Chapter 4: Chapter 4: The Psychiatrist Part One

The few seconds that the visitor hovered outside Hunter's door felt like an eternity. But, as the adrenaline had rushed to the point of exploding his heart, he heard a muffled voice coming from the end of the hallway near the stairs.

"You are in number three. I got someone there." Hunter heard.

The raspy voice assured it to be Shaw as Hunter breathed a sigh of relief. Soon after, he heard the footsteps move away and the sound of the door opening in the next room, hinting that the visitor had settled in. Hunter moved away from the door and sat on his bed, visibly trembling. After waiting for a few minutes and regaining his mental composure, he thought to himself about how close he was to getting caught. If the man had come for him, that would be the end. But in the next moment, a sudden realization gripped him.

"Why would an old man chase after me?"

The obvious answer was that the man could be the "benefactor", the one who had been sending him the letters, but if it were indeed him, would he dare confront Hunter like that, knowing that he could easily take him out? Perhaps, the guy knew Shaw or at least hoped that he would help take him out.

"No, it doesn't add up. That too much of a coincidence," Hunter said to himself.

He was becoming paranoid, but there was nothing else he could do. What if the man was the benefactor? Then the answer was clear: He was here to kill him, as a measure, perhaps since he had run away. Hunter thought about leaving right away, but he knew that would raise suspicion and would probably be impossible, and if there were no connection, he would be out of a hiding place. And even if he were to run, it would have to be at night. Seeing it was best to stay put, he laid down on the bed, hoping to get some rest. He closed his eyes, thinking about what to do next, and although he tried to stay alert, somehow, he soon slipped into a deep slumber.

After waking up, Hunter realized that quite a lot of time had passed, for the entire room was dark. Hunter looked at the window, but he could not make anything outside, meaning it had been night a while ago. He rubbed his eyes and walked out of bed towards the light switch. After turning it on, he looked at the clock, which showed it was half-past eight. After washing his face, Hunter decided that it would be best to go down for dinner as it had been a while since he had eaten something. More importantly, he had to know who the stranger was, and as he closed in towards the door, he could once again hear muffled voices coming from downstairs. After walking down, the hallway, he saw Shaw and the old man sitting on the table, chatting away like old acquaintances.

By the time he got to the table, the conversation had suddenly died down, presumably by his arrival. Shaw stared at Hunter for a second, the hint of surprise evident on his face.

"Didn't recognize you for a moment," Shaw remarked.

Hunter said nothing.

The old man who had gone quiet, greeted Hunter with a 'hello' to which Hunter simply nodded.

"Well, you are always on time. Was just about to set dinner. You interested?" Shaw asked.

"Yes," Hunter said.

"You still got your teeth, Henry?" asked Shaw calmly, looking at the old man who smirked at the question.

"I'll manage, boy. Hope you can still cook half-decent sausages," he joked. "Otherwise, my teeth will just suffer unnecessarily." replied the old man.

"I sure can," said Shaw as he walked towards the kitchen.

The old man and Hunter sat in silence for a second, with Hunter noticing that he was looking at him with curious eyes. Perhaps he had seen Hunter ogling him suspiciously at the eatery earlier, although Hunter was unsure if the old man would recognize him given that the loss of the beard made Hunter appear almost a completely different person. Finally, after a few moments of silence, the old man spoke.

"Why are you here?"

"I'm sorry?" Hunter said, startled.

"Why are you here? This place?" the old man asked.

The questions, although seemingly normal, aroused the anxiousness and paranoia in Hunter again as he looked to see if Shaw was still in the kitchen. Seeing he wasn't around, Hunter slowly calmed himself and said, "Just traveling. Thought it was a nice place to stop for a few days."

"Hmmm. There isn't much to see here. Just fields," the old man said.

"Well, it sure is quiet. No one bothers you," said Hunter.

"You are damn right about that. Old boy Shaw here takes good care of me. You know him?" asked the old man.

Before Hunter could answer, Shaw had come back with two plates in his hands.

"No, we only met last night," said Shaw, giving Hunter a slight look as he placed the plate in front of him.

It was a typical dinner, mashed potatoes with sausages and gravy. The old man's face immediately lit up as soon as Shaw put the plate in front of him.

"Well, he is a lousy cook, but he makes some phenomenal sausages. Have you tried it yet, Mr....?"

"James Hunter," Shaw replied before Hunter could say anything.

"Ah, my name is Doctor Henry Taransky." said the old man as he extended his hand.

