It was in November of 1987 that I, Dr. Patricia Reed, hired on as a psychiatrist at the State Hospital in Wickham, Mississippi. The town was small, bucolic even, like so many others in the area. It boasted of two traffic lights, a department store, and one fast-food joint. Old men gathered at Wickham’s courthouse to whittle and talk. The ladies met at their respective churches (there being five churches in this town) to plan Sundays’ activities and share recipes. Most of the young adults had moved on to more prosperous areas where jobs were plentiful. The few teens left in Wickham hung out in parking lots, where they smoked cigarettes and dreamed of the day when they could leave what seemed to them like a prison.
The hospital was located on about 500 acres of woodland and was the oldest facility of its kind. The state had modernized it somewhat but it still had that 1950s feel. What was once segregated by race was now segregated by sex. The old treatment rooms, with their ice baths and shock therapy, were now common rooms where patients spent most of their day watching TV and playing games if they were lucky -or drooling in their chairs if they were not. The building reeked of antiseptic but, despite the constant disinfecting of every surface, the hospital still had that old, dingy look. It seemed as if the more the staff scrubbed, the more the building persisted in its stereotypical horror. What could be more frightening than an old mental hospital where screams used to fill the corridors as the next round of state-sanctioned torture began? At first, I fancied that I heard the echo of those screams but I quickly realized that there was something worse - silence.
One of my first patients was Dr. James Baker, aged 65. He had been a psychiatrist who worked at this very institute. His diagnosis was “catatonic schizophrenia,” which seemed consistent with his unusual behavior. He spent almost every waking hour sitting in a cushioned chair and staring out the window, not moving unless the staff moved him and never uttering a word. His file stated that he was born in 1922 to a Mr. and Mrs. Edward Baker (now deceased). His dark hair was now gray and his once piercing blue eyes were now dull and unfocused. I connected with him immediately – he had come to Wickham fresh out of medical school just as I had. I wondered if he felt the same excitement I felt when I first sat down in my new office (a dusty room that had been locked since the 50s) – that he was somehow going to save all these patients with new medicines and therapies. I wondered if he knew what was happening to him as he descended into darkness.
I changed his medication to a newer drug and asked the staff to walk him around the facility as much as they could, it being far too cold to go outside. Nothing changed. He continued to guard his secrets behind a shield of silence. I was determined, though, and tried a variety of medications in the hopes that one would unlock his mind. Still, nothing happened. His file was woefully incomplete but I spent many hours poring over his records in search of some clue, coming up empty every time.
In the end, it was a veteran nurse who gave me the information I sought. I mentioned Dr. Baker and she rather ominously said, “Well, you have his office now. Let’s hope that what happened to him doesn’t happen to you.”
I spent my lunch hour locked inside that office – now my office - pulling out every old folder in the metal filing cabinet and stirring up enough dust to send me into a cascade of sneezes. I searched the closet and found a brown 1950s-style leather Samsonite attaché case on the top shelf as well as an old, white coat with the name “Dr. Baker” embroidered on it. The briefcase was locked so I tried every key on the big key ring I had inherited. Sure enough, the smallest key fit. After a click and two snaps, I opened the briefcase and found a bundle of old letters from a “Miss Fannie Wilson” of Addison, Mississippi. I shuffled through the letters carefully and read with interest as Miss Wilson – Dr. Baker’s loving, devoted fiancée – became more and more concerned about his mental health.
Addison was only a couple hours’ drive from the hospital, so I called Miss Wilson (now known as Mrs. Dan Bradley) and asked if I might drive up on Friday afternoon to discuss Dr. Baker’s case. She readily agreed and, to my delight, told me that she had kept every letter he had sent her. Between her letters and mine, I felt sure the full picture of Dr. Baker’s illness would come into view. I did not realize that the picture I pursued would defy reason.
That Friday, I pulled into Mrs. Bradley’s driveway and walked up to the small brick house. The lawn was immaculate and the yellow 1979 Buick LeSabre looked as if it had just been driven off the lot. Mrs. Bradley welcomed me at the door and took my coat. The house was inviting, charming even, with its cozy rooms full of handmade quilts and doilies. A collection of beautiful amberina “Moon and Star” glassware adorned the small kitchen. It reminded me of my grandparents’ old place, so it felt like home.
Mrs. Bradley looked older than her 60 years, as if grief had etched its scars upon her pale face. Her short hair was silvery-white with loose curls, suggesting that she had recently been to a beautician. Her frame was thin, almost frail, and her skin was peppered with liver spots. She offered me tea or coffee and I, opting for the coffee, took a seat on the rather dated couch. I politely declined her second offering, a piece of homemade caramel cake. She sat by me on the couch and put some old letters on the coffee table.
I slipped a tape recorder out of my satchel and asked, “Would you give me permission to tape our conversation?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Maybe it will help somebody one day.”
I nodded. “That’s my hope.”
I pushed the red Record button.
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February 2, 1987
Home of Mrs. Fannie Wilson Bradley (heretofore named as “FB”)
214 Magnolia Ave., Addison, Mississippi
Re: Dr. James W. Baker
Set down by Dr. Patricia Reed (heretofore named as “PR”)
PR: Recording begins.
PR: Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mrs. Bradley.
