by Joel Arnold
As I looked from one to the other, bile rose in my throat. Everyone here bore a strange protrusion on his or her body. A man with an apple-sized lump on his forehead. A woman with a hump the size of a bread-loaf on her thigh. Another man’s shoulders rippled with tumors. In the flickering torchlight, all of the growths appeared to pulse.
Was the drug toying with my senses? For the growths not only pulsed, but they pulsed in synchronicity with each other. Surely I dreamt! If not, I had lost my mind. Was my brain conjuring these images while I sat locked in a padded room back in Berlin?
“My good friend, Brahm.”
I recognized Hastings voice immediately and saw his small frame enter the chilled cavern. At last someone sane come to rescue me from this nightmare!
“Hastings,” I said. “Unbind me.”
He adjusted his red velvet tie. He was a lone island of refinery in a sea of savages. Not only did he wear his double-breasted suit, but he sported a silver-headed cane, white gloves, and a black derby.
He pulled a curved dagger from inside his suit, and then mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. He kneeled in front of me. “You are here to take part in a miracle,” he said.
Gerta’s face beamed. “Tonight is the night that Christoph comes to us.”
I said to Hastings, “Why do you let this go on?”
Hastings stood and took two steps back. His hand disappeared into a crack of the cave wall and reappeared holding a thin book bound in goatskin. A look of joy spread across his face. “I can bring him back to you.”
“What?” I cried. “Stop this madness!”
Hastings nodded at the other patients, who stood by in silence. “These people give their lives for you, for your son. All of them were suicidal, Brahm, but I talked them into giving their lives so that someone else might live.”
Their malignancies pulsed with newfound vigor. Faster and faster they beat, as if each contained its own heart.
I feared for my sanity. I struggled within the straightjacket. “Do you use your patients as laboratory rats? You’re all mad!”
Gerta kneeled at my side. “Listen to him, Brahm. Christoph will soon be with us.”
I tried to bite her, but only managed to dash my head against the cave wall. A trickle of blood ran over my left eye, down my cheek, and into my mouth. I spat it onto the dirt floor. “I will not watch this!”
I squeezed my eyes shut, then heard Hastings in front of me. “I’ve waited years to perform such a miracle, studying, learning, practicing. And ever since Gerta arrived, she’s prayed to give your son back to you.”
I thrashed within my restraints.
“Surely, you wish to witness the rebirth of your son.”
Gerta took hold of my head. I tried to keep my eyes shut, but Hastings’ fingers dug into them, prying them apart. Pain pierced the soft, baggy flesh beneath each eye, and in both eyelids. Something now kept my eyes propped open. I could not help but see. I gasped when I realized the objects forcing my eyes open were two of the crucifixes pulled from Gerta’s necklace.
“An asylum is a wonderful place,” Hastings mused. “So many people wanting love and attention. And they’re willing to give so much in return.”
Hastings stepped from patient to patient with his ugly dagger. He opened his book and read aloud words I did not understand. He sliced open the tumors one by one.
From each freshly opened wound, something spilled.
They were appendages. Small body parts.
Each had grown to its present size within the protective ooze of the tumors.
I cried out. I raved incoherently.
Gerta gathered the pieces in front of me as the patients fell dead one by one.
The pieces of flesh pulsed in the maddening torchlight.
As the last patient fell dead to the ground, Hastings turned to me. Again, he lifted his dagger.
“It needs you, Brahm. It needs the life-force of your blood to complete the miracle.”
“What miracle?” I rasped.
“The mad know many truths. So many delusions are but images sent from God. So many mad ramblings are but His words, His voice speaking through these poor, wretched vessels. I am their translator. Through them, I hear God’s wishes. Be glad, my friend, for He wishes your son to be reborn.”
He drew the dagger swiftly across my forehead. Blood stung my eyes. Hastings cupped his hands beneath my chin to catch it.
I had screamed so much that no more sound came from my throat. I fell limp against the cave wall as Gerta lovingly stroked my blood-matted hair.