Hunter shook it, and the old man continued, "as I was saying, Mr. Hunter, the sausages are delicious. You should try them."

Hunter dug into his dinner, and after tasting the pork, he agreed that the old doctor was right. The meat was tender and cooked very well, and even though Hunter was accustomed to eating stale leftovers, he could always appreciate a good meal.

"How is it, Mr. Hunter?" asked the doctor.

"It's good. Good," replied Hunter.

"Told you. One of the reasons I keep coming back here every year. Where's yours?" asked the old man as he looked at Shaw for the last part of his question.

"I don't feel like it," said Shaw.

"Ah! It's the rum again. Remember no more than a bottle," said the doctor.

"You know you should be the last person to keep track of my drinking habits, considering you can't even control your own," Shaw said, the bite in his words clear.

"Hmmm...I'm an old man. The patients- I need something to keep my mind clear. You still have a lot of time left," said the old man.

"Fuck me then. I should probably chug down more if that's the case," said Shaw.

"So, Mr. Hunter, how long are you planning on staying?" asked the doctor, steering the conversation away.

"I don't know. A week maybe," Hunter replied.

"You don't seem from around here. Well, nobody is, given that we are in the middle of a forest, except for Shaw. But you are not from Sylvania," said the doctor, glancing at Hunter for a moment too long.

"How did you know?" asked Hunter.

"Well, I know that town like the back of my hand. Thirty-six years. You come to know everyone's names, faces, and even their biography if you pay attention," replied the doctor.

"Hmmm," Shaw hummed at the remark.

A moment of silence befell the table as Hunter, and the doctor focused on savoring their dinner. It did not take long for Hunter to finish up and start wondering about the sizeable bill he would have to foot. The doctor was only halfway done, and seeing that the silence was turning sour, Hunter asked, "So what kind of a doctor are you, Mr. Taransky?"

The question, although directed at the doctor, captured Shaw's attention to a greater extent. The doctor finished the sausages and, pushing the plate away to indicate that he was done, looked at Hunter and said, "Call me Henry."

Hunter nodded.

The doctor continued, "I treat people who are suffering from mental illnesses. A psychiatrist."

"Hmm", Hunter replied. Another sheet of silence soon fell on the room.

As Hunter thought about what to say next or to even say anything, Shaw swiftly grabbed the plate and went towards the kitchen.

"So, Mr. Hunter, what work do you do?" asked Henry.

"Whatever I can find," replied Hunter.

"So.. are you traveling around looking for work or is this strictly a vacation?" asked Henry.

"Bit of both," said Hunter.

"Well, if you want peace, the place is surprisingly cozy, but I am afraid you would not find a decent wage-paying job in Sylvania, assuming you are lucky to be employed," said Henry.

"Why is that?" asked Hunter, this time out of natural curiosity as he was considering getting some work since the money was draining quickly out of his pocket.

Henry stopped for a moment and sighed, taking a few sips of water from the glass in front of him.

"Have you been to the town?" he asked.

"Around the station," said Hunter.

"Hmmm...well, you have been to the better part, I must say," said Henry with a slight smile.

"Is that so?" Hunter asked.

"Hmmm. It's the only part of town where new people arrive. So naturally, they made it more presentable. As for the townspeople, that is a different story," said Henry, with a somber tone.

"Please tell me you are not going to start with your Sylvania folklore again. My head's buzzing enough already," said Shaw, who had come back from the kitchen and now stood beside Hunter.

"Well, if the young man wants to listen. I am quite eloquent after all," said Henry as he looked towards Hunter with keen eyes.

"Sure. Why not," said Hunter, who did not want to leave any negative impression on this new visitor.

The response, although lit Henry's face, somewhat annoyed Shaw. "Great. Now I must drink in my room," he said.

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"You could join in," Henry remarked.

"I have heard all you had to say in the past three years, and now, I'd prefer to just drink in solitude," said Shaw as he walked to the reception and pulled out a bottle of rum from behind the counter.

"Well, you have been living here for over a decade, and yet you are so distant," said Henry.

"Some people like to be that way, old man." said Shaw, sighing as he slightly glanced at Hunter before adding, "Dinner's free."

"Thanks," said Hunter as Shaw gave him a slight nod before walking into his room and closing the door.

"Well, he is in a world of his own. Good chap. Just a bit preoccupied with himself," said Henry.

"What happened to him? asked Hunter.

Henry shrugged his shoulders. "He mostly keeps to himself. All I know is he was in the military. Spent much of his service stationed in Lisburn, fighting the IRA. Guess he saw things that were not pleasant. To put it simply, Shell-shocked."