FB: It’s a pleasure, Dr. Reed. I didn’t think I’d ever want to talk about Jim again but it’s only fair for you to understand what happened to him. His parents are long gone so I want someone to remember who the real Jim was.
PR: Call me Patricia, please. You talk as though Dr. Baker is dead.
FB: He might as well be. His mind is gone.
PR: Why don’t you tell me a little about Dr. Baker as you knew him before the illness?
FB: Jim was quite a catch, let me tell you. He was as smart as a whip. He started college at 15, you know, which is unheard of these days. He was handsome too, with thick, wavy black hair and eyes as blue as the sky. What I loved about him most was his gentle, quiet spirit. He truly cared about other people, so I knew he’d make a good doctor and a great husband.
PR: You had a crush on him?
FB: Every girl had a crush on him! [both laugh]
PR: When did the two of you meet?
FB: We grew up together here in Addison – went to the same school, same church. He was several grades ahead of me, of course, but that just made him more desirable.
PR: When and where did he get his degree?
FB: Easthallow University, 1952.
PR: That’s a prestigious school. You must have been very proud.
FB: Oh, we were all so proud of him! His parents and I drove down for the graduation ceremony. It rained the whole way there but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
PR: When did you plan to get married?
FB: Well, he proposed to me in the summer of ’51 but he said we’d have to wait until after he had worked for a while. He wanted us to be financially stable, you see.
PR: You were ok with moving to Wickham?
FB: I would have moved anywhere to be with him and it’s not like he planned to stay at that hospital for the rest of his career. We hoped to move to a better one once he had a couple of years under his belt.
PR: You were both optimistic about your long-term prospects.
FB: Overjoyed. We really thought we could change the world – this part of it at least.
PR: That’s a common feeling among new doctors. I have it myself occasionally.
FB: It’s natural, I guess, for humanitarians and narcissists alike.
PR: [laughs] Which one am I?
FB: Definitely a humanitarian! You wouldn’t have driven all this way with a stack of old letters if you weren’t.
PR: Point taken. Did Jim have any hobbies?
FB: He liked to sing and play the piano a bit but his real passion was chess.
PR: Did you two play together?
FB: Oh, yes. Sometimes I even let him win. [both laugh]
PR: Did he have any military experience?
FB: He joined up in ’41 after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. He was a medic, so he saw some grisly things. He chose psychiatry because so many of his fellow soldiers came home with…we used to call it “shell shock” …
PR: PTSD?
FB: I think so, yes.
PR: Did Dr. Baker suffer from PTSD?
FB: No, he didn’t see direct combat and he had the temperament for dealing with blood and gore.
PR: So, after the war, he went directly to medical school.
FB: Yes. Jim didn’t like to be idle. He always needed to be learning something. I admired that.
PR: It’s a tragedy that he developed this illness. I hope the newer medications will help him recover at least some of his lucidity.
FB: I want to be clear about one thing before we continue.
PR: Yes?
FB: I’m not telling you all this so you can treat Jim. I’m telling you this so that you will avoid him as much as possible.
PR: I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you want him to get well?
FB: He can’t just “get well.”
PR: But with the new medications…
FB: Medicine won’t fix him. There’s nothing left inside him to fix.
PR: I find that hard to believe.
FB: I don’t know why most people go silent but I know why Jim did.
PR: Why?
FB: Patricia, are you a believer?
PR: Nominally a Presbyterian.
FB: But do you really believe?
PR: In the supernatural? Ghosts, gods, and magic? No, it goes against my scientific training.
FB: You’re a rationalist. It will be hard for you to accept what I have to say.
PR: Give it a shot.
FB: Jim’s first patient, Charley Miller, was possessed by an evil spirit.
PR: A what?
FB: I knew you wouldn’t believe me.
PR: [incredulous tone] What made you think he was possessed?
FB: I met him once. I looked into his eyes.
PR: Are you seriously suggesting that Miller had a demon in him?
FB: No, I’m saying it outright. Miller was driven by forces beyond this world.
PR: I just can’t believe something like that without proof.
FB: You’ll get your proof.
PR: Do you mind if we look at the letters now?
FB: Of course. I’ve sorted mine by date so we can keep track of things.
PR: I’ll do that too. [papers shuffling]
FB: This is the first letter he wrote to me from Wickham.
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Wickham, Mississippi
Friday, August 15, 1952
Dearest Fannie,
I just got settled in here at Wickham and, I must admit, this is a rather dismal place. I knew what I was getting into by choosing this field, but this hospital is about as grim as they come. I believe it was built in the 1920s, as I was, but it didn’t age as well as I have. It looks and feels much older. The high ceilings seem to be constantly looking down upon us with displeasure. Its long corridors feel like an inescapable maze. Worst of all, the few windows – designed to let in the light – create ominous shadows that swallow up anyone who steps into them.
This place is more a prison than a hospital. Most of the patients are packed into the common area but some roam the halls, lost in their delusions. The staff are quite cold-mannered as if it’s an imposition for them to work here. The orderlies patrol the hospital, searching for signs of wrongdoing. The nurses keep syringes of tranquilizers handy and are quick to use them. The goal seems to be keeping patients docile rather than helping them recover.
