Childhood Fears

by L. L. Soares

When she’s not writing, J.H. loves to travel to exotic locations, advocate for animal rights, and muay thai kickbox.

  J.H. loves to hear from readers and fellow writers. You can email her at jh@jhmoncrieff.com

  Or connect with her on Facebook: www.facebook.com/jhmoncrieff

  and Twitter: www.twitter.com/JH_Moncrieff

  Visit her website at www.jhmoncrieff.com

  Or view the trailer for this book here:

  www.youtube.com/watch?v=fl7CvUvqHdM

  Acknowledgments

  The folks at Samhain Horror have been wonderful to work with. I especially thank Don D’Auria for his kindness and patience, and fellow writers J.G. Faherty and L.L. Soares for their guidance.

  Being a writer is wonderful, but it can also be incredibly isolating. I’m lucky enough to have a tremendous support system, and I’d like to thank my copy editor and spouse Chris Brogden, Dee-Dee Gould and Drew Kozub from my writing group, my personal cheerleaders Christine Brandt and Lisa Saunders, and all of my blog readers, friends, and family for their years of encouragement.

  Drew and his partner in crime, Jarrod Tully, are responsible for the awesome book trailer, and I wouldn’t have a website if it weren’t for my friend and designer extraordinaire Kyla Roma. I’m truly blessed to be surrounded by such talented people.

  I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank Stephen King for his masterpiece On Writing, which gave me the kick in the pants I needed to start writing fiction again.

  Thanks for reading!

  Scarecrows

  Christine Hayton

  Dedication

  In loving memory of my sister and best friend, Connie Desjardins (1941-2015). Her childhood fears and memories inspired this story and her unconditional love and support gave me the confidence to write it.

  Chapter One

  September 29, 1964

  “Robert, wake up.”

  He sensed the alarm in Clare’s voice, opened his eyes and sat up quickly.

  “Cathy isn’t in her bed and I can’t find her anywhere. I checked the yard. There’s no sign of her. I called out. She didn’t answer me. I’m worried. Where could she be?” Clare, close to tears and very upset, pleaded with her husband.

  Robert got up and put his arms around his wife. Resting his head on top of hers, he held her close. Once she calmed down, he took her hands, looked into her eyes, and smiled. “Stop worrying. I’m sure she’s fine. I’ll find her and bring her home.”

  Clare sat on the bed and fought back the tears. “Yesterday Emily went missing and now Cathy’s gone. Robert, what’s happening?”

  “I’m sure she’s not far away. I’ll find her. I promise.” The man pulled on his clothes and slid his feet into his slippers. After a quick stop at the bathroom, he headed outside.

  He checked the yard and then crossed the road to the creek. He went down one side and stood at the edge of the shallow stream. Cathy loved to catch frogs. Robert looked up and down the creek. He didn’t see her anywhere. Her obsession with scarecrows could have enticed her into that cornfield. His heart started to pound. The corn stood five feet high. If she was in there, she was lost.

  Robert stepped over the water, climbed up the side of the creek bed, and stepped into the field. He walked along the north edge of the crop and looked down the furrows between the rows of corn. Several minutes into his search, he noticed a dark lump, about a hundred yards from where he stood. He called Cathy’s name once, again, louder, and got no answer. He moved slowly at first. With recognition, Robert accelerated to a full-out run and dropped to his knees beside the child.

  He recognized Emily. Her facial features were pressed into the dirt, but wisps of blonde hair stuck out of the bloody tangle on the back of her head. Deep wounds slashed every inch of her torso and legs. The left arm, nearly severed, ended with a clenched fist—dirt and straw squeezed between the fingers. The other arm lay mangled beside her head. Splintered bone protruded through the bloody pulp.

  Robert couldn’t draw air into his lungs. A second body lay just beyond Emily. It could be Cathy. He couldn’t look. Dark hair played little tricks in the corner of his eye. He slowly rocked on his knees and looked at the ground. The nausea grew until bile clogged his throat. He quickly crawled into the next row and vomited until only dry heaves racked his body. Leaning back on his heels, Robert sucked in large gulps of air to quell his panic.

