The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

  The gentle squeak of the metal flap covering the peephole in the door caused a shock of electricity to jolt Delicate Rose back into consciousness. She turned in that direction to see a curious eyeball scrutinizing her in the filtered daylight. Daylight! How could this be? Was not the moon above her a moment ago? Her time would come with the full moon. She instinctively knew this but the reasoning of it escaped her.

  Delicate Rose continued to chant over and over, “Eternal … Eternal … Eternal.”

  With a violent shudder Eternal tried to comfort Delicate Rose, but her subconscious reflection could not understand and retreated back into the safety of her torment. Eternal pondered if help was close at hand and turned to look at the door.

  The peephole cover slid across the viewing hole by unseen hands, possibly the hands of her savior, Edouard. She had an irresistible impulse to find him, he was so very close. Could the eye peering at her be her one true protector? Please let it be Edouard. Her fractured memory raced out of control.

  She remembered opening the door to the florist. She kissed her true love. He loved his name to her – Edouard. She cried for she could not recall his face. She needed her true love so much her heart ached with the misery of separation. His eyes were the purest green that had never faded through the centuries. She clung to that fragment of memory. It comforted her. It nurtured her.

  Eternal stared at the eye peering at her. The eye blinked as it spied on her, but it was not that iridescent green she had come to love. Her heart almost broke in two with that realization. She cried more desperate tears.

  Eternal turned back to her vigil at the window and wondered what the person looked like who was so interested in her. A mind-numbing pain of terror ripped all thoughts from her. She could sense something so evil, so powerful, so terrifying and close.

  The rush of black torment gripped her with such ferocity, she screamed His name, “Lucien!” He was so close she thought he was in the room. The evil Count was at hand to take her – take her what? She must know.

  Eternal curled up in her familiar position and continued to chant, “I am Eternal. I am Eternal.”

  She ignored the noise of the view hole being closed. Totally oblivious to her surroundings, she waited for the vile one to have his way with her. She felt utterly alone and trapped. All she could do was wait for death. It would come on a black horse and its name was Count Lucien Dupont.

  Chapter 28

  IN THE SUN-DRENCHED corridor, Doctor Henri Vernier slid the viewing cover back over the peephole of his new patient’s door with a grimace. A wave of grief tried to sweep him overboard, suppressing the urge to cry for his murdered friends. He nodded respectfully to Nurse Collette, ignoring her concerned look. He walked to a locked door, unlocked it to enter a small vestibule before relocking the door. His weary legs ascended the stairs leading to the upper floor living quarters.

  Doctor Vernier opened the door to his private domain and made straight for the decanter of cognac waiting on his desk. With trembling hands, he poured a hefty shot into a crystal glass, downing the fiery amber liquid in one go. He savored the heat in his hollow stomach before putting the empty glass back on his desk.

  A weary sigh escaped him while removing his white hospital gown and stethoscope, placing them on a nearby chair. He wrenched off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt before collapsing onto a comfortable brown leather couch, wrinkled with age. The psychiatrist stretched out like a patient spewing their tedious problems. He closed his tearful eyes and relaxed. In seconds, Henri Vernier was asleep.