I am reminded of the old days when members of high society paid to tour ‘insane asylums’ for fun. They stood on the second-story catwalks and gawked at the poor unfortunates who were held there. On a typical day, tourists watched the patients mill about, often doing unmentionable things to themselves that, I’m sure, a gentlelady like you wants no part of hearing. But sometimes the tourists would be treated to the sight of tortures and operations. It seems very cruel to me. Wickham may be bad but, if I’m being fair, it’s a lot better than that.
The only part of Wickham that is inviting is the beautiful garden out front. Most of the flowers have already come and gone, but I’m sure they are lovely in the Spring. Despite the garden area having benches and chairs, patients are not allowed outside lest they wander off. This goes against the practice at Easthallow where patients were exposed to sunlight and fresh air every day. I hope to remedy this one day but, as a new doctor, I cannot make that suggestion now.
I hope to have enough money saved after a year to give you the wedding you deserve, Doll. Until then, you will have to rely on my letters. I will write to you often and hope to visit as soon as I can. Give your father and mother my regards.
Yours most sincerely,
Jim
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Addison, Mississippi
Wednesday, August 27, 1952
Dear Jim,
I’m sure you will brighten up the place with your smile. Perhaps some fresh flowers for your office are in order? There is a florist in town, yes? Take plenty of walks yourself. You don’t want to be cooped up like those poor souls are.
I decided to spend this year apart from you wisely, so I applied to the nursing program at the Addison Hospital. By the time we are wed, I will have finished my training and will be able to work with you (or close by at least). I hope you are not upset. I wanted it to be a surprise but, as you know, I’m impatient and not so good at keeping secrets. Father and mother are amused since they thought I would be content managing a household. Can you imagine me as a simple housewife? Sometimes I wonder if I am adopted.
I will expect your letters with great joy and the visits even more so. Write to me again soon. I want to know more about your patients. It will be good practice for me to learn the medical terms now. Father and Mother send their love.
Yours truly,
Fannie
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PR: Dr. Baker sounds very compassionate.
FB: One of the best...
PR: So, you became a nurse?
FB: No, I gave it up after Jim took ill…
PR: What did you end up doing?
FB: I couldn’t bear the thought of being a nurse for any other doctor, so I became a “simple housewife.”
PR: Any children?
FB: No children. I fill my days with baking, quilting, and working crossword puzzles.
PR: [points at quilt] Is this your work? It’s beautiful!
FB: Thank you. That’s one of my favorites.
PR: Back to Dr. Baker, when did you first realize something was wrong?
FB: October, I think. The symptoms started almost immediately but I didn’t understand what was happening. His obsession progressed rapidly.
PR: What kind of obsession?
FB: The kind where all he wanted to do was talk about Miller.
PR: He was comfortable talking about his patients?
FB: Only that one. There were no privacy laws back then, so we discussed Mr. Miller at length. Too much so for my liking, to be honest.
PR: What was his diagnosis?
FB: Sudden onset catatonic schizophrenia.
PR: That’s the same as Dr. Baker’s diagnosis.
FB: Yes, the two are related.
PR: Catatonic schizophrenia isn’t contagious.
FB: Catatonia is the symptom, not the cause.
PR: What was the cause of Miller’s condition?
FB: I told you – an evil spirit.
PR: I’m going to need a lot more information before I can accept that.
FB: Let’s read on then.
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Wickham, Mississippi
Saturday, September 6, 1952
Dearest Fannie,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am pleased to hear that you are training as a nurse. I can’t imagine you being satisfied with domestic life. We are both mind-hungry in that way.
Speaking of which, I thought I’d write to you about the peculiar case of Mr. Charley Miller. He is a sharecropper from Red Hawk, a few miles southwest of Wickham, aged 76. By all accounts, he is a domineering man, given to bouts of anger that sometimes result in violence. He was jailed for 30 days back in 1894 for beating up a shop clerk and stealing three dollars from the till.
The night before I arrived here, there was a terrible storm. Miller, against his wife’s advice, stepped outside to watch and was struck by a lightning bolt. It left a fractal pattern of scars on his skin - scars so singular that they would have been beautiful had they not been obtained so painfully. Since that night, Miller changed completely. He is now docile and neither speaks nor moves. The staff feed him and bathe him. His diagnosis is “catatonic schizophrenia,” and his treatment consists of stimulating sprays and electroshock. Dr. Everett Noris, my employer and head of this institution, recently ordered that Miller be subject to lobotomization, a practice in which holes are drilled through the skull and a certain amount of brain matter is removed. I know this is a standard procedure for certain patients, but I think Dr. Norris has carried this to the extreme. I requested to take over Miller’s case and, to my surprise, Dr. Norris agreed. I hope to cure Mr. Miller but, if nothing else, I will have saved him from that cruel fate. Dr. Norris thinks me strange for taking this on. He is rather inflexible, coming from that old school of medicine as he does. Perhaps these newer drugs will unlock the secrets of Miller’s mind. As long as physicians like Dr. Norris are in charge, I think little will change.
Doll, I already miss you so much. Our time together this summer spoiled me. Give my regards again to your father and mother. I will write to you again soon. You are always in my thoughts.
Faithfully,
Jim
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Addison, Mississippi
Monday, September 15, 1952
My Dear Jim,
It came up a storm the day after I received your letter so, after reading it, I stayed inside and away from the appliances. I have no desire to be scarred, or worse, killed.