  His respiration settled into long, deliberate breaths. He rose to his feet and carefully stepped back through the corn. He again knelt on the ground next to Emily. The second child lay several feet beyond. Robert couldn’t look and he couldn’t leave.

  In the morning quiet, he had stained the knees of his jeans with dew and blood. He rubbed his hands together to remove the loose dirt. The sun peeked at him from behind the tops of the cornstalks. He crossed his arms over his chest. The acrid smell of corn, blood and dirt filled his nostrils. The vomit taste lingered on his tongue. The diffused sunlight shone into his eyes and warmed his cheeks. No birds sang, no leaves rustled and no breeze whispered through the stalks. Only a distant train whistle broke the silence. He waited.

  Robert thought he heard a tiny groan. He slowly looked over at the second child. He got up and walked around Emily and dropped gently to his knees beside Cathy. Blood streaked her face and red slime soaked her nightgown. Her head, arms, and legs appeared intact. He laid his hand on her forehead and felt warmth. Then he heard the sleepy moan from deep in her throat, and he smiled through his tears.

  Her blood-covered hands clutched a small hatchet. The one he used to cut kindling. He stared at those hands. Realization hit him hard and he almost fainted. He jumped up, wrung his hands, and gasped for air. He stared down at his daughter. She moved as if asleep. Robert swallowed hard and sucked in a breath. He bent and lifted her off the ground, and the axe fell from her hands. It dropped only inches from Emily. Robert straightened his back and raised his head. Tears filled his eyes. He stepped over the dead girl and carried his child out of the cornfield.

  Her eyes glazed with tears, Clare stared at her husband and daughter. She felt Cathy’s warm forehead and let out a sigh of relief.

  “Emily?” Clare whispered the question.

  “She’s dead,” Robert answered in the same hushed tone.

  They silently washed the blood and slime off their daughter while she slept. Cathy had no injuries other than a small bruise on one arm. Clare removed the bloody nightgown and redressed her in a clean one. Robert put her into her bed and kissed her forehead. Clare tucked the blankets around Cathy and gently caressed her cheek. They walked together from her room. Clare picked up the phone and called the police.

  Friday, July 22, 1966

  Suit jacket draped over his arm, shirt open at the neck, Robert pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his forehead. The heat and humidity dominated late July. The hour long drive from Windsor to the Ontario Cedarview Childrens’ Hospital School had become second nature to him. Desperately thin, his hunched shoulders made him look shorter than his six-foot frame.

  Taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he looked up at the façade of the hospital. No lettering identified the building. Everyone knew this asylum housed crazy and retarded children. He lit his cigarette and mouthed a thank-you to any deity who would listen. For the first time, no reporters waited at the front door.

  He replayed the visits in his head. Cathy always asked when she could come home, and he always told her she’d be home soon. He lied. He knew she would probably never see home again. The twenty-ninth of September would be the second anniversary of the day Cathy, barely six years old, brutally murdered her friend Emily Preston.

  Now his daughter’s entire world existed in a ten by ten room with one barred window, and most of the furniture bolted to the floor. Her file classified her as dangerous and potentially violent.

  Every month, Robert visited Cathy. He b
rought her coloring books and crayons. When he could afford it, he bought her a new doll or a stuffed toy. The child loved to color and gossip. Their last visit, she talked nonstop and gave him all the coloring books she had finished to take home with him.

  Every week, Mrs. Alexis Keith, the hospital supervisor, met with Cathy. Alexis adjusted and even ignored many rules and guidelines for handling violent patients. Her instincts told her this intelligent little girl couldn’t hurt anyone. Although the policy recommended two nurses, Alexis decided one nurse would be sufficient for the six-year-old. Wendy, a young nursing graduate, became Cathy’s caregiver and companion.

