by Mark Frost
I should note that I have been greatly disappointed in the amount of sex I have been encountering since my return. Do not seem to meet many women while digging holes. And my tendencies toward quiet meditation do not foster contact with the opposite sex. Wonder if attending an all-male college is a mistake.
July 6, 8 A.M.
Dad woke up this morning and decided we were going to take a trip together before I went off to school. I pointed out that the school was only several miles away. We leave this morning for Mt. Rushmore. This brings to a close my career as a hole digger. Good honest work. However, it has not been the same since Jim disappeared into the night.
July 9, 1 P.M.
Dad went on at some length that Lincoln would not have wanted to be remembered as a large piece of granite hanging on the side of a mountain with rain dripping off his nose.
July 9, 10 P.M.
Am camped in Custer State Park. Dad has turned in and is sound asleep in the tent. Discovered the real reason that Dad wanted to make this trip. Found him standing in front of the map of the presidents' faces booth holding a sign reading GIVE IT BACK TO THE SIOUX, arguing with a retired couple from Indiana who were threatening to hit him with their cameras. After several minutes of sometimes heated discussion, I persuaded him to attempt another form of protest that would result in less chance of bodily injury. Have always known Dad was a bit of a free thinker, but this is a new form of expression that I have not witnessed before.
As a compromise we found a secluded stop sign and sawed it in half. He seemed much more relaxed after that and had a very good time roasting marshmallows over the fire and talking ethics. Tomorrow we head back home and I will make a point not to pass by any large monuments. Have never broken the law with Dad before. In a strange way it was terribly satisfying. I do, however, worry that without Mom at his side, his interests may lead him into trouble.
July 15, 11 P.M.
Have arrived back home without incident. Dad seems happy to be back at the shop. In fact, upon return found an order to print calendars for the National Park Service had been received. The world is a very strange place.
August 21, 11 P.M.
Traveled to Haverford today. Passed on the orientation tour and instead delivered a copy of curriculum improvements to the president that I felt would help the school. He seemed cooperative and someone that I could work with. Expect it to be a fruitful relationship.
Witnessed something called a pep rally. A large group of students chanting "Kill, Quakers, kill, kill, Quakers, kill" as the football team was introduced. While another group of students was chanting "Kill Nixon, kill Nixon." Do not remember anything like this in my religion classes. Have accepted a suite in one of the dorms on campus. Both the college officials and I felt that my experience would lend itself to leadership. I will soon be in charge of an entire floor of eighteen-year-olds.
September 12, 10 A.M.
Packed and headed off for the new apartment. Dad gave me a new tape recorder that is the size of a notebook and uses cassettes of tape rather than reels. He told me to work hard and not believe a damn thing anyone tells me.
September 15, 6 A.M.
Do not believe that the majority of students on my floor are interested in a higher level of consciousness unless it is aided by chemicals of one form or another. Appears from the silence that none dominates the floor, and that the last can of beer has finally been consumed. While I have experienced a number of mind-altering fungi and natural fauna used by what we refer to as primitive cultures, never have I witnessed a tribal display of debauchery that could hold a candle to a large group of of eighteen-year-old Americans away from home forthe first time.
My attempts at reason and quiet diplomacy fell on deaf ears as they began to wrap themselves in toilet paper from head to foot and chant "We want women." I retreated to the relative quiet of my room and read the writing of a monk who lived alone on a mountaintop for thirty-seven years in search of a deeper understanding of the world. His main conclusion, when he came down, was that you can see very far on top of a mountain unless it is cloudy. Imprisoned for his radical ideas, he died several years later in jail. The only writing from this time period that survived is the line: "There are no clouds in a prison."
Believe I will make a trip down the street to the women's college, Bryn Mawr, in the hope of making contact with thinking human beings.
September 16, 9 A.M.
Am suffering from the worst case of post-alcohol abuse I have ever experienced. Made contact with a group of Bryn Mawr students at the student union. We entered into a wide-ranging conversation that drifted through several bottles of tequila, rum and Coke, beer, bourbon, and a mixture one of the women made herself from common household chemicals. While the company was, without a doubt, on a much higher intellectual level than that of the students sharing my building, I was not prepared for the fact that women as a general rule are wild savages. At least those that are studying philosophy. Believe I may also have taken quite a liking to a junior who was studying either comparative literature or law. Do not remember her name, or even if I would recognize her if I saw her again. Believe she was either blond or red-haired. Will try to return to Bryn Mawr when my legs begin to work.