Hastings dribbled my blood on the pile of appendages. They writhed together, coalescing into one unit of flesh and blood. How much time passed, I do not know. But time ceased to matter when all sanity had left the world.
I remember Gerta gasping, then clapping with delight. “Oh, Brahm,” she said.
I remember hearing the wet, desperate cry of a newborn babe.
Here is the last of it. Here is where I write about what had to be done. Here is where I write what a sane man had to do, what a moral man must do.
After they unbound me, after they led me back to Gerta’s room, after I slept for many hours, I at last awoke to the sound of crying.
I was alone in the room with — with that thing.
I wasted no time.
There was a creek outside, frozen over with a rind of ice. I set the thing in the snow, and with a large rock, chipped through the ice until there was running water.
I took it — I took the child — and held it beneath the icy water.
But Christoph; you know that I have always loved you.
I am a sentimental, foolish man.
Mr. Krenshaw;
That’s the end of them. Crazy shit, huh? But just because the letters end, doesn’t mean the story is over.
Let’s just imagine that the paternal side of Brahm Zwick took over. Perhaps as he held the child-thing in the freezing water, he felt it struggle and kick, and he could not go through with it.
Just imagine that.
And imagine that he lifted the child-thing from the water, wrapped it in his coat and brought it back to Gerta’s room. He fed it. Stroked its face. Perhaps kissed it on the forehead, held it, felt it warm in his arms. Imagine…
Imagine Gerta and Hastings raising the child in the privacy of the institution, the patients treating it as one of their own, playing with him, teaching him the things they knew.
And imagine that one day, when the boy was a young man, his mother took his hand and they walked from the asylum’s grounds, never to return.
And imagine that young man had a child, and that child had a child, who bore another child.
One generation translating into the next.
And that last child grew up to be me.
Gerta found the letters not long after Brahm Zwick left. He’d gone back to the cave and left them crumpled on the cave floor. Gerta saved the letters and eventually gave them to Christoph, and they were passed down from generation to generation.
Stuvey was Gerta’s maiden name.
So do with the letters what you choose. I still have the originals. And if you think this a hoax, well—
I’ll always know the truth.
Sincerely,
Jim Stuvey
A Bride’s Head, Revisited
(compiled by Joel Arnold with the assistance of Park Historian Lee Bartlesby)
“I saw her. I swear to you, I saw her.”
—from the suicide note pried from the hand of John Paris.
From the managing editor of American Highways Magazine:
From: Doherty, Arlene
Sent: Thursday, July 24, 2008 2:58 PM
To: Paris, John
CC: Doherty, Arlene
Subject: Old Faithful Inn Ghost Anniversary Query
John,
I love it! Let’s schedule this. Yes, weave the legend of the headless bride through interviews with the Inn’s employees and guests. Perhaps some can join you to obs
erve the anniversary of this event? Bring the Inn to life as much as possible — figure about 2800 words, due December 1. As far as photos, take lots, particularly of the Inn — I hear it’s beautiful — the people, the amazing scenery. Remember, we need at least 300 dpi. I’ve got a contact with the WY Dept. of Tourism, so can possibly get you a few nights comped.
Any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.
Arlene
From the Wyoming Department of Tourism:
From: Lemon, Cynthia
Sent: Tuesday, August 12, 2008 10:34 AM
To: Paris, John; Doherty, Arlene
Subject: Old Faithful Inn lodging request
Dear Mr. Paris:
I’ve arranged a room in the old house of the Old Faithful Inn for the nights of September 4th and 5th. The Inn’s manager, Dale Shroud, is a great guy, and it might behoove you to shake his hand and tell him thanks for putting you up gratis. I also recommend talking to Craig Vetter from Bozeman, cell # 406-555-3281. He’s the one to talk to regarding your ghost. He knows the place like the back of his hand and was interviewed for some show on the Travel Channel about it. He came off as quite the colorful character.
Let me know if you need anything else.
