STORIES FROM THE BESSED CELLAR

 Whispering Pines Sanitarium

     The year is nineteen forty-eight. The 'Whispering Pines Sanitarium' is unusually quiet this morning, and there is a feeling of something ominous in the air.

     There should have been far more bustling activity, noise, and the normal morning sounds of the staff moving around. But this was not the case. This big gray building was almost silent and more like a cold lonely tomb on a quiet October morning.

     Still, maybe I shouldn't get ahead of myself. In reality the Doctor 'is' in. But he's in the basement of this large two story building dating back to the thirties; and he's tied up securely to a cold water pipe. He's also in a brand new straight jacket that has been tied way too tight.

     The most deranged patient within this Sanitarium also in. He's in the Doctors office sitting at the Doctors desk, in the Doctors huge leather chair. He's dressed in the Doctors clothes and wearing the white coat as if it were made for him.

     Sitting there proudly he twists his body in the chair from left to right, then right to left, fingering a piece of the medical equipment he's found in one of the cabinets. He holds the stethoscope out in front of him, and smiles approvingly.

     His other hand is not at rest either. The long bony fingers rub back and forth across the smooth shiny stainless steel blade of a brand new scalpel within the half-opened desk drawer. Finally removing it, he admires the flash of light reflected by the stainless steel metal.

"Beautiful." he whispers.

     This was the ultimate tool in his estimation, and it would do exactly as he asked as long as it was handled quickly, appropriately and at the right moment.

"A scapel was just one step away from a straight razor wasn't it?" He mused.

     He knew he would learn quickly as the fine instrument was guided through the flesh that had to be removed from these patients if this building were ever to return to some kind of normalcy. He was sick and tired of the crying, screaming, wailing and non-stop chatter of these people who slept little, and planned each day to be worse than the day before.

     He believed they were doing this purely for their own pleasure; and as a way to torment him in particular. To rack his brain; to squash and mash and dash it against the rocks, then squeeze it within this ever increasing push of garbled, growling, moaning, complaining  managery of 'unorganized human psychos'. Well all of that would end, and it would have to end very quickly if he were ever to achieve any form of dicipline  within these thick grey walls.

     He also realized that it would take time, but he had nothing but time, didn't he? First he would have to out last them, knowing in the end that if he had to stay here he would make it a better place for all involved, including himself, especially himself.

     He smiled broadly once again. This job could only be done by someone who had had a unique kind of experience, and he had picked the best man for the job, 'himself.'

     Wasn't he the best, 'truly the best man?' Hadn't the newspapers nicknamed him 'Jack?' ('As they should have,') he thought to himself.

     "I was very close to being that good; another year and I would have joined 'Jack the ripper' in the Hall Of Fame, and become just as infamous, or maybe even greater?" he thought.

     "They stopped me from what I deserved to become, then locked me in here with a group of people who hate me, and are trying to drive me crazy. Well, that has to stop! Today will be the first day of the rest of my life; today I will begin to make things right, and in the end these people will thank me, but only by nodding their heads."

     Looking down, he carefully, quietly slips the scalpel into the drawer; he will retrieve again it when the time comes. The Doctors nurse had called in sick today, she is not there; the floor personnel will not notice anything different until it's much too late. He gets up, straightens his clothes, and slowly walks to the waiting room door, reaches for the knob and turns it. Opening the door he puts on his best smile and announces,

     "You're first sir, please come in and have a seat, won't you?"
 

" I'm going to hate this part," he mumbles to himself. But they do deserve to be helped." he thinks. 
    

Turning away but still leaving the door open he lifts a plain white handkerchief from his coat pocket and places it upon his cheek. He stops the tear mid way down his face.

     One skinny old man named Rodney Jensen is not from the same floor as the patient we know as Dr. X. He ambles slowly toward the office door then manages to reach up to steady himself against the doorframe. Then taking a deep breath, he continues on, walking toward the large desk. Venturing a glance he comments on this mornings situation as he sees it.