You mentioned that Mr. Miller was receiving electroshock therapy. I don’t understand how more electricity will help him. It seems to me that he has had quite enough of it.
I looked up “lobotomization” in Father’s old books. Drilling a hole in one’s skull seems so barbaric! The ancients called it “trepanation” and believed that doing so would release the evil spirits inside a man. I am as good a Christian as one can be but I do not believe that maladies of the spirit can be cured by the torture of the body. I asked Father what he thought. He barely looked up from his morning paper and said, “Jesus never cast out spirits by drilling holes in people.” You know how weird his humor is.
Dr. Norris sounds quite horrible. Hopefully, you won’t have to work there very long. I know you will do what good you can. The old guard will die off one day and your generation of doctors will have an opportunity to bring psychiatry into the 20th century. I think I will refer to Dr. Norris as an “Alienist,” since he seems firmly stuck in the past. It will also help you should he ever find these letters.
Come for a visit when you can. I’ll have Mother make you a coconut cake.
Love always,
Fannie
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PR: So you initially didn’t believe Miller’s condition was supernatural.
FB: No, I had no reason at the time to believe it was anything other than an illness.
PR: An illness that manifested after he was struck by lightning…
FB: Yes. After the strike, he changed completely. He went from an active, self-reliant man to a helpless mute.
PR: Did Dr. Baker’s treatments help at all?
FB: It seemed to at first. We didn’t understand…we didn’t know that Miller’s progress came at a price.
PR: What happened to him?
FB: He died in January of 1953.
PR: That’s about the time when Dr. Baker fell ill. Coincidence?
FB: No.
PR: Did Miller ever talk about his time at the hospital?
FB: I don’t know. I grieved over Jim for a long time, and Miller died soon after his release.
PR: The idea of a person becoming catatonic after a lightning strike is perplexing.
FB: Jim thought so too. He was fascinated with the case.
PR: I feel the same way about Dr. Baker.
FB: Be careful then. You don’t want to repeat Jim’s mistakes.
PR: What mistakes?
FB: Getting too involved. Becoming fixated with success.
PR: I won’t let it get that far.
FB: Good. The world has already lost one good doctor. It doesn’t need to lose another.
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Wickham, Mississippi
Frida , September 19, 1952
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Dear Fannie,
I have alread made a breakthrough in Miller’s case! I administered amobarbital each da in hopes that he might become more lucid. esterda , I decided to repeat simple sounds, much as a parent teaches a child to talk. I persisted for about an hour and was about to give up when his mouth opened slightl and he repeated the sound. One session and I have achieved more than the Alienist ever did! But I must not get too excited for, although this is quite the achievement, it is onl one sound. Tomorrow I plan to add more sounds, hoping that eventuall he will be able to speak whole words again.
I must keep this brief for now but I could not wait to tell ou this good news. Give m love to our father and mother. I will certainl look forward to seeing ou soon
ours trul ,
Jim
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Addison, Mississippi
Saturday, September 27, 1952
Dear Jim,
This is such wonderful news! Knowing you, you probably do have him speaking whole words by now. What has the Alienist said about your progress? He will have to recognize your achievement at some point.
My training goes well. Dr. Drayton thinks I will make an excellent nurse (though he did tell me I need to appear a bit more professional). My enthusiasm gets the best of me, I suppose. I have learned how to take blood pressure, administer injections, and clean wounds. What I really need to learn is how to read the doctor’s scribbles. I wish he had a typist with him!
Speaking of which, you need to check your typewriter. Your Ys are blank. Is the key stuck?
I’ll write more later. Remember that I am so proud of you!
Yours sincerely,
Fannie
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PR: Did he ever give you any details about this therapy?
FB: I believe he used a child’s picture book to teach Miller his syllables. I found it in Jim’s things after…well, after he was taken ill.
PR: Why didn’t you take his coat and briefcase? They were in the closet.
FB: The closet was locked and I didn’t have a key. I didn’t think it was important at the time. [sadly] I had no idea that he kept all my letters.
PR: It sounds like Dr. Baker thought the lightning reset Miller’s brain – that his condition was a physical problem rather than a mental one.
FB: Yes, Jim believed he could teach him to talk again. And if he could do that, there was a good chance that Miller could rejoin society.
PR: Which he did…
FB: Yes, damn him, if only for a week.
PR: Did Dr. Baker treat any of the other catatonics?
FB: Not seriously. He started taking time away from those patients to devote himself to Miller completely.
PR: An unhealthy obsession indeed…
FB: And a costly one. Jim paid with more than his profession – he paid with his sanity too.
PR: I still don’t understand how Dr. Baker became catatonic.
FB: You already have one clue, but you don’t recognize it. We didn’t either.
PR: What did I miss?
FB: Read on. You’ll begin to understand.
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Wickham, Mississi i
Tuesda , October 7, 1952
Dear Fannie,
I am enjo ing much success with Miller’s treatments. He has added another sound to his vocabular . At this rate, I believe he will be able to s eak sim le words in a few months. I have not increased his medication and I don’t think I will need to if he kee s rogressing. I fear that I am neglecting m other atients a bit but Miller is so fascinating! I’m beginning to think he enjo s our sessions. He looks at me now when I s eak. The face is still slack but the e es are alive, hungr even, as if the wanted more.