"Well, you are a mind-doctor. Can't you help him or something?" asked Hunter.

"Ha...ha...you are a funny fellow. My dear, I am not a magician. My job is mostly just talking to people and getting them to speak to me. Then I give them medicine if there is need," said Henry.

"Hmm," Hunter murmured to himself.

"You know, many people think that those of us who study people's minds are frauds or at least are not proper doctors. I spent the first ten years in Sylvania solely as a physician, treating people's diseases. It helped with the business for some time, considering I was the only full-time town doctor," said Henry."

"Why'd you stop?" asked Hunter.

"I did not. I just realized that the townspeople's illnesses had more to do with their minds than their bodies. So, I turned to psychiatry, which I wanted to do anyway," said Henry.

"But why did you come here?" asked Hunter.

"Hmmm. You could say it started as a desire to do good and reduced competition in a small parish. But as someone who always wanted to study people's minds, the biggest attraction for me was the Rosemary Hill asylum on the west end of the town."

"The town has an asylum?" asked Hunter, intrigued.

"Had. Up until nine years ago," replied Henry.

"What happened?" Hunter asked.

"Fire. Wiped away whatever was left of the place. Fifty people died. Seventeen workers and thirty-three patients," said Henry, in a somber voice.

Hunter remained silent for a moment, then softly asked, "Were you there? When the fire broke out?"

"No. In my later years, I would only visit occasionally. I still carried out my physician's practice, you see. The asylum was for studying the patients and trying to help them get better. The ones that stayed at least." said Henry, seemingly reminiscing about some distant memory.

"The ones that stayed. So, people got better?" asked Hunter.

"If you could call it that. You see, Mr. Hunter, the people there were not your run-of-the-mill lunatics, you know, the ones who would rip out their clothes, throw food or behave in such an irrational manner that you could tell their brains weren't fully developed. Well, they were at one point. But these people I met during my years at that place were calm and collected, and one could even say of above-average intelligence," said Henry.

"So why were they locked up?" asked Hunter.

"They weren't. They volunteered to live behind closed doors," said Henry.

"What as part some sort of experiment?" asked Hunter.

"No. You see, the people of Sylvania are long inhabitants of that place. As far as a millennium, according to some. So, naturally, the residents in that town have lived there all their lives, just like their ancestors before them. From what I gathered, around a hundred years ago, the townspeople started greatly secluding themselves, disconnected from the outside world to almost every extent. As a result, they became cold and indifferent towards any new visitors. It worked, for no one bothered about a small town in the middle of nowhere in the northern country. Well, no one bothered until the IRA started hiding in these hills in the late 1920s. Then came the war, and during the reconstruction period, more roads and railways were built, thereby bringing some people to this place. By the mid-40s, the government decided that the town, which was still just a village, would be suitable for building a sanctuary for the mentally ill. It was just to tuck the unwanted away from sight, like dirt swept under the carpet. After they built the place, they put up a sign and called the town of Sylvania, for the building needed an address. I came here in the summer of 1946, a few months after the construction was completed. I thought it would be an excellent opportunity to help those who were sick and study their minds. But in the end, not many arrived. By 1952, the asylum only had fifteen patients and three staff workers, who were never permanent. Turned out, sending ill people from all corners of the country to a village with a small population where there was nothing was not the best idea. So, the first few years of my practice was minimal, and as for my dream of studying the mind, it seemed there would not be any progress made anytime soon."

"Hmmm. Quite a history," said Hunter.

"It's often these places that you cannot even find on the map that harbors such fascinating narratives," said Henry.

Well, many towns have stories like this. Not that surprising." said Hunter.

"Well, I am yet to get to the fascinating part," said Henry.

"Hmmm," muttered Hunter.

Henry took the half-full glass and drank the remaining water in one gulp. Then, after a moment of thought, he continued, "The year was 1955. I remember it so vividly. It was in August when I suddenly saw a dramatic increase in the number of patients. In my decade-long practice, I never had more than four visitors in a day. But in that month, almost every day, I had over twenty people waiting outside. Now twenty people would not be a big deal if most of them had the same sickness. However, every patient had a different problem, or so it seemed. Someone complained about a cold, another came with a headache, another with a stomachache or lack of sleep. This, again, was nothing unusual; people fall sick all the time. But what was slightly odd was all the patients said it was the first time they were experiencing anything of this sort, and they were adamant that they had no prior history of any severe illnesses. Naturally, I made my best diagnosis and prescribed medications accordingly. But there was no noticeable improvement even after weeks. Mind you, the sickness was not fatal but rather highly inconvenient at best, which did take its toll on the inhabitants. People started becoming more unhinged, arguments would break out on the streets, which would often turn into brawls. A general sense of foulness settled in the atmosphere very quickly, and within a few months, the townspeople started to become distant from each other. Earlier, they wanted to keep outsiders away, but now it got to the point that no one wanted to talk to each other or even see each other's face, which was natural considering that everyone was rather ill."

"What about you?" asked Hunter.

"I always had feeble bones, which developed into early-onset arthritis by the time I was twenty-three. The winters were harsh, and I was not running any marathons, but in time I learned to live with it. When people in Sylvania fell sick, at that time, the pain in my legs became slightly more noticeable, but considering I was forty-one at that time, it was not enough to make me temperamental like the other fellows in town. So, I just carried on with my practice, perplexed as ever at this mysterious virus that had swept the area." said Henry.

"Virus?" Hunter raised his eyebrows.

"That could be one explanation, at least the sensible one. What else could explain people just falling sick without any visible cause? There were no signs of a plague, nor the climate had dramatically changed. It was still a small community in this rain-infested northern country. But...the change was visible, and you could visibly tell the misery festering inside the people. They looked frail and distraught, and I was worried, for I thought the sickness was a symptom of some severe underlying ailment. But nothing ever surfaced. Just cold, headache, sleeplessness, and fever that passed in a day or two only to come back within a week. This persisted for years. Then in 1959, something strange happened."

Henry paused. It seemed he was hesitant, or perhaps had trouble remembering or simply tired. Hunter said nothing, only waiting for him to continue his story, which he had started to find quite captivating. Then, a few seconds later, Henry spoke again.

"The wave of illnesses had drawn out much of the life from the townspeople. As I said earlier, they would not speak to one another very often, only interacting on essential occasions. Perhaps they were afraid that it was contagious. Many shops had closed, so did the few schools. It was disheartening, for I could not do anything to help them. And then...towards the end of the year...people started losing their sanity," Henry stopped.

Hunter said nothing, but his eyes gave away the brewing curiosity.

Henry continued, "Up to this point, people would keep quiet and mind their businesses, but soon they started screaming on the streets in broad daylight, picking up fights, attacking the passers-by. At first, there were only a few, then the numbers grew too large to go unnoticed. I would ask some of my visitors about it, but nobody seemed to know much. They just shrugged their shoulders off and went their ways. Even though I had no evidence to believe so, I could sense faint traces of something sinister. Soon, news spread of this affair through the railways, and once again, the asylum was rejuvenated. The staff members were now increased from three to thirteen, and there were even a few doctors and nurses, although they seldom stayed for long. I thought this was my chance to finally pursue my psychiatric career, but I realized that the townspeople needed a physician to look after them, and I needed to devote all my time doing just that. Hmmmmm...you know what the strange part is?" asked Henry, with a smile on his face appearing during the last few words.

"Apart from what you have told me so far?" asked Hunter.

Henry nodded.

"What?" asked Hunter.

"No sooner had I decided to put more time in helping people get well that I saw them slowly recovering on their own," said Henry.

"What they got better overnight?" asked Hunter, confused.

"I don't know. But within a few days, the number of patients halved and then halved again. Soon, it was back to the same old routine, three to four patients a day, with most of them having trouble common to their age. And this time, they did not return within a week, which was a relief, but also baffling, nonetheless. But now I was left without work, and there was a building full of mentally ill people a few minutes from my doorstep. Naturally, I applied for a position. It wasn't too hard, for I had the degree, and no doctor ever wanted to stay in town for long. They came once a week, mainly from a few towns thirty minutes south of Sylvania, and took the train that same night. So, when the board and the county government learned that someone was willing to stay at the institute full-time, they did not refuse. They gave me decent pay, more than I was making now that people had stopped falling sick. But things did not turn out to be as I had expected."

"Why? Did the lunatics start getting better immediately, just like the rest of them?" Hunter interrupted.

"You could say so. I had joined, hoping to see them unhinged, just like on the streets, but when I observed them, they were calm and peaceful. And yes, like others, they too had stopped falling sick, although occasionally it was common. But the residents of that asylum did not look as though they needed help. They followed their routines, were friendly with their words and actions, and overall seemed like they were living a normal life. After a few months, there were talks about releasing them, and we even let a few of them out. However, the town never failed to surprise me. As soon as they were out, they reverted to their old ways again, this time their actions being much graver. One of the people that we had released was named Tyler Hashburn. A jolly fellow. Every time I talked to him, he reminded me of my brother, young, full of hope, and highly adept at playing chess. I observed him for two years, and every day I thought his life was being wasted behind these walls. So, I decided to let him go. The others agreed, too, for one less patient was good for everyone. That same lad.... he was found beside a ten-year-old girl. Her body had been mauled with something sharp, and the townspeople saw Tyler sitting beside her, with a small pitchfork in his hands, drenched in blood. It was a ghastly sight. I remember seeing the girl's mutilated face; it gave me countless sleepless nights. Still does."

"What happened to Tyler?" asked Hunter.

"He found himself back at the asylum. Would have been hanged if he previously had not been there. The others also found their way back; some got involved in fights, some went simply crazy, and they would often stand outside the gates of the asylum building, waiting to be let in. Once they were inside, they slowly turned back into ordinary, sensible people. It was as though they did everything in their power to stay locked behind those walls. I studied them for many years but could never pinpoint the exact reason for their behaviors. I learned a lot and even formulated many theories but did not have any evidence to prove anything. The other doctors soon realized that all the place needed was the round-the-clock staff that would watch over them and makes sure nothing went out of order and everything would be fine. And indeed, that is what happened. Their visits started declining and soon stopped. I was the only one that was left working full time, talking to the residents, trying to make something out of this mystery that had eluded me for so long. But that was all in vain. And in the end, I thought it was best to let them be. So, I, too, left in 1971. I resumed my physician's practice, and as I said, nine years ago in 73, the place burned down. It was the main topic of discussion and even brought some visitors to the site, but after a while, people kind of forgot about it. But the incident left a mark on people's minds, and although everyday life resumed, you could tell that the people much preferred to be left alone, their doors closed often."

After Henry had finished his recount, there was a long streak of silence; perhaps revisiting the old memories had brought back a thought which had captured his mind.

"What did you make of it?" asked Hunter, breaking Henry's train of thought.

"Make of what?" Henry asked.

"The whole thing. Why did those people wish to be locked up?" said Hunter.

Henry sighed. "I'm a man of science, Mr. Hunter. But I'm afraid that hasn't given me any concrete answer." Hunter said nothing.

Henry said again, "Some thought it was a curse on the whole town; some thought only those people in the asylum were cursed, which is why it burned down, killing all those with them."

"What do you think?" asked Hunter.

"A part of me thinks it is true; maybe there was something that I could never understand or did not try to look at it with that perspective. After all, there are millions of things that seem impossible to explain, too irrational to make sense. But then the other part of me, along with other doctors and psychiatrists with whom I have discussed the possibility of an alternative theory, think I am a deranged old man. Perhaps you do too. But Mr. Hunter, if you had seen what I have, lived with what I have been living with, maybe you too would keep an open mind. The flames still burn in front of me in my dreams, the horror," said Henry, his voice cracking up.

"It wasn't your fault," said Hunter, trying to be polite and comfort the old man.

"Have you ever seen or experienced something that defied all logic? Something that left a mark, but you cannot explain it, no matter how much you tried?" Henry suddenly asked.

"You mean ghosts?" asked Hunter.

Henry half-opened his mouth, seemingly going to say something, but then he stopped and got up.

"Never mind. It's getting late. You should get some sleep," said Henry as he slightly pulled his shirt sleeve and glanced at the watch underneath.

"If you say so," said Hunter, as he too left the table and started walking towards the stairs.

The clock beside the entrance door showed it was eleven-twenty. Hunter walked behind Henry, making his way upstairs. He paused for a moment and turned around when they arrived in front of Hunter's room. Hunter turned around to see if anything was there, only to find the hallway empty. Henry slightly smiled and continued walking, bidding goodbye to Hunter as he entered his room and shut the door.

Hunter opened his door and stepped inside. The moonlight flowed into the room through the window as he saw the fields extending deep into the horizon. He did not bother turning on the light switch; instead, Hunter made his way to his bed, thinking about the doctor's story, especially the last bit. Hunter did not believe in ghosts; he never needed to, but the tale made him wonder about the times in his life he had encountered something that he couldn't explain. His present situation was unexplainable to a great extent, yet he was living every dreaded moment of it. Once again, the thoughts started to draw him in as he rested his head on the pillow when suddenly, Hunter heard a gentle knock on his door.

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