     "You're new, aintcha? What's your name? How come Doc aint here? What's goin on? How long you worked here? Never seen you before! Where's Doc. Butterworth? Sick today? Hey! What's goin on? What's your name, what do they call you anyhow? Hey! What's goin on here?" Rodney rambles.

     With a constant repeating stream of questions, and a limpy gait Rodney Jensen finally finds a chair that he likes, and quickly makes it known.

     "This here chair? This is my favorite chair and I don't sit nowhere else! You git that Doc? This is it! So don't try to mess me up! I don't take no bull and Ole Doc Butterworth knows that! Hey! Where is Old Doc anyway? Hey! What's goin on here? Why are you sittin at his desk? What's your name anyway? What's goin on? You got my record out? Know most of what went on the last time I was here? Hey! What's your name anyway? Where's Old Doc. Butterworth?" he continues.

     Dr-x now posing, as the legitimate Doctor is just about ready to explode and reaches toward the desk drawer. Pulling it open he slowly snakes his hand in until it comes to rest upon the scalpel, but then runs his fingers over the blade instead of the handle this time. Doing this continually as he listens to the endless prattle of Rodney Jensen who is getting more nervous and upset by the minute. Finally he speaks.

     "Rodney!! Relax!! Everything is fine!" he shouts, to get the man's attention.

     Then dropping his voice in a pretense to quiet the man he says, "Do you think you could settle down a little bit and give me a chance to answer some of your questions? Can we begin our discussion now? Would you mind Rodney?"

     "Oh sure!" the little man answers in his best foot foreword friendly voice. You got the floor Doc! You're the Doctor, aintcha?"

     "Yes I am." he answers. I'm Doctor James Rellik, a visiting doctor. I'm a Psychiatrist from Linden New Jersey. I've agreed to fill in for your Doctor Butterworth whose come down with a bad case of the flu. I'm sure that we can manage here without him for a few days and give him the rest he needs. What do you think Rodney?"

     "Oh, sure! Anything for Ole Doc Butterworth! No problem! I'm willing if you are Doc! Yeah! No problem!"

     "So lets just talk about you, and how you're feeling, maybe give me a few ideas of how your thoughts are coming along. Still having those terrible nightmares?"

     "Yeah, I sure am Doc, and its hell believe me! But I guess you wouldn't know about those things huh Doc? You don't have to go through that sorta stuff, do ya.? You listenin Doc? Hey! I'm talkin here!"

     Yes, I'm listening, Rodney, Dr-X answers.

     The imposter allows Rodney to continue and sits quietly still rubbing his fingers' across the scalpel blade.

Rodney begins with his list of complaints'.

     "To put it bluntly Doc, my life is nothing but a piece of crap! Know what I mean? Just a piece of raw crap, and to put a bottom line on that, nothing's goin well at all! I'm still havin trouble sleepin, and I'm startin to imagine all kinds of things anymore. It scares the heck outa me Doc!

     My mind aint even as stable, (usin the words of Ole Doc Butterworth,) as it once was, but I aint supposed to know about that stuff, huh Doc? But I do know that stuff, and it aint nice Doc. believe me! Yeah, I get them funny ideas. You know what I mean? Stuff that I aint even supposed to know! Know what I mean Doc? Like it's just a jumbled up mess and my head is like a salad-bar; all kinds of bits and pieces but nothin I can nail down, you know what I'm meanin Doc.?

     At times I imagine that I'm a paranoid schizophrenic and other times I think I'm just plain crazy. That can be pretty scary, right? I guess you know about all that stuff huh?"

     Rodney is no longer aware that this is a give and take situation, and the discussion should bring up new information and possibly even a few solutions now and then. He is speeding along with his own stream of ideas, totally unaware of the need of the Doc-X to express his opinions also.

     Steaming with a quiet anger Doctor-x is just about ready to cut out his first set of vocal chords long before had planned to. and nervously grips the scalpel so tightly that he cuts himself. The sudden pain in his hand draws his attention and he pulls it back from the drawer.