I’m glad to hear that ou are doing well. Don’t worr about not reading the doctor’s scri t. We all write like that, which is wh I t e. S eaking of which, m t ewriter is just fine. It’s ours that seems to have a roblem.
I had thought to visit next weekend but I am loathe to leave m atient at such a crucial time. Can ou forgive me? I romise to take ou out for a night on the town. We can eat wherever ou want. Give our father and mother m best.
Love,
Jim
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Addison, Mississippi
Monday, October 13, 1952
Dear Jim,
I was sorry to hear that you couldn’t visit but I understand. You may be on the verge of a great discovery, and I don’t want to interfere with that.
I’ve been working on my demeanor at the hospital. I think I am calmer and crisper now. I don’t show my feelings often in front of the staff. I know this is what Dr. Drayton wants but I feel like I’m sacrificing an important part of myself to make him happy. Is this his way of making me a better nurse or is he just crushing my natural curiosity?
Your typewriter is getting worse. It looks like the Y and the P are stuck now. I can’t believe that Wickham is too underfunded to afford a new unit for their star doctor. Perhaps you should use your travel typewriter until they come through.
Sincerely yours,
Fannie
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Wickham, Mississi i
Thurs a , October 23, 1952
ear Fannie,
I am using the travel t ewriter as ou requested. I ho e that it solves the roblem.
on’t let r. ra ton get ou own. It is not uncommon for octors to browbeat their nurses. It’s that ol school again. M octors were nightmarish too. It’s their wa of wee ing eo le out.
Miller is oing quite well, I am lease to sa . He has a e more soun s to his vocabular an I am confi ent that he will one a be able to communicate. I’d like to tr this thera with other atients but I feel I must wait until I can satisf all of the Alienist’s questions. I am taking etailed notes of our sessions in the hope that I can ublish a a er one a . Until then, I will onl confide in ou.
There is one thing I must confess. A nurse tol me the other da that I talke funn . I thought she was joking at first but she wasn’t. She sai I soun like a scratche recor . I expect I’ve icked up a sore throat. I on’t want ou to worr about me though.
oll, I love ou ver much. I wish ou were here so that we coul make this iscover together.
Jim
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PR: The travel typewriter is worse than the other one. This isn’t a matter of stuck keys.
FB: That’s what I thought. I couldn’t believe the travel unit was torn up in the exact same way as his desk model. I showed the letters to Father (who was a medical doctor), and he said, “Being a new doctor is hard, Fannie. He’s probably just overworked.”
PR: I’ve known a few overworked doctors, and they didn’t lose the ability to read and write.
FB: Exactly. I tried to tell myself that Father was right. I wanted desperately to believe that.
PR: But you couldn’t…
FB: No, I couldn’t. Jim and I wrote to each other faithfully while he was in medical school. His letters back then were always as formal and elegant as the first two I showed you. As his letters became less frequent and more illegible, I knew he was in some kind of danger.
PR: What kind of danger?
FB: The kind that turns doctors into patients.
PR: The supernatural?
FB: I don’t know what else to call it. I prayed for Jim every night but my prayers weren’t answered.
PR: None of this is your fault, you know. It’s not Jim’s fault either.
FB: Oh, I know, but it’s no consolation.
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Addison, Mississippi
Friday, October 31, 1952
Dear Jim,
I can’t help but feel that something is wrong. Your last two letters were very difficult to read. I don’t think the typewriter is the problem. Are you eating well and getting enough sleep? Father told me not to worry, that you were probably overworked. I believe that something else is happening. Please, my love, have one of the other doctors check you out. I will not be satisfied until you get a clean bill of health.
Tonight is Halloween so I am sure to have a busy night passing out candy. I wish a ghost would appear on our doorstep and that it would be you in disguise. Silly, I guess, but I’m so worried.
I’m being a bit bossy, I know, but it’s because I care for you so much. I can’t stand the thought of you suffering in that awful place. Please, write to me soon so I’ll know you’re well.
Love,
Fannie
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Wic ham, Mississi i
Sun a , November 9, 1952
Fannie,
I’m using the es t ewriter again since you sai the travel unit was worse. I on’t un erstan wh ou can’t rea m letters an more. I certainl have ifficult rea ing ours. The staff have mentione to me on more than one occasion that the can’t un erstan ever thing I sa . I feel like I am writing an s eaking a foreign language.
If r. ra ton is that har on ou, ma be ou shoul quit the rogram. ou can alwa s be m secretar . our t ing will have to im rove though.
Miller continues to make rogress. I am recor ing our sessions so that I will have roof that m treatment wor s. Sometimes I fanc that the s ark I see in those e es is now malevolent. I wo
er if his original ersonalit is blee ing through. He moves a little bit now, which ma not soun li e much, but it’s better than his com lete stillness of two months ago.
I’m afrai a visit is out of the question for now. I cannot affor to miss even a single session lest Miller revert to his ol wa s. I must ush through this! I will be the one to cure him. I now ou un erstan .
ours,
Jim
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Addison, Mississippi
Monday, November 17, 1952
Jim,
If I read your letter correctly (and it is more difficult to read now than ever), you told me to quit my nurse’s training. How dare you even suggest that! I have lovingly supported your choice of profession for many years now and would never think to ask you to give it up. How then can you ask me to give up my pursuit? You don’t seem like the Jim I fell in love with.