  And whenever he managed the luxury of sleep, to take his conscious mind away from the daily horrors of the mentally afflicted, he always dreamed of the terrors he witnessed during his time as a doctor at a field hospital during the Great War.

  ~~~~

  Henri dreamed of a time when he was young, idealistic and ready to take on the whole world. Nothing could stop him from healing the sick of broken body or mind. But the amputated limbs quickly piled up in the trash bins, overflowing with gore. The incessant screaming of the injured tore at his soul. He realized there was no hope for those poor soldiers he managed to save, only to be thrust back into the fighting without further delay.

  He recalled the worst day of his life. On this day he had the honor of escorting the shining yes-men officers around the ward.

  The officers strutted with their air of superiority, smoking cigarettes or cigars, tapping a bed here and there with their swagger sticks to indicate which men were malingerers, and therefore fit to be ousted from the field hospital for duty.

  Henri tried desperately to persuade the bastards that this should be his decision alone.

  When he asked them not to smoke in the ward as many had suffered the effects of mustard gas, one of the officers slashed his swagger stick in a threatening manner. The officer stubbed out his cigarette on Henri’s shoulder and flicked the stub at a patient.

  Henri snatched the stick from the buffoon and snapped it over his knee. He tossed the hateful thing at the officer’s feet.

  The officer was beside himself with rage, turning purple in the face, eyes bulging from their sockets. He spluttered incoherently, “You swine ... that’s a court martial offence and I will personally command the firing squad.”

  Henri laughed with derision. “I am a civilian, and as such, you can take your court martial and firing squad and shove them up your arse.”

  The officer went apoplectic with anger. A volley of cheers ushered forth from the injured soldiers and bloody bandages were tossed at the fleeing officer. The other officers stuttered about the ward, unsure of what to do before deciding on a hasty retreat. More derisive cheers followed them.

  That very same day, Henri Vernier was removed from the hospital by two armed soldiers and taken to headquarters. He was summarily conscripted into the army as a Lieutenant second class by an alcohol-ravaged colonel who mentioned with extreme pleasure, “If you ever act with such gross insubordination, you will indeed face a court martial and a firing squad.”

  Henri returned to the hospital deflated and demoralized, to find empty beds where those inhuman bastards had tapped their swagger sticks.

  He rushed from the ward and threw up in his office, weeping bitter tears.

  As the years dragged on, the war took its toll on his idealistic beliefs. First, he was stripped of his duty-bound honor to do no harm, followed by his slowly eroded dignity. He begged the authorities that the shell-shocked soldiers required proper treatment. It was no use. They were either shot against a wall for cowardice or returned with such terrible wounds that they would surely die.

  As the enemy shells drew closer to the hospital, so Henri’s inner shell shattered. The screams of the dying mixed with the explosions. Boom! Boom! Boom!

  ~~~~

  Henri Vernier awoke from his troubled sleep with those awful screams still echoing in his weary mind. For a dreadful moment he thought he was back in that field hospital. He could almost hear the shells exploding close by. The fog of his dream lifted to the sound of knocking at his door.

  Henri sat up on the couch and mopped his brow with the back of his shaking hand. He walked over to his desk and poured another glass of cognac.

  The knock repeated at the door. Henri didn’t care and thought about listening to some Debussy on the gramophone. He turned to look out of the unbarred window, staring at the bright sunny gardens.

  He angrily muttered, “Interruptions. There are always interruptions! Can’t they leave me alone? Damn it!” He took a hefty gulp of cognac as the infernal knock began to irritate the hell out of him. “What is it?” He sighed with exasperation.

  The door opened and Edouard, now wearing a white hospital gown over his day clothes, entered Henri’s private enclave. He closed the door quietly after him.

  Henri cleared his throat. “Ah ... Edouard, please make yourself comfortable.” Henri pointed to the sofa.

  Edouard nodded and sat on the couch looking a little uneasy. He removed his white
gown and draped it over the arm of the couch.

  “Forgive me, but I’d completely forgotten about lunch. Would you care to join me ... it’s a fine cognac?” Henri raised the decanter of cognac enticingly.

  Edouard relaxed a little. “That’s quite all right, Henri. The rigors of the day can take its toll.” He started to get up from the couch.

  Henri waved at him to sit back down and handed Edouard a glass of cognac.

  Edouard took the glass with a hesitant look. “Thank you … I would love a cognac.” He looked uneasy as if he never drank at this time of day.

  Henri noted his unease and sniffed the cognac. “This is a particularly fine Armagnac … nothing else will do after ....” Henri’s chin quivered.

  Edouard looked concerned at Henri’s obvious distress.

  Henri fought back the tears, swirling his cognac around the large glass and breathed the rich aroma. By doing so he cleverly disguised his grief.

  “It should never be rushed, but slowly, oh so slowly savored.” Henri smiled weakly. “Sad to say, but these days I have little time before a patient requires my attention.” He smiled to himself, thinking of his idealistic days before the Great War. “What do you think of the place?”