September 25, 9 P.M.
Have tested out of the classes I had signed up for and have arranged to study independently on related projects. In general I find the professors to be of high quality though many seem to suffer from a malaise of an undetermined nature. Have as yet failed to find the woman I may have met on my night at Bryn Mawr. Firmly believe that she does exist and is not a product of sexual frustration on my part.
Called Dad this morning and all seems well. Is doing a brisk business in "imprison Nixon" posters. Will have lunch with him this weekend.
September 26, 3 A.M.
Woke from a dream. I was sitting in a darkened room. There was a door with light coming through a crack. On the outside I could hear voices. One, I thought, was my mother's. The other was indistinct. I believe it was death. She was attempting to open the door and walk back into the room. The door handle began to turn. I heard her call my name and I realized that it was not my mother but Marie. I heard her say "Please, I'm not ready," then her voice grew fainter and fainter until it was gone. I wish Marie was at peace, but I do not think she is at this time, and I wonder what it is that she knows that those in the physical world can never understand.
October 20, 5 P.M.
Returned to Bryn Mawr today in search of the woman I'm sure I have met. Sat for more than an hour in the union to no avail, was on my way back to Haverford when I was passing an athletic field and was struck on the back of the head by a field hockey ball. I then seemed either to have lost consciousness for a brief moment or was a sign painter in a small Mexican village. Upon waking I found myself staring at a vision of beauty in a plaid skirt, holding a very large wooden club. I believe I told her that I was in love with her or else I had slipped back into the Mexican village and was yelling at a dog who had spilled my paint. Her name is Andy, her eyes are blue, her hair red, and I apparently did not tell her that I was in love with her because she apologized for spilling my paint. We talked for a short time after locating some ice for my head, and decided that we would meet at the homecoming bonfire tomorrow night. She then returned to the field hockey game, where she moved with the grace of a dancer and delivered a cracker-jack body check to an opposing forward.
October 21, 8 P.M.
The stacks of wood for the bonfire stand some fifteen feet tall. All around stand students, many who appear to be lovers holding hands and staring into the torches that are poised to light the blaze. All proper safety precautions seem to have been taken. Am somewhat nervous about meeting a woman anywhere near or in the proximity of fire, given my past history. The torches have been put to the wood. The smoke and flames are beginning to rise. Detect a distinct sense of urgency in the air . . . no, make that frenzy. I hope she . . .
October 22, 5:30 A.M.
I do not know where it was that we made love. We ran into the darkness away from the flames. I believe the sound of running water could be heard. We reached a spot shaded from the moon by several large trees. We kissed. Our clothes seemed to fall away without the slightest touch. We lay in tall grass that seemed to wrap around us, covering our bodies like snakes. Her body moved and swayed next to mine as though we had been together for more years than either of us had lived. A stick jabbed my right buttock, causing a momentary halt so Andy could apply some firm pressure to stop the bleeding.
We then continued, exploring every part of each other until the moment that I slid inside her. My mind turned to dolphins slipping in and out of the surface of the ocean as we swayed and rolled together. At that point I realized we had moved down a small embankment and into a small body of water. Andy then began to scream "Yes! Yes! Yes!" with a conviction of purpose and vocal power that I have never witnessed. I don't remember much of anything after that except that I was sure I understood what it was like to break the sound barrier.
We lay for many minutes clutching each other in the shallow water before I realized that the lights I saw reflecting on the water's surface were not the stars, but tiki lamps illuminating the Haverford and Bryn Mawr faculty barbecue celebrating the joining of our two schools on this special evening.
We then with some difficulty managed to evade several curious members of the physical education department who had come to the water's edge, thinking that someone was drowning. We quickly dressed, then Andy informed me that this very morning she was leaving for an exchange trip to Holland and said she would look me up when she finished studying dike construction . . . in six months. She told me not to follow her because she was meeting her husband at the airport. I do not claim or pretend to understand the world. The sun comes up. The sun goes down. That is all that appears certain from where I sit at the moment.
November 2, 7 P.M.
A chemistry student today walked into the president's office and said he had made a bomb and that he was going to blow the "whole fucking building to pieces and take the president with him." As luck would have it, he is one of my students at the dorm whom I had developed a working relationship with when he had tried to restructure the dorm into Communist cells that would strike out at imperialism across the campus. The plan petered out when he was unable to find any.