I don’t want to hear anything else about Miller until we resolve this. I insist that you make a visit very soon. Once I am satisfied that you are well, I won’t trouble you about it again.
Fannie
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PR: Did he visit you?
FB: No, and I didn’t get a letter from him for about a week.
PR: Obviously, I can’t diagnose him but he was showing signs of obsession and paranoia.
FB: Yes, so I got Father’s permission to call him.
PR: Did you record the call?
FB: No, we didn’t have the means to record calls.
PR: That’s a shame. It could have been very insightful.
FB: If anything, it left me more confused. Every time Jim spoke, there was a kind of static on the line, like only some of the sounds were coming through. I could barely understand anything he said. And he didn’t seem to understand what I said.
PR: Did you call him again?
FB: I didn’t, no. Long-distance calls were expensive back then and I didn’t think it would help.
PR: What did you do?
FB: I decided to visit him instead. I wasn’t sure how to convince Father to drive me all the way to Wickham, but I was determined to go.
PR: Did your father like Jim?
FB: Oh, yes. Father just didn’t like interfering in another person’s business. He also complained about the cost of gasoline.
PR: Did he take you?
FB: Eventually, yes, but let’s not jump ahead. Father wouldn’t drive that far without solid evidence that Jim was ill.
PR: How did you convince him?
FB: I showed Father all the letters and asked him to read them aloud. He was unable to read the most recent letters as well, so I knew it wasn’t just me. Then I asked him to call Jim. He had the same problem I’d had – that static sound.
PR: Was that enough to convince your father?
FB: Almost. He told me that if Jim didn’t come home for Christmas, we would go to Wickham.
----------------------------------------
Wic ham, Mississi i
We nes a , ecember 3, 1952
ear Fannie,
If I rea our le er correc l , ou are angr wi h me. lease for ive me for wha I sai . ou are ri h – I am ire an overwor e . I wan ou o o wha ever ma es ou ha , an I can onl ho e ha I am a ar of wha ma es ou ha .
I wish our hone calls ha one better. I coul ’
un ers an an hin ou or our fa her sai .
I won’ al abou Miller an more since i bo hers ou. I’ll focus more on our rela ionshi . I ho e o visi for
Chris mas if i leases ou.
Love,
Jim
----------------------------------------
Addison, Mississippi
Tuesday, December 9, 1952
Dearest Jim,
Of course I forgive you. I’m just so worried! There must be some logical explanation for why we can barely read each other’s letters or understand our phone calls. Whatever it is, it’s not a simple sore throat. Even Father admits that I am right.
I feel like I’m losing you somehow – as if you are drifting away from me piece by piece. If you don’t visit for Christmas, I’m going to ask Father to drive me to Wickham. One way or another, I will see you with my own eyes and satisfy myself that you are well. Four months without you is just too long. This is no jest. Come to me or I will come to you.
Love always,
Fannie
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Wic ham, Mississi i
urs a , ecember 18, 1952
Fannie,
I am efinite c min f r C ris mas. I ave misse u ver muc . I w u ha e f r u rive a his wa f r n in .
I’ll see u s n.
Jim
----------------------------------------
PR: I can only make out a few words of that last letter.
FB: He told me he was coming home for Christmas, which was the only thing I cared about. He also said he didn’t want me to drive all the way to Wickham for nothing. I’ve had a lot of time to decipher the letters, you see.
PR: I notice he didn’t mention Miller again.
FB: He knew I’d kick up a fuss. I was a willful young lady back then.
PR: Did Dr. Baker show up?
FB: No, but I got a letter the day after. It was the worst one yet.
PR: [points to last letter] Is that the one that convinced your father?
FB: Yes, Father could no longer pretend that this was simple stress.
PR: So, he agreed to take you to Wickham?
FB: We planned the trip for January, the day after the New Year. Now that I had a definite date to see Jim, I pored over those letters. There had to be some explanation.
PR: Did you find it?
FB: Yes, let’s put all the letters on the table here in order [papers rattling]. His first two letters were perfect. Now, what letter of the alphabet is missing from his third letter?
PR: [pause] Y
FB: Right. Notice how every single Y is missing.
PR: The spaces are there where the letters should be. I can see why you thought it might be a stuck key.
FB: Now look at his fourth letter.
PR: The Ys are still missing and now the Ps are missing too.
FB: Keep going…
PR: This is the travel typewriter…
FB: Yes.
PR: Ys are gone. Ps are gone. Now the Ds are missing as well!
FB: The sixth letter misses Ks. The seventh: Ts and Gs. The eighth: Os, Hs, Ls…
PR: Is some kind of organic illness? A brain tumor perhaps?
FB: He’s still alive so I doubt it. And a tumor doesn’t explain what we witnessed on that January visit. Take a look at his final letter.
----------------------------------------
W c m, M ss ss
ues , ecember 23, 1952
nn e,
c n’ v s u n Chr s m s e we nne . n w u re e u w me b n w. ’m ver s rr h . u w ll see w m n s c se s ce. M e s res e . w ll ub sh m esu s n bec me ve s ug e . c n e v W c m t e u w e eve u w g . ’ll ma e en ug m ne t ee u c m rt b e s e ccus me be ng. D n’t t in f t s s be r l. t’s n nvestmen n u utu e.
n’t t n we sh l wr e e c er n m re. c n n e e r w s.