  The numerous psychiatric doctors who examined Cathy to date, proved to be useless. Robert didn’t want to meet another one. None of them gave a reasonable explanation of her story, and none felt confident she wouldn’t kill again. The chances of her release weakened with each doctor’s report.

  The dead girl’s parents insisted on Cathy’s permanent incarceration. They involved the press and garnered sympathy. Almost two years had passed, and only recently had the press dropped coverage of the story.

  The clerk at the main desk smiled. She immediately got up and, with her key, unlocked the elevator. He thanked her, stepped in and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

  New drugs and therapy methods hit the market with the acceptance by the medical community of mental illness in children. Only a handful of doctors understood the implications. Dr. Diane Wagner, a prominent psychiatrist with a distinguished reputation, arrived from New York to try her newly developed techniques on Cathy.

  Alexis researched this young woman. Dr. Wagner treated difficult child cases involving delusional episodes, and her success rate was very impressive. Alexis still held hope for Cathy. She needed Robert’s permission to allow this doctor access to the child and her records.

  Robert stepped off the elevator and hesitated outside the office door. He was in no hurry to engage another doctor. Opening the door, Robert moved from the stuffy hall into a reception area. At this height, the breeze refreshed the air and cut the oppressive heat to almost bearable. He stood at the open window and closed his eyes, allowing the air to brush across his face. The receptionist buzzed the adjoining office, and Alexis opened the office door.

  “Robert, please come in. We’ve been waiting for you.” She smiled. “It’s a little cooler in here.”

  “Alexis, it’s nice to see you again.” He walked past her into the office. The supervisor stood tall with short blonde hair that frizzed in the high humidity. Both office windows were open, and the cross breeze kept the room comfortable. She sat behind her desk. A slim young woman sat opposite her holding a large file in her lap. Robert hung his suit jacket on the back of another chair and sat down.

  “This is Dr. Diane Wagner.” Alexis indicated the young woman.

  Robert turned slightly in his chair and faced the new doctor. “What magic potion have you brought us?”

  She ignored the sarcasm. “I’m very sorry about Cathy. I contacted Mrs. Keith because I know I can help your little girl.”

  “You seem confident. Do you understand her situation?” Robert looked into her eyes and tried to determine her motives. He wondered if her ego and medical reputation were at play or if she really cared about the child.

  “Mr. Millard, I’ve read your daughter’s file.” She nodded to the file in her lap. “I know other doctors have tried to help her. They used old methods, geared to an undefined illness. My new methods of diagnosing and treating children with these types of psychological delusions have shown excellent results.”

  Robert watched her closely and listened to the sales pitch.

  “Cathy appears to be a normal child. To send her home, I need to prove to everyone involved she poses no danger to anyone. I’ll diagnose the disorder and use my most effective therapies.”

  “If I let you treat my daughter, other things must be considered, and they aren’t in that file.” Robert lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair. “My daughter doesn’t know Emily is dead. She doesn’t understand why she’s here, or why she has to talk to doctors.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Millard, my direction and ultimate goal will be for her to realize what happened and acknowledge her part in it. Once she knows and accepts the truth, I will help her deal with it.”

  “There’s one other thing.” Robert inhaled smoke from his cigarette.

  “Perhaps we should let the doctor do her preliminary work before we get to that,” Alexis interrupted.

  “She needs to know. It affected all of us, but Cathy took it much worse than the other children did. Clare and Cathy had a very close relationship.”

  “Do you want me to explain?” Alexis asked.

  “No. I’ll take care of it. Maybe you could find us some coffee.”

  “Sure.” She got up, patted Robert’s shoulder on the way by, and left the office.

  “Is there a problem?” Dr. Wagner watched Alexis leave.

  Robert ignored her, took a long drag off the cigarette and butted it in the ashtray. “My wife, Clare, turned forty-three the year Cathy came along. She had a difficult pregnancy and birthing. Within a month, the depression started. She struggled with it constantly. The doctor blamed menopause and the pregnancy. They prescribed tranquilizers.” Robert paused and shook his head. “Clare never complained. I knew her depression often overwhelmed her, but it wasn’t something open for discussion. Almost exactly a year after the murder, she overdosed on pills and died.”

