by Ward Parker
“Tell me what it’s like there.”
“Sometimes I’m in a hallway and people pass by without seeing me or hearing my cries. Sometimes I see you, as if I were in the same room, sitting atop a bookshelf above you. Or I see my parents going about their lives. I call out and try to get your attention, but you never notice me. Much of the time there is nothing, just darkness. But I can hear voices, whispers, other sounds…”
This saddened and disturbed him, but what could he say? How do you make the spirit of your dead wife feel happier? How could he even believe that is truly her—or that he was hearing anything at all except in his fevered brain?
“But I must find our baby,” Isabel said. “Maybe then I can find my way.”
“Your way where?”
“To Heaven.”
“But surely you must be there now.”
“I am nowhere.”
“I pray for you every day, my love.”
“I must warn you of something, Frank.”
“Of what?”
“The monster.”
“What monster?”
“You will think he is a friend, but he will turn on you.”
“But I, I don’t understand.”
“The monster will turn on you. And try to kill you. Don’t let him take your life, Frank.”
“Sometimes I long for death, so I can be with you again.”
“Not here. You don’t want to be here.”
* * *
When Follett walked out into the hot night, he had sobered up. His wife’s voice echoed in his memory and he felt the sadness mixed with anxiety that he had suffered immediately after she died. Speaking with her ghost—if that’s what he had truly done—might have been comforting, but instead he was tortured by her loneliness. His grief would have been bearable if he knew she had found eternal peace, instead of being stranded in a purgatory of sorts.
How could he help her? He would try to speak with her again and somehow convince her to let go and allow herself to pass over to the other side. If he could do that it would make him feel so much better. To give his dear wife one last gift would be a gift to himself as well. Despite making an ass of himself at the Norris’ tonight, he would return as soon as it was respectable and hope the Angel Worm could connect him to his wife again.
By now he was a couple of blocks north of Banyan Street and could hear loud, drunken voices and a piano hammering out “A Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” God, that tune had been playing incessantly everywhere since the invasion of Cuba. The thought of a numbing shot of whiskey crossed his mind, but not here—not dressed in evening wear as he was. He’d surely get mugged by the local toughs.
Here in the business district, there was a sidewalk made of wood but he avoided it because it was in disrepair. He stuck to the street, a hard-packed mixture of sand and pulverized oyster shells that was deserted of carriages and pedestrians this time of night. Which was why he was able to hear the footsteps behind him.
There was a slight scuff of sole against oyster shell every few steps or so. He stopped and turned around, seeing no one in the darkness. The city had only recently hung electric lights but in this neighborhood there were none. Some gaslight leaked through curtains in the apartments above the closed ground-floor businesses, but not enough for him to see. He realized it was very stupid to wander these streets alone at night.
He quickened his pace toward Banyan and the theoretical safety of the crowd. The scuffling continued, faster now. He was sure it was only one man, one with an uneven gait by the sound of it. He had done a bit of boxing while at Princeton and even during medical school at the University of Pennsylvania. He was surely rusty after all the years since but was still quick enough on his feet to defend himself if necessary.
Then there was a flicker in the corner of his left eye—a shadow falling on the street from behind him. He swung around and planted his feet.
“What is your business?” he demanded.
A man approached, emerging from the darkness. He walked calmly and casually but with a pronounced limp. He smiled when he got closer, a stocky, muscular man of medium height. He was dressed like a guest of one of the hotels on the island, in a suit with a dark jacket and lighter striped pants—obviously not a working-class local.
“Oh, I have no business at all,” he said with an impish smile as he walked past. “Enjoy your evening, Dr. Follett.”
Chapter Four
On the main floor of the Royal Poinciana Hotel, a discreet passageway led from the men’s room to the bar, so gentlemen could avoid being seen on their way to indulging in their vice. The passageway was called “Hypocrite’s Alley” and Follett certainly felt like one as he crept along it the next morning. After having lectured many a pregnant mother on the birth defects caused by alcohol, he normally practiced moderation. But on this holiday, on this morning—with this hangover—he abandoned that. He hoped the darkness of the wood-paneled bar would give him a bit of privacy and time to reflect.
But as soon as he entered the room, a man standing in the corner caught his eye. It was the man who had followed him last night.
“Doctor Follett, a word with you, sir?”
“Yes,” he answered, trying to pull himself out of his funk.
In the light of day the man had curly, reddish hair, deep-set eyes and a nose with an odd angle indicating an old, untreated fracture. Today he wore the typical Palm Beach daytime uniform of blue blazer, bow tie and white pants and shoes, but his hat, which he held in his hands, was a felt homburg instead of the ubiquitous straw boater. He had a diamond ring on his pinky and no beard or mustache.
