breathing heavily. Darryl gave a great sigh and seemed to fall asleep.

  “Don’t get up yet,” DeBerry said. “I don’t trust him. Jenkins, cuff his right ankle to the nearest bar.”

  Follett protested. “Marshal, twenty-two grains of chloral—”

  “I don’t care. I’m not taking any chances.”

  Darryl moaned. His eyes fluttered open.

  “It’s inside me,” he said, his voice slurred. “I never should have traveled to the other side. I was too vulnerable. It got inside me.”

  “What’s inside you, Darryl?” Follett asked, making note of his dilated pupils.

  “The evil.”

  “What’s he talking about?” DeBerry said.

  “Kill me now before it’s too late.”

  “Listen, Darryl,” Follett said. “It’s all your imagination. You had a waking dream, is all. That, that…evil entity was merely a dream symbol that your own mind created.”

  Darryl’s eyes rolled backward in his head until only the white of the sclera showed.

  “Marshal, something’s happening in his legs,” Jenkins said. “They’re quivering…it feels like snakes twisting. Man alive!”

  He jumped away from Darryl’s legs as if stung.

  “Get back on top of him!” DeBerry shouted.

  The kid was right—beneath Darryl’s clothes his muscles could be seen pulsating and twisting, even bulging as if swelling. The smell of urine filled the room.

  Then muscle spasms stopped and his entire body went rigid. It began vibrating atop the concrete floor like a book lying on the seat of carriage during a bumpy ride. Darryl’s eyes remained rolled back and his head tilted backwards, his face twisted in a pained grimace. Deep growls and whines came from his clenched mouth, inhuman sounding, making the hairs on Follett’s arms erect. This was the most severe seizure he had ever observed.

  Darryl’s eyes returned to their normal position, darting back and forth until they stopped at Follett.

  Except that they weren’t Darryl’s eyes.

  The pupils were no longer dilated, but their blackness—it was somehow darker than black, as if the pupils could suck all the light from the room. The irises were a ring of blood-red. And the sclera was a greenish yellow instead of white.

  “Who shall be the first to die?” came a voice from Darryl, a low rumbling like shale sliding down a mountain. It reminded Follett of the voice of the creature that had ferried Darryl to the Underworld.

  He filled the hypodermic with another dose of chloral hydrate.

  “Men, help me hold him steady so I can inject him again.”

  He leaned over the patient and heard the marshal exclaim, “God almighty.”

  Suddenly Follett was flying. And the world went dark.

  * * *

  He opened his eyes and the light was like glass shards impaling his eyes. His head throbbed with pain all over, especially at the crown. He lay on the floor, on his stomach, on the far side of the cell. Jenkins’ face, with its minor case of adolescent acne, was just inches from Follett’s, but his eyes had a glassy, empty look. His mouth was open. He was unconscious, or worse.

  Follett shifted his head as much as the pain would allow. Then he saw the blood beneath Jenkins’ head. And that his body wasn’t anywhere near his head. It was beneath the bench, crumpled like a tossed piece of clothing.

  He inched his chest off the floor and looked in the other direction. His heart froze.

  Marshal DeBerry sat on the cell floor, his back against the bars. His right leg was folded before him, his left was splayed out at an unusual angle. His broken femur protruded from the skin of his calf, a compound fracture. Blood oozed steadily from the wound. His face was as white as a silk handkerchief.

  Darryl stood at the door, his right arm sticking through the bars with its palm up, pointing toward a ring of keys hanging from a nail on the opposite wall.

  Follett shivered as he watched the keys sway and then fly from the nail to land in his hand. Still reaching through the bars, he attempted to unlock the door.

  The keys didn’t work, of course. They were for the other cells. The key to this cell was in the marshal’s pocket.

  Darryl snapped his head around to look at Follett and smiled.

  He had read Follett’s mind.

  He bent over the marshal, roughly patting the pockets of his trousers and coat until he found the key. Quickly he unlocked the door and exited the cell, locking the door behind him. He then hung the three keys on the nail on the wall.

  Without looking back, he opened the door of the calaboose and sprinted outside. A woman screamed.

  Follett removed his shirt and tore it into strips to wrap around DeBerry’s leg, while he waited for his heart to slow down. He concentrated on planning treatment for DeBerry’s compound fracture so he wouldn’t think about what had happened today.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I simply can’t believe it,” said William Stockhurst. He sat on the sofa in the cottage parlor beside Diana, playing with the fringed shade of a floor lamp. Connelly stood behind the sofa with a hand gripping Stockhurst’s shoulder to comfort him, in a manner that seemed a little too intimate. When he removed his hand, it gently grazed Stockhurst’s cheek.

  Follett had been trapped in the jail cell for over an hour until his shouts had finally been heeded by a clerk, opening a nearby dry goods store for the day, who entered the calaboose and unlocked the cell. DeBerry had been administered a small dose of the laudanum that Follett carried in his bag and was now under the care of Doctors Greer and Hood who would perform surgery on his compound fracture.

  “I said Darryl severed the deputy’s head.” Follett’s own head still ached from the blow in the jail cell. “I saw the results as soon as I regained consciousness. No one else could have done it—we were locked in the cell with Darryl. People are capable of remarkable feats of strength when in an excited state. You’ve surely heard stories of a mother lifting a fallen horse off her child.”

  “But what would put him into such a state in the first place?” Diana asked.

  Follett paused before saying, “It was as if he were possessed, taken over by another entity.”

  “Preposterous!” William said.

  “I agree. There
’s no scientific basis to the idea of possession. Yet it seemed like more than an episode of psychosis…”

  “What can we do to help him?” Diana said.

  “Find him,” Stockhurst said. “Then take him back to New York. Europe, if necessary.”

  “Shouldn’t we encourage him to surrender?” Connelly asked, with all eyes snapping to him in surprise.

  “In all seriousness,” he continued, “there will be a bunch of these country bumpkins with guns looking for him, shooting to kill. Wouldn’t it be safer for him to be in the marshal’s hands? You can’t ignore the fact that Darryl did commit—”

  “Enough of this,” Stockhurst said angrily. “I want to do what’s right, but Darryl won’t get a fair trial down here. Perhaps while he was out of his mind he accidentally killed that deputy. But he had nothing to do with killing those Negroes. Let’s try to find him and leave this place.”

  Follett didn’t mention the guilt he felt for instigating the experience that obviously drove Darryl mad. He also didn’t mention that Darryl probably wouldn’t allow himself to be found, that he understood the flora and fauna here well enough to disappear into the wilderness and never return.

  “I wouldn’t hold it against him if he did kill those people,” Connelly muttered.

  Everyone looked at him with surprise.

  “Look,” Connelly said, “everyone who’s gone missing was simply a burden on society. From what I’ve heard, they’re all people who couldn’t or wouldn’t work and depended on the charity of others. Whoever killed them did this town a favor by getting rid of the leeches.”

  “Well!” said Diana, obviously dismayed.

  To change the subject, they all promised to share any news about Darryl and Follett took his leave. But as he walked away from the cottage he felt dizzy and had to sit down on a bench. He worried that he might have a concussion.

  “Are you all right, Doctor Follett?” It was Diana.