Hoping to contain the situation without resorting to the use of local law enforcement officers, the president summoned several members of the psychology department, myself, and a prominent member of the Quaker community.
The student's demands were simple. The prosecution of Nixon, and an incomplete instead of the failing grade he received on a midterm exam in semantics. The psychology department sent its people in first. The bomb went off a few moments later. The exact relationship between the two events is somewhat clouded by the confusion that followed the blast. They appeared to have gone like this:
Upon entering the president's office, the two professors jumped the student and wrestled him to the floor. This action set off the explosive. The student is now hospitalized, as are the two members of the faculty.
This is a clear example that the use of force in conflict resolution must be tried only when all other options have been exhausted. It is also an example of how too much education can be a dangerous thing.
November 5, 11 P.M.
Received a postcard from Holland of a breach in a dike. Never would have suspected that a picture of muddy water flowing through a large earthworm could elicit such strong emotions. Miss Andy a great deal. Realize that her marriage would make further contact complicated, yet I still find myself thinking about her almost constantly. Find that I am slipping into a feeling of loneliness that I have not experienced since Marie's death. Alcohol seems to relieve this solitary feeling yet I know that is no answer to the way that I feel. A solution must be found. Although I find myself at a loss as to where I should begin. It is a terrible thing to want something that you know you cannot have.
November 7, 8 P.M.
Traveled home to visit Dad in hopes of picking up my spirits. Found him having lunch with a much younger woman who is a potter and had mud under all her fingernails. Notice that Dad has also begun wearing sandals. It is only a suspicion, but I believe they may be sleeping together.
Far from improving my spirits, this sent me into a dark depression that I still find myself in. I know that I should be happy for my father, and indeed am. But the events only pointed out even more clearly to me that I have for most of my life been a loner, and unless drastic changes occur will remain one.
November 7, 10 P.M.
Am going with Howard, a geology student down the hall, in search of mature and fully formed formations to a local bar. He says I need to get laid in the worst way. Can't imagine what he thinks the worst way to get laid is, but anything is better than sitting in my room.
November 7, 11:30 P.M.
From the look of the woman I last saw Howard with, I have every reason to believe that getting laid in the worst way is exactly what he is in for. I am now on my way back to campus alone, but at least disease free, which is something I suspect Howard will soon envy.
For the last several blocks I have been shadowing a man whose actions I believe are criminal in intent. His movements have been those of a predator. At this point I do not believe he is aware of my presence and will continue my surveillance until such a time that it appears unnecessary.
* * *
Several seconds of silence.
* * *
Dammit, dammit, I've lost him.
* * *
The exact time of the next entry is unclear.
* * *
Oh, God . . . oh, dear God . . . no . . . no . . . no.
* * *
Chapter 2
"I wasn't with Dale when he found the body. We had gone to a bar, and I had ended up going home with a woman. From what I remember, Dale had been walking home and started following a man that he thought suspicious. Dale always seemed to have a second sense about that kind of thing. Never have I met anyone in my life who could read people the way he did. "What he found must have been shocking. The newspapers described it as a stabbing. A young woman. But from the way Dale looked the next morning, I believe it must have been much worse than that. They never solved it. No arrests were ever made. A fact that I do not think was lost on Dale."
Howard Teller
College friend
November 8, 5 A.M.
Have not slept all night. The face of the young woman lying in a pool of blood will not let me. The possibility that I may remember something of use to the authorities forces me to reexamine the scene as closely as I can remember it, though I do this with great reluctance. At approximately eleven-thirty I lost sight of the man who . . . check that, there is no evidence that it was a man, that is an assumption on my part.
For the next fifteen minutes I continued in what I could best determine to be the direction the figure had taken. I searched several alleys, and traversed a number of streets to no avail. At what I can only estimate to be eleven forty-five I gave up and proceeded home. It was within two minutes of that time that I came across the body of the victim. She was lying facedown, her clothes partially removed. Multiple stab wounds visible over much of her torso. Her face had been badly beaten.
What I
felt at that time I now realize was more than terror or shock. I firmly believe that the killer was within striking distance of myself, and could easily have claimed me as his second victim. This is not intuition. The presence of the killer was as real as the shaking in my hand at this moment. I do not understand the dark forces that result in so much brutality. But I now know that it is a real thing. And is out there at this very moment. I must find someone who can help me to understand and fight this. But who?
I began the evening last night looking for the companionship and warmth that so often seem to elude me. I have now slipped even farther into that lonely place I was trying to escape from.