“I’m Dan Connelly, William Stockhurst’s personal assistant,” he said.
To Follett he looked more like a bodyguard than an assistant.
“Mr. Stockhurst requests an interview with you. You were referred to him by a Doctor Greer.”
“Of course. When would he like to see me?”
“Now. If you don’t mind.”
Follett supposed Connelly was saving him from the demon whiskey, so he nodded and followed him outside. After crossing the porch and walking down the steps, they passed a group of unoccupied pedicabs waiting for riders.
“Hey doc,” called out James. “Where you heading?”
Follett asked Connelly if he’d like to share the cab with him, one with a seat wide enough for two. After all, he had reserved James for his entire stay since Mr. Flagler didn’t allow any horse-drawn vehicles on the property.
Connelly glanced at the pedicab and smirked.
“It’s only a half-mile walk, Doctor.”
Follett thought it odd that Connelly didn’t mind walking despite his limp, but he waved James off and accompanied the man along the Ocean Walk, the broad promenade that led from the Royal Poinciana Hotel on Lake Worth to The Breakers on the beach. The middle of the lane was used by pedicabs while pedestrians followed a path to the side. The way was shaded by immense palms and the air was scented by gardenia and the salt in the breeze. It seemed to help ease the hangover.
“So, why were you following me last night?” Follett said. “Stockhurst’s orders?”
“Follow you? Now why would I do that?”
They walked in awkward silence until Follett said, “I’m grateful for Dr. Greer getting me this introduction.”
“Hopefully you’ll be more helpful to Darryl than Dr. Greer was. He referred him to some useless surgeries a few years back and since then he’s only been a worthless hanger-on to the family. Nothing more pitiful than a washed-up old man taking advantage of others’ hospitality.”
Follett wanted to defend the doctor but remained silent.
When they reached The Breakers, they followed a path northward that skirted the hotel and paralleled the beach. Nestled behind the sand dunes were cottages built in the wood-frame style of the hotel. Connelly walked to the furthest one.
Before they had even neared the porch, a bestial howl rose from the cottage, followed by angry roars that appea
red to be words but sounded inhuman. A tingle coursed along Follett’s scalp.
“Oh, Master Darryl is in a mood this morning,” Connelly said with a pained smile as he searched Follett’s face for a reaction.
“That’s Stockhurst’s son?”
“I’m afraid so. But he’s not always like this. He can be quite charming when he wants to be.”
“But that didn’t even sound…”
“Human? No, it didn’t. But I merely perform my responsibilities without making judgments. Come along, it’s quite safe.”
Follett followed him up to the cottage. The demonic roaring continued from inside. On the porch a man sat in a rocking chair, gazing at the sea while smoking a cigarette, oblivious to the disturbance. He, too, was free of facial hair like his assistant and had straight, longish black locks parted in the middle. He wore an extravagant, Turkish-influenced red satin smoking jacket and a silk scarf. He looked undeniably foppish. In fact, he reminded Follett of Oscar Wilde.
“Dr. Frank Follett,” Connelly announced as they mounted the steps.
The noise from inside abruptly ceased.
Stockhurst leaped to his feet and shook Follett’s hand. Close up, Stockhurst was younger than he had first appeared.
“Thank you for dropping by, Doctor. Dr. Greer said you specialize in cases like my son’s. Never heard of a physician who did.”
“It’s a fledgling field,” Follett said. “And I should emphasize that I study cases, but I don’t treat them. From what I’ve heard of your son, there are surgical procedures that could help his appearance. I could refer you to surgeons, depending on the procedure, though Connelly tells me you’ve explored that option.”
He waved his hand. “Yes, I’ve been down that road long ago. Darryl is not having more surgery. I just want to understand his…well, I just want to know why he’s like this.”
Follett saw the anguish in his eyes. He fully understood the parent’s guilt over a child born with defects.
“Mr. Stockhurst, I promise I’ll do all I can to help.”
“You will be well compensated, of course.”
“Please,” he said, embarrassed. “That’s the last thing I’m concerned about. Let’s go meet Darryl.”
He followed Stockhurst into the drawing room expecting to see a monster. Instead he saw a beautiful young woman. As a science-driven man, he recoiled at emotional indulgences. But the young lady with raven hair, seated at a table marking up a handwritten manuscript, made his heart flutter. She had the classic Gibson girl look: elegant and beautiful yet approachable. Her somewhat drab long-sleeve, floor-length linen dress became luxurious over her ample bosom and narrow waist. Her nose had a pixie-like upward slope at its tip. Her chin was delicate, her eyes bright and challenging.