  “Did she ever see a psychologist or psychiatric doctor?”

  “The family doctor treated her. He knew Clare. He did the best he could for her.”

  “Do you mind if I note this in my file?”

  Robert shrugged and continued his story. “Emily’s murder and Cathy being placed here triggered a deep depression for Clare. She took her pills and handled it for a while. The community became the real catalyst for her death. The day Emily’s murder hit the news, friends refused to speak to us, and we became outcasts from our own church. The reporters couldn’t get enough. They camped on the lawn and hounded us.” Robert stopped and closed his eyes, unable to continue.

  “Take whatever time you need.” Dr. Wagner wrote a few notes down.

  Robert took a couple deep breaths and continued. “We brought Cathy here two days after the murder. We sent our three older children to live with my sister in Toronto. Clare and I stayed at the house and struggled with reporters. After a year, Clare just didn’t have the strength to face them anymore. The kids think their mother died from an accidental overdose. That’s a lie. She swallowed every pill she had and killed herself. ”

  “My God, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  Robert knew she couldn’t understand the devastation his family felt. He lit a cigarette, stood up, and paced the room.

  “Bringing Cathy home and raising her by myself scares the hell out of me, and still I can’t watch her grow up here. I love my daughter and I’ll do…whatever…I can to help her…” Robert stopped talking. He slowly lowered himself into his chair and stared at the floor.

  Alexis carried three coffee cups on a tray into the quiet office. She handed one cup to the doctor and placed Robert’s cup on the corner of the desk. Alexis sat behind her desk and faced the others, coffee cup in hand. To relieve the tension, the older woman picked up the conversation.

  “Robert, have your coffee while it’s still hot. Have you explained everything to Dr. Wagner, or do I need to fill in any details?”

  “She knows.” He sat up, picked up the cup, and sipped the coffee. He put the cup back on the desk and stared at the floor again.

  Alexis turned to the young woman. “You have the file, and Robert explained the other issues. Is there anything else you need?”

  “I’d like to review this file carefully. I should be ready to talk to Cathy shortly.”

 
Dr. Wagner stood up and looked at Robert. She opened her mouth to talk, and closed it again when Alexis caught her eye and shook her head. Dr. Wagner walked out and closed the door behind her.

  Robert sipped his coffee and smoked his cigarette.

  Alexis stood at the open window, coffee in hand, and watched the sky begin to cloud.

  Diane Wagner sat beside the open window in her motel room. She’d read Cathy’s file three times. The previous doctors couldn’t agree on anything.

  She found Mrs. Keith’s notes particularly helpful. They contained a unique personal insight gleaned from years of working with children and families. The notes opened when Robert and Clare Millard, on the advice of the lead investigator, voluntarily placed their daughter in the facility. The parents hoped for a quick return to a normal life. Mrs. Keith doubted it would happen. She noted all the conversations with the child, her parents, and the doctors, and then added her own thoughts and comments. The file held reports of Cathy’s activities, interactions, and overall health, filed daily by the attending nurses. Everything indicated Cathy to be a normal, healthy child.

  Alexis included a report of a conversation between herself and the lead investigator in Emily’s murder. The evidence showed Cathy’s fingerprints were the only ones on the murder weapon—a blood-covered small axe owned by her father. Her father found her asleep in the cornfield, beside Emily’s mutilated body. Blood soaked her nightgown and streaked her skin, but she had no injuries. Her age and size mitigated her guilt. The coroner felt the vicious attack would have been difficult, maybe impossible, for a six-year-old.

  Cathy, classified by the hospital as dangerous and potentially violent, would be confined until she could be rehabilitated. Emily’s murder case continued as an active investigation and without a confession or substantial new evidence, would remain open.

  Cathy’s account of the incident never varied. She repeated exactly the same story to everyone who questioned her. The hallucinations she related created the problem. No one believed scarecrows could walk or talk.