Warmly,
Cynthia Lemon
Publicity Liaison, Wyoming Department of Tourism
Portion of Craig Vetter interview transcribed from a micro-cassette tape found in John Paris’ belongings:
Paris: It’s 5:20 PM Mountain Time, September 4th, 2008. I’m here at the Bear Pit in the Old Faithful Inn sharing a couple pints of Black Dog Ale with Craig Vetter, who is here to tell me all he knows about the ghost bride of the Old Faithful Inn.
Vetter: (chuckles)
Paris: Mr. Vetter, you worked at the Inn?
Vetter: The only one calls me Mr. Vetter is my tax guy, and only because he’s a jerk. So, please — it’s Craig.
Paris: Craig, then.
Vetter: Started bell hopping here the summer of 1970. The Yellowstone bug must’ve bit me, ‘cause I kept coming back every summer and winter until ‘98. Became Bell Captain in ‘74, and worked in that capacity until ‘92. Went on to be Assistant Location Manager, then finally Location Manager of the Inn in ‘96. Finally left on account of getting married to a beautiful woman who happened to also work here as a front desk clerk, and found ourselves with a brand-spanking-new bouncing baby girl. Yellowstone is a great place to work and live, but not a great place to raise kids. So we moved to Bozeman.
Paris: What do you do now?
Vetter: Personnel manager at the Doubletree.
Paris: Okay, let’s get right to the tale of the headless bride.
Partial Transcript of daily talk given by Old Faithful Inn tour guide, Tammy Whitney:
“What’s the first thing people do as they enter the lobby of the Inn? That’s right, they look up. The lodge-pole pine that makes up much of the inn rises over ninety feet from where you’re standing up to the roof’s apex. Robert Reamer, the Inn’s architect, wanted the Inn’s interior to reflect the surrounding countryside. He wanted the sun shining through the windows to remind us of sun filtering through treetops. He wanted the stone fireplace in front of us to remind us of the many mountains in Yellowstone. Just look up into the scaffolding; it looks like you’re looking up into a forest…”
From the Craig Vetter interview:
Vetter: I’ve told this story so many times, and I’ll hear it come back around — you know, someone else telling it to me not realizing I know the story probably better than anyone — and the story’s always changed a bit, little details mutating here and there. Sometimes even a big detail gets a makeover.
Paris: Tell it the way you best know it.
Vetter: The way I heard it was that a newly married couple came here for their honeymoon back in the early days.
Paris: 1908.
Vetter: Sure. 1908. The Inn had only been open four seasons, but it was already well known not only here, but also throughout Europe. Hell, just look around. You ever seen anyplace like this in your life? Anyway, they come here and everything’s going great. They eat in the dining room, dance in the lobby while a band plays up high in the crow’s nest. Everything’s great, right? When the night’s over, they go to bed. Next morning, the maid knocks on their door. No one answers, so she figures it’s safe to go in. She goes in. Finds the bride’s body on the bed. Minus her head. Maid sees this, sees all the blood, freaks out, screams bloody murder. The Inn’s manager goes in for a look, sees the bride’s body still in her wedding dress, the sheets soaked with blood, and her head’s missing. They turn the place inside out, send rangers out onto the roads, the trails, everywhere, looking for the groom, but he’s nowhere to be found. Neither is the bride’s head.
Paris: Wow.
Vetter: And sometimes you’ll hear it that she was found in the tub, but the way I heard it, she was on the bed. More symbolic that way — murdered on her marriage bed still wearing her wedding dress? Anyway, ever since, people claim to see her ghost, sans head, wandering the balconies in the early, early morning hours.
Paris: Were the bride and groom registered guests?
Vetter: If they had a room, they were registered guests.
Paris: Do you know their names?
Vetter: (chuckles) No. I suppose you could dig around the archives up in Gardiner. Find their names there. Lee could probably help you out.
Paris: Lee?
Vetter: Lee Bartlesby. Park historian, archivist, et cetera.
Paris: Did you ever see her?