“Doctor Follett, this is my son’s tutor, Diana Strom.”
“A pleasure.” Follett proffered his hand and she took it briefly.
A roar of protest came from a back room.
“Darryl gets a bit possessive of Miss Strom,” Stockhurst said. “Let’s show him that you aren’t a threat.”
Follett didn’t realize it was he who was the threat here. He was also surprised that Darryl’s hearing was so keen.
Stockhurst led the way down a hallway to a closed door. He gave a perfunctory knock and opened the door. Two gigantic Nordic men in overalls guarded the patient who was strapped in a chair. Darryl looked up at the open door. Despite Dr. Greer’s description of him, Follett was nevertheless shocked.
His face was covered with black, wiry hair. But that wasn’t the only odd feature. Both his upper and lower jaws protruded slightly, suggesting a wolf-like snout. This was the mandibular and maxillary prognathism Greer had mentioned. The prognathism of the maxilla, or upper jaw bone, heightened this snout appearance because it also extended the nose, which was hairless around the nostrils. The lips appeared normal, though they were dry and cracked. The patient’s ears were slightly pointed at the top. They were pale and sprinkled with light-colored hair, curving inward slightly. Darryl’s massive brow hung over large, black eyes that stared at Follett with distrust. As Greer had told him, at the top of his head just above his temples protruded two small, bony nubs about an inch and half long—the cutaneous horns.
This man looks like a cross between a werewolf and the god Pan, he thought.
Darryl was tall as well as broad-shouldered, undoubtedly strong enough to be a match for the attendants. He wore a tan jacket and waistcoat with dark brown trousers and a white neck scarf. Aside from his face, only his hands were exposed, and they too were covered with dense black hair. The fingernails appeared to be thicker and longer than normal. He sat with an erect posture, attempting as much dignity as possible despite the wide canvas straps that held him to the straight-back chair.
While Follett’s thoughts were in clinical mode, something in his subconscious stirred. There was a vague familiarity about Darryl, hidden somewhere in a memory long forgotten. He had certainly never met the young man before, so he ignored the feeling.
“Hello, Darryl. I’m Doctor Follett.”
“Are you an alienist, here to judge me insane?”
He had a pronounced lisp and abnormally long teeth. His canines looked like fangs.
“No, I’m a teratologist. I study defects of birth and I’m here to learn about you and see how we can make your life easier and more comfortable.”
Darryl smiled with derision, a frightening smile in a visage such as his. Follett could sense already that the young man was intelligent but harbored a great deal of anger.
“And this is Sven and Carl,” Stockhurst said, indicating the two giant orderlies, or guards, who looked so alike they could be twins. “They helped build the hotels here but Mr. Flagler fired them for fighting too much. Big, strong, and violent, they’re perfect for this job. You see, Darryl’s a good lad, but he has a little problem with his temper. And when he can’t control his temper, he can’t study his lessons. Right, Darryl?”
“I’m perfectly fine now, Father, and you can remove the restraints. Please tell Miss Strom that we can resume.” His gaze turned to Follett. “And tell her that the doctor here thinks she’s beautiful.”
Follett felt his face turn red.
“Quite an imaginative fellow,” he said.
“Darryl! You’re not supposed to do that uninvited. I apologize, Doctor. He’s been swept up by this Spiritualism craze and reads too much nonsense about mind reading and such.”
“It’s called telepathy, Father. You know that. Everyone knows what it is. You might be surprised to hear Samuel Clemens—you’d know him as Mark Twain—published an article about it a few years ago and I’ve corresponded with him. He plans on coming here this Season and will pay me a visit.”
“Mark Twain? Coming to visit you? Why, he’s famous!” Stockhurst said.
“His article is called ‘Mental Telegraphy.’ I have a copy if you want to read it.”
“Quite interesting,” Follett said, turning away. “Mr. Stockhurst, let’s allow him to return to his studies so I can ask you some questions about the family’s medical history. Darryl, it was nice meeting you and I plan on seeing you again soon.”
Darryl’s dark eyes were blank. Follett wondered if he was reading his thoughts.
Stockhurst and Follett retreated to the porch where they sat in rocking chairs. A servant, a petite, timid Irish girl, brought them tea.
“Mr. Stockhurst, I apologize in advance if any of these questions are too intrusive, but I need to find out if there were any medical or environmental factors that contributed to Darryl’s birth defects.”
William sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I understand, but now is actually not a good time. I feel a terrible headache coming on.”
“Would you like me to give you some laudanum?”
“No, thank you, my Bromo-Seltzer should suffice. I