     The blood flow is slow but begins dripping all over the desk drawer. Quickly, he looks up at Rodney.

     "Rodney? Can you excuse me for a minute? I've cut myself on a paper clip and need to get a band aid from the bathroom."

     He gets up and rushes to the small room just feet away. He enters and opens the medicine cabinet door. Finding a box of bandaids he extracts one. Peeling back the protective covering he places it over the cut and presses it down. Closing the cabinet door he is instantly faced with a reflection.
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     In a hurry when he first entered he had not noticed anything in the mirror, but seeing it now frightens him. The deranged inner self that threatens to reveal his true nature is helucinat-ing and exposed. He shudders with fear. The untruths that he had placed before the world before he had entered this bathroom are instantly realized and he is exposed to his own maligned warped mind.

     He feels the urge to run away from the unreality that now courses hotly through his brain, but he cannot. He has enclosed himself in an inescapable mental trap that continues to guide the plan that he has devised and could in the end do what he has never wanted, placing him on the road to an eternal hell along with the others, who at times also realize that this is not where they want to be, but really have no choice in the matter.

     He stares into the image of a dark side of his mind that is far worse than he had ever imagined. Just at that moment a face appears beside his reflection in the mirror. The eyes are large and blood shot, the mouth is wide and excited, the tongue hangs in midair between the jagged teeth and the roof of the mouth; and then closes like the trap on a screaming rabbit.

     "You okay Doc.? What's up? You ran away so quick you scared me!" Rodney jensen questions.

     Dr. x stands like a statue, not moving a muscle; he is too frightened to move. For a moment he thought he was seeing a vision of his own dual personality split even farther away from reality. The face beside his own was not in the least familiar. The grotesque disfiguration, the eyes wide and bloodshot, patches of black rough worn skin among the pink, the huge dog teeth fangs threatening to bite through the floating tongue, the thick pock marked lips, the unruly ragged hair reaching out in all directions; nor was this the face of Rodney Jensen!

"Mirrors don't lie." he mumbles to himself. But how much of the truth do they really tell, maybe just enough to push you to the brink?" he wonders.

He knows he has to find out exactly what is behind him. To see that he turns swiftly to look at what he may have been viewing, but upon turning he is faced with just plain old Rodney Jensen.

"Oh...yes, I'm fine Rodney, you can go back to your chair now, I'll be there in a minute, (to cut your tongue out of your head you miserable old jabbering idiot.) How Ole Doc. Butterworth ever put up with some of these patients, I'll never know." he whispers under his breath.

Leaving the bathroom he makes his way back to the large mahogany desk. Sitting down he fingers his jacket; so white, so pure, so free from any kind of real world problems, at least not the kind that could erupt at times within this house from hell.

"Well Rodney, he begins, what shall we talk about this morning? What seems to be bothering you most these days? Maybe something you forgot to mention to Doc. Butterworth?"

Rodney is not quite sure that he wants to talk to this new Doctor. Actually, he really doesn't trust him for some reason. Sitting there quietly, he is thinking to himself.

"I might be crazy like they say but this guy just don't act right. Not like any Doc. I ever knew before. There's just somethin not right here."

There's no way he's going to tell this new medicine man the whole truth about anything, and he's made up his mind to that! Especially the deep dark secret that he has kept hidden for so long, from Old Doc. Butterworth,

But what was that secret? And why had he held back for so long? Were these thoughts and ideas so grotesque that they might be much too dangerous to discuss with a man who literally held the power in his palm to keep you locked up, or allow you the freedom you so badly wished for?

But that kind of idea has a warped sense of complexity to Rodney; to try understanding it immediately threw up a flag that stopped any further silent discussion. The Doc. always told Rodney that as soon as he scrubbed his unconscious of all the bad thoughts and worked through the rest of his old problems he would get better and there was a chance that he could again return to the general population and live a normal life.