  Edouard coughed on the fiery cognac. “I’m impressed with the way you run the institute. Most efficient indeed. I must say it is a pleasure to work with another advocate of Pierre Janet.”

  Henri nodded with gratitude. “Thank you, Edouard.” He sipped his cognac with a furrowed brow. “Before I forget ....” He paused again to fight back the tears. “.... There's a new patient I want you to look at.” Henri sipped the cognac and mulled over what the Inspector had told him. “Make her a priority. She should be quite a challenge, and it would be a good opportunity to flex your therapeutic muscles.”

  Edouard’s eyes rounded with eager delight. “Of course, I’ll attend to her right away.”

  “Good man.” Henri paused giving a look of concern. “She seems to have no memory whatsoever. She was carried here on the back of a farmer’s cart in a distressful state. There was a considerable amount of blood on her dress … possibly not her own as her wounds were superficial.”

  Edouard looked thoughtful and frowned. “A horse-drawn cart passed me earlier this morning.” He shrugged. “Well ... it’s quite possible she witnessed a traumatic experience, possibly bringing on dissociative behavior ... excellent!”

  Henri smiled at his eager colleague. “Agreed! Her dress was most expensive, indicating wealth, but far more interesting is her continued monotonous chanting.”

  “Psychological automatism ... acts performed unconsciously and therefore, mechanically.”

  Henri gave Edouard an old-fashioned look.

  Edouard’s embarrassment at behaving like an overexcited teenager was clearly evident on his face. “Do forgive me, but I must say I am eager to begin.”

  Henri topped up Edouard’s glass with more cognac, continuing, “And more perplexing to me is the context of her chanting ... she keeps saying the word eternal, over and over.”

  Edouard gasped. “Eternal?” The shockwave of that word struck a glancing blow, remembering the woman at the florist. He began to sweat. A cold shudder rippled his spine. Was she here? Was this his destiny?

  Edouard furtively glanced at Henri watching him. It was obvious Henri had noted his peculiar reaction.

  With a frown Henri said, “As yet, I have not informed the police of her arrival, even though they are interested in questioning her. I fear if the police, with their brutish methods, were to question the young woman in her present mental state, it would cause irreparable harm.”

  Edouard mulled over this while sipping his cognac. He couldn’t get the image of that beautiful woman out of his mind.

  “You disagree?” Henri asked with raised eyebrows.

  Edouard snapped out of it. “No … no, I concur with your reasoning, Henri, but to purposefully mislead the police … well, it goes against the grain.”

  Henri smiled at his naïve colleague. “You don’t know them as I do, Edouard. They are nothing but bullies and thugs, believe me.” Henri sighed before continuing. “I might as well come clean, and give you the distressing news I received this morning. Ellise and Sebastian Moreau were brutally murdered, and it would appear that this woman in our care must have been a witness. And I am presuming she is a witness, as the alternative is far too distressing to contemplate.”

  Edouard spilled some brandy when his hand jolted. His heart beat so hard and fast it hurt. The certainty of his dream woman being here and that fiend probably searching for her terrified him. Sweat erupted on his brow – a cold sweat of sheer panic. “But if she has no memory then she would be of no use to the police.” He wiped the brandy from his trousers with an apologetic look.

  Henri nodded in agreement. “The same thought had crossed my mind, but as I said, to involve the police right now would be intolerable to her delicate state. I must admit, had she witnessed such a horrendous crime in all probability she has used amnesia as a defense mechanism.”

  Edouard shook his head with dismay. “I am so sorry about your friends, Henri. What a terrible waste.”

  Henri nodded a thank you. “If direct questioning is of no use, I would like you to put her under hypnosis.”

  Edouard sat up on the couch like a terrier sniffing its prey. “With a view to regression, perhaps?”

  Watching Henri place his glass on the ornamental side-table for a refill, Edouard knocked back his remaining cognac and hoped for no further replenishments.