Vetter: The bride? Naw. I honestly don’t believe in that shit any more than I believe in the tooth fairy. Do you? But hey, if telling the story got me a better tip, I’d tell guests I not only saw her ghost, but we kept her head in a case in the bellmen’s quarters.
Paris: I don’t suppose you could join me tomorrow night up on the balcony? For the hundred-year anniversary?
Vetter: A hundred years? Is that right? (laughs) I’d love to, but I’ve got a nine-year old girl and two-year old identical twin boys at home. Betty’d kill me.
Paris: Understood. Hey, thanks for your time. I appreciate—
Vetter: Well, hold on. As long as you’re buying the beer, there’s one other thing you might want to know about the headless bride that I haven’t told you yet.
Paris: Yeah? What’s that?
From a statement made by Wayne Gooding, owner of Wild West Olde Tyme Photos in Jackson, Wyoming, to the National Park Service on September 8 th , 2008, 4:30 PM MDT:
“Mr. Paris came in to my shop around 8:50 pm on September 3rd, just before closing. He asked if I had a wedding dress that he could rent for the weekend. Claimed it was for a photo-shoot he was doing at the Old Faithful Inn concerning the ghost of a bride or something like that. We’ve got all sorts of old West clothing for our photos — simple things you can take on and off really fast. They just tie in the back. Work great for our portraits. Anyway, we had an old-fashioned wedding gown, and I let him rent it for $75 for the weekend. I’ve got a copy of the receipt. Since it happened on National Park property — if I could get reimbursed for the dress — you’ve got a slush fund for that kind of thing, right?”
From the statement of Andrea Anderson of Seattle, Washington, seasonal concessionaire worker at the Old Faithful Inn, housekeeping department, given to the National Park Service on September 6 th , 2008, 6:25 AM MDT:
“I can’t believe he did that. I mean, he seemed so nice. I thought it was a fun idea. Morbid, sure, but in a fun way, you know?
“He wanted me to pose in this frumpy old wedding dress walking along the balcony, looking all melancholy. There was nothing kinky about it, nothing that got my radar going. Plus, the dress just slipped over the clothes I already had on, so it wasn’t like I had to take my clothes off, and we were in the lobby and up in the balconies the whole time, so I was never afraid of anything — you know — weird happening…
“He said he was sorry he couldn’t pay me, but he did buy me a l
atte, and he promised he’d send me a copy of the magazine when it came out. American Highways, or something like that? I thought it would be a cool souvenir, you know?”
From Tammy Whitney’s tour speech:
“Five hundred tons of volcanic rock. Can you imagine? Fitting the fireplace together one huge rock at a time until it rose forty-two feet to the roof, and then extended another forty feet beyond that. The Hebgen earthquake of 1959 caused the upper portion to collapse and blocked off five of the eight inner flues, which is why now we keep only part of the fireplace lit. There were plans to restore it to its original glory two years ago during the Inn’s renovation, but the construction team realized they’d not only have to take the entire thing apart, piece by piece, but they’d also have to put it back together the same way. Way too costly. I’ve gotta admit, I was a bit disappointed. I wanted to see what they’d find in those blocked-up chimneys. You could fit a lot of bodies in there…”
From Inn housekeeper Andrea Anderson’s statement:
“So he took a bunch of pictures, and he wanted me to go up to the crow’s nest, but obviously we couldn’t do that, since it’s closed off. Earthquake in the 50’s screwed up its integrity or something like that. There’s a sign at the foot of the steps explaining it all. But that was the only time he seemed agitated. Not like I’d ever guess he’d go on and do what he did, but he seemed like — like he thought he was going to a buffet, and all the fried chicken was gone. Does that make any sense? Like he really wanted the fried chicken? But it was all gone, you know? Okay, I guess that doesn’t really make sense…”
From the statement of Jay Watson, clerk at Spratt Hardware, Jackson, Wyoming, given to the National Park Service on September 8 th , 2008, 6:45 PM MDT:
“Jesus, he said he wanted it for some special photography effect he was doing. I didn’t think he was going to do that with it.”