J m
----------------------------------------
PR: Incredible! I can’t read any of it.
FB: He said he couldn’t visit for Christmas and made an excuse about earning enough money to keep me comfortable. Then he said we shouldn’t write to each other anymore.
PR: Talk about mixed messages… Did he say why?
FB: No. I was heartbroken.
PR: I can’t believe how quickly his disorganization was progressing.
FB: Yes, by the time we got to Wickham, it was almost complete.
PR: He couldn’t write anything?
FB: No, and he couldn’t say anything either.
PR: So, it wasn’t just that he couldn’t read or write the letters – he couldn’t even speak them.
FB: Like they’d been erased from his brain.
PR: Tell me about your visit.
FB: We walked into the hospital, and I told the secretary that we were there to see Dr. Baker. She got the strangest look on her face, a mix of sympathy and dread. She picked up the phone – I thought she was calling Jim – but Dr. Norris appeared.
PR: The Alienist?
FB: Yes, the Alienist [laughs softly]. Despite his dour reputation, he was quite gentle with me. He told me that Jim had taken ill on Christmas Day. He was kind enough to walk me to Jim’s room.
PR: Did he tell you anything of value?
FB: No, but he did talk with Father at length while I sat at Jim’s bedside.
PR: How did Jim look?
FB: Healthy if a little pale. He smiled at me, so I knew he recognized me. [begins crying] I hugged him and told him that everything would be all right. That he was in good hands…
PR: Was he?
FB: Maybe not the best hands but they were good ones.
PR: Did he try to speak?
FB: He tried. He opened his mouth but only a moaning sound came out. He couldn’t say a single word.
PR: He was effectively mute by that time.
FB: Yes. I just held him tightly. I didn’t know what else to do. I stayed with him for about an hour until Father said we had to go.
PR: Did your father tell you what Dr. Norris said?
FB: Norris thought Jim was working too many hours.
PR: So, he agreed with your father’s assessment.
FB: Yes, they thought a rest would do him some good but it didn’t. The next time I visited Jim was in February and he was completely gone.
PR: He didn’t recognize you any longer?
FB: [sighs] No.
PR: You said you met Miller. When did that happen?
FB: As we were leaving, I heard a nurse say, “I know you’re glad to go home, Mr. Miller.”
I whirled around and saw him – Charley Miller – standing there pretty as you please. He was about 6 feet tall and wiry as so many laborers are. What hair he had left was gray. He was wearing a pair of faded denim overalls over a light blue shirt. And his scars… Jim was right, they were both beautiful and terrifying. He was alert, focused. He smiled at the nurse and said, “Yes, I’m ready to go home.”
Then he turned to me, as if he could feel my eyes on him, and said, “You must be Miss Wilson. Dr. Baker has told me so many kind things about you.”
I almost choked. The eyes looking back at me were serpentine. A million thoughts were running through my head, but I managed to say, “I’ve heard quite a bit about you too.”
His smile became a smirk, “I know you have.”
Miller turned as if to leave but, by the grace of God, I found the strength to grab his arm and spit out, “What happened to Jim? What did you do?”
He struck an aggrieved tone and said, “I’ve done nothing other than be a good patient. And, believe me, being a good patient requires…patience.”
His voice made me angry, like he was mocking me. “You’re not a good patient. You did something to Jim!”
Miller cocked his head to the side. “What could I have possibly done to him? And why would I hurt the doctor who cured me?”
“You did something evil. I know it!”
He softened his tone and replied, “Miss Wilson, may I call you Fannie?” He continued without waiting for my permission. “I know you are upset about your fiancé, and I don’t blame you. Jim was an excellent doctor and a gracious host. I learned a lot from him but now it’s time for me to leave.”
I was shaking so badly that I was afraid I’d fall over. Every fiber of my being screamed out a warning. I wanted to punch him in one heartbeat and flee from him in the next. I’d never been so angry and scared. “You can’t just go on with your life like this didn’t happen. Jim deserves better than that!”
Miller stepped in, bending a bit so that his face was close to mine. I could feel his breath on me, as if he intended to kiss me. The strength of his presence was overwhelming. His sharp, blue eyes held mine and I felt as if he were analyzing every inch of my soul. His mild tone became sinister.
He said, “People rarely get what they deserve, Fannie. You should know that by now. After all, you got away with killing that couple when you were 16. Failure to yield, wasn't it? But they didn't have their seatbelts on and daddy pulled some strings for you.”
PR: What..?
FB: I don't want to talk about it!
PR: Ok, well, he doesn’t sound like a crusty, old sharecropper. His words are formal as if he were well-educated.
FB: His words were stolen – taken from poor Jim letter by letter [takes a tissue from a box]. I’ll never forget the last thing Miller said to me.
PR: What did he say?
FB: Exactly this: “Would that the stars were now right, that we might see an end to this low reign of man. The Priest-Who-Became-a-God sits in silence now; but, when He awakens, your miserable kind will be no more.” He tipped his hat, picked up his suitcase, and left.