  Henri topped up his glass and continued, “Yes of course, my dear fellow. But she will be your patient, I'll agree to any course of treatment you decide upon ... within reason.”

  Edouard saw Henri grab the decanter. He put a hand over his empty glass and breathed a sigh of relief when Henri accepted the refusal.

  Henri gave a gentle laugh. “I bet you can quote Janet to a tee? Come on ... show me what you’re made of? What is Janet’s repetitive depression theory?”

  Edouard’s brow furrowed for a moment, deep in thought.

  “Hmm, let me see.” He sucked in breath. “Strictly speaking one who retains a fixed idea of a happening cannot be said to have a memory of the happening. It is only for convenience that we speak of it as a traumatic memory. The subject is often incapable of making, with regard to the event, the recital, which we speak of as memory. And yet he remains confronted by a difficult situation in which he has not been able to play a satisfactory part, one to which his adaptation had been imperfect, so that he continues to make efforts at adaptation. The repetition of this situation as in continual efforts gives rise to fatigue and produces an exhaustion which is a considerable factor in his emotions.” Edouard paused to catch his breath. “How was that?”

  Henri looked thoughtful for a moment. “Not bad ... I have no doubt you will become a valued colleague. I remember my first few days here. I was not much older than you are now.” Henri paused as his grief crossed his features.

  “This was not the Institute it is now. It was like stepping back into the dark ages of psychiatric care. Bedlam would have been a better name to describe the methods used.” Henri shook his head with dismay and grimaced. “I swore that if I ever ran this institute, I would not show the same lack of understanding that the previous doctors lavished upon their patients. I much prefer the use of medication and a proper patient to doctor relationship.”

  Edouard looked aghast at Henri. “I presume you are referring to electro-shock therapy.”

  Henri nodded in agreement. “Not to mention all the other instruments of torture at their disposal. Hose downs, regular beatings, starvation. The list was endless.”

  Edouard was troubled for a moment. “But surely, you must agree there are patients who merit such drastic treatment?”

  Henri gave a quick look to Edouard. “Yes, perhaps that is so, but it is my humble opinion that these treatments are widely over-used, if not abused for sadistic pleasure.”r />
  Edouard nodded in agreement, “I concur, Henri.”

  Henri laughed. “Don't be afraid to disagree with me, my young friend. I have no use for a yes man.”

  Edouard just barely stopped himself from nodding yes again. “I'll bear that in mind.” His thoughts raced out of control. He had to see his dream woman and be with her – for eternity. What did that mean?

  Henri raised his glass in a somber manner, “Here’s to Ellise and Sebastian ... may they be happy in a field of sunflowers, bathed by the warmth of their love.” He wiped tears from his eyes.

  Edouard was about to get up and leave when he saw the distress on Henri’s face and decided to distract him. “What about this aversion therapy, Henri? It sounds most intriguing.”

  Henri smiled with evident pride. “Ah yes, aversion therapy. It’s something I have been toying with. I have had some good results so far.” Henri topped up their glasses with more cognac. “I hypnotize a patient into believing their addiction is poison.” Henri waited for Edouard to comment.

  Edouard dutifully chipped in. “Surely the patient would only comply if they truly wanted to kick the addiction?”

  Henri shrugged and nodded. “Perhaps, but the results have been better than I expected.” Henri looked excitedly at Edouard. “I am writing a paper on the results.”

  Edouard looked impressed. “Well done, Henri. Perhaps you will be honored with the Nobel Prize?”

  Henri chuckled with delight, “You never can tell, Edouard.” A serious scowl shadowed his face. “But the contents of my paper will upset those diehards who adhere to conventionality forced upon us by certain wealthy individuals.”

  Edouard was intrigued, “How so?”

  Henri shrugged, “Well, it’s like this, Edouard, my findings have concluded that there are three prime causes to mental afflictions, all addictions … Religion … Alcohol … Drugs, of which the most prevalent is tobacco.” Henri sipped his cognac. “There are, of course, countless secondary addictions … sex, chocolate, war, death ... even the weather.”