“Sorry if it sounds like I’m stonewalling,” I said, “but I really don’t hate people.”
Which was true. I didn’t hate my readers, or kids, or shrinks per se.
But I was beginning to hate Dr. Connors.
It was a bad night. I didn’t get any sleep, because I was too busy planning my own defense. Perhaps that sounds a trifle melodramatic, but there really was no other word for it. I had to defend myself when Dr. Connors attacked me by using my own words, my own work. It was unfair, unjust, unspeakable—only an idiot would equate make-believe with reality. Actors who played villains weren’t monsters in real life: Boris Karloff and Christopher Lee were two of the nicest persons I’ve ever known. My own literary mentor, H. P. Lovecraft, was a kind and gentle man. If Dr. Connors thought otherwise, he was only displaying his own ignorance.
Or his own cleverness.
He was searching for something; something which escaped me. Something connected with my own condition, no doubt, something blocked and obscured by an amnesic reaction. If I could only recall what happened—
But that wasn’t important now. The important thing was to be prepared for tomorrow’s attack. Attack through my own books.
Which title would he select?
I tried to anticipate his choice in my own mind. American Gothic, Night-World, Firebug, The Dead Beat, The Kidnaper, The Will To Kill, The Scarf—all were possible selections. But all of these novels possessed a common theme: the ease with which a psychopath could operate within our supposedly sane society. Surely such a premise is a legitimate subject for examination. And if Dr. Connors planned to play devil’s advocate and ask why I was so preoccupied with psychopaths, I’d tell him the truth. I’m afraid of them, Doctor. Aren’t we all?
That was it. Just tell the truth. The truth shall make ye free—
I had plenty of time to consider the matter, because Miss Frobisher didn’t come for me until after dinner the following evening.
Dr. Connors, she said, had been called away on personal business during the afternoon. But he’d returned now and was waiting for me again in the anteroom to the surgery unit.
“Sorry about that,” he told me, as Miss Frobisher departed. “The painters finished my office, but I haven’t had time to get things straightened out yet. So if you don’t mind—”
“Not at all.”
Dr. Connors was seated at the table, note-pad resting on top of a book. I glanced at the book as I spoke, trying to see the title. Which one had he chosen?
There was no need to play guessing games. He was already lifting the pad, exposing the volume beneath.
It was The Opener of the Way.
He nodded at me. “As you can see, I’ve done my homework. You expected that, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But not your choice. Why this, instead of a novel?”
“Because it’s your first book, your first published story collection. And because of the title.”
“If you read it, you know that ‘The Opener of the Way’ is one of the stories.”
“But that’s not why you selected that title, is it? You were making a statement of intention—this book was opening the way to your writing career.”
“Very perceptive. What else did you notice?”
“That certain constant elements in your work go back almost to the beginning. Mass murders, for example, in ‘Waxworks,’ ‘House of the Hatchet,’ ‘Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper.’ The invasion or desecration of the human body—‘Beetles,’ ‘The Dark Demon,’ ‘The Shambler from the Stars,’ ‘The Fiddler’s Fee,’ and ‘The Opener’ itself. Plus the theme of possession by evil forces or an alter ego, in ‘The Cloak,’ ‘The Mannikin,’ ‘The Dark Demon,’ ‘The Eyes of the Mummy.’ You must admit, it all seems to add up.”
“To what?”
“To the recurrent image of a man possessed by a demon, mutilating his victims in a series of multiple murders.”
I shrugged. “As I told you, it’s a living. And as you told me, all fiction is a form of lying. These particular lies happen to be the ones I live by. They worked for me when I started writing, and they still work for me today.”
“But you don’t lie all the time, do you?” Dr. Connors opened the book. “What about the introduction you wrote for this collection? You start out by asking the very same question I’ve been asking you. Where do you get the ideas for your stories?”
“I’ve already told you that.”
Dr. Connors flipped a page. “You give a different answer here. You say that a fantasy author is cast in the dual role of Jekyll and Hyde.”
“Just a figure of speech.”
“Is it?” He glanced down at the text. “Let me read you your own words. ‘Dr. Jekyll attempts to deny the very existence of Mr. Hyde. But . . . Mr. Hyde exists. I know, for he is a part of me. He has been my literary mentor now for more than a decade.’ And now, the last paragraph of your introduction. And when anyone inquires as to where I get the ideas for my stories, I can only shrug and answer, From my collaborator—Mr. Hyde.’ That’s an exact quote.”
I stared at him. Yesterday I’d told myself that I was beginning to hate this man. Today—
“Something wrong?”
“Only with your conclusions.”
“Not mine. Yours.”
“Cut the double-talk. Are you saying I’m a multiple personality?”
“You’re saying it, in your introduction here. And in your work. That’s double-talk with a vengeance.”
“I’m not interested in vengeance.” I shook my head. “And I don’t hate people.”
“So says Dr. Jekyll. But Mr. Hyde tells a different story. Over and over and over again.”
“It’s just a story.”
“Are you sure?” Dr. Connors shook his head. “Then why are you here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know, or don’t remember?”
“Both.”
“Exactly. In multiple-personality disorders, there’s always this element of amnesia, of disassociation. My job is to help you recall. I was hoping that analyzing your work would lead you to find clues to reality. Once you face the truth—”
“What is the truth?”
“There are many truths. Consider them. You’re in a private sanatorium—and you wouldn’t be here unless there was a reason. You’re under tight security—and that should suggest the reason is a serious one. You can’t remember what happened prior to your arrival; surely this implies a personality split protected by an amnesic reaction.”
I took a deep breath. “What you’re saying is that I flipped out and killed somebody?”
“No.” Dr. Connors smiled. “Consider the facts. If you’d killed somebody, you’d be downtown, at the county jail.”
“But I did flip, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” He smiled again. “Before we continue, perhaps I’d better remind you of another truth. I’m here because I’m interested in your welfare. I’m not your enemy.”
Locking me up. Playing cat-and-mouse games with me. Prying into my stories, my secrets. And then, expecting me to believe he wasn’t my enemy? Maybe I was crazy, but I wasn’t stupid.
“Of course not.” I returned his smile. “Shall we get on with it?”
Dr. Connors consulted his note-pad. “There’s another thread weaving itself through your fiction. Not just the fantasies but the mystery-suspense stories I’ve read—so many of them deal with variations on a single dénouement.”
What’s that?”
“Decapitation.”
“Is that so unusual? It’s a common enough device for shocking the reader. Even the Queen in Alice in Wonderland kept saying—”