PR: He talks as if he weren’t human. Who is “The Priest-Who-Became-a-God,” and why is Miller referring to himself as “we?”
FB: Mark 5:9 – “My name is Legion for we are many.”
PR: [sighs] Evil spirits again…
FB: How else do you explain it? How can a mute steal the letters out of someone’s mind? Who but a spirit would wish to see humanity destroyed?
PR: I don’t know. Schizophrenics say some strange things when they break from reality.
FB: Schizophrenia isn’t contagious, remember?
PR: Perhaps it was dormant in Dr. Baker? It usually presents at a younger age but there have been cases of it in older men.
FB: You can’t really believe that. You can’t believe that all this, taken together, is coincidence.
PR: I also can’t believe that this whole thing can be attributed to [laughs] ‘spooks and haints,’ as my great-grandmother used to say.
FB: Well, I did. I cried the whole way home because I knew that our life together was over. Jim wasn’t going to get better because Miller – that fiend – had erased him.
PR: But you did go on with your life…
FB: After a few years, I married Dan Bradley. He’s been good to me, and I love him in my own way, but Jim was the true love of my life.
PR: I really appreciate how open and honest you’ve been.
FB: I have one more thing to show you before you go [opens a drawer and removes a newspaper clipping]. I kept this.
PR: “Mr. Charley Miller, age 76, died Thursday from a lightning strike at his home in Red Hawk.”
FB: Look at the date. Exactly one week after he was discharged from Wickham.
PR: What are the odds of a person getting struck by lightning twice? And in the same place?
FB: I called Miller’s widow a few days after he died. I lied to her, told her I was a nurse at Wickham and wanted to offer my condolences. I asked her about the event and she told me a very curious thing.
PR: More curious than magically stealing the alphabet out of someone’s mind?
FB: Maybe. The first time Miller was struck by lightning seemed a normal, if unexpected, affair. But the second time…she told me that the lightning came from Miller’s body and shot up into the sky.
PR: I don’t know what to make of all this. I need time to think.
FB: Please be careful. The thing that was in Miller is gone, but it might have left part of itself behind in Jim.
PR: I will be careful. Thank you for sharing all this with me.
FB: I owe Jim that much.
PR: Of course.
FB: Patricia, please… Stay away from Jim. Don’t try to cure him. Don’t even talk to him. I don’t want you to suffer the same fate.
PR: I can hardly stay away from him. He’s my patient, after all.
FB: I know, my dear, but what sort of Christian would I be if I didn’t warn you?
PR: You’ve been very kind. Thank you so much for allowing me to visit.
FB: You’re welcome.
PR: Recording ends.
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I puzzled over our conversation the whole way back to Wickham. How much of Mrs. Bradley’s tale was true? I didn’t think she was lying but I wondered if she had misremembered some things. There were the letters – proof positive that Dr. Baker was not of sound mind but little else. And Miller’s last words were cryptic but chilling, as if they carried some cosmic threat. I thought about Mrs. Bradley’s firm belief that evil spirits had worked through Miller to attack Jim. It was too far-fetched for me to accept. There had to be a scientific explanation for these events, and I intended to find it. I was more determined than ever to study Dr. Baker.
I stopped at a convenience store about an hour from Wickham. I filled up my gas tank, then bought a candy bar and a newspaper. I didn’t speak to the clerk, and he didn’t speak to me. The silence was somehow uncomfortable.
silence
When I arrived back at the hospital, I checked in with the secretary and asked an orderly to take my satchel to the office. Mrs. Bradley’s words echoed in my mind, but I deliberately turned to the common room and looked for Dr. Baker. He was sitting in front of the big window - not moving, not speaking.
inexorable silence
I put the newspaper on the table and sat down in the chair next to him. He didn’t seem to know that I existed but, despite Mrs. Bradley’s warning, I felt obligated to try.
“Hi, Jim. How are you doing today?”
silence
“I met someone you might know. Miss Fannie Wilson. Do you remember her?”
unrelenting silence
“She thinks fondly of you. She told me everything that happened. She even showed me your letters. I want to help you get well again, like you helped Charley Miller.
I thought I saw a flicker in those eyes. Did I imagine it? Could I too make a quick breakthrough the way Dr. Baker did with Miller?
“I brought you this newspaper. I thought you might enjoy it.” I bent his head slightly so that he could see the front page.
Dr. James Baker – psychiatrist, lover, friend – leaped to his feet and began screaming.
The common room fell into chaos with the other patients running about, unsure of what was happening. Two orderlies rushed to my side, as well as a nurse with a syringe full of tranquilizer. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as I waved them all away.
Jim pointed to the paper. His screams gave way to moans as if he were trying to speak words that would not come.
Then I saw the object of Jim’s fears. Miller wasn’t a demon. His strange words came back to haunt me.
the stars were now right…
the low reign of man…
your miserable kind…
He spoke as if he weren’t human. As if he were contemptuous of us. As if he wanted all mankind to be erased from the world.
I stared at the paper, unable to accept my conclusion, but knowing somehow that I was right. The photo was obviously fake but Jim wasn’t afraid of the picture. He was afraid of the idea. Of the reality he had experienced…
There, under the title, “Gulf Breeze Incident Leaves Family Baffled,” was a photograph of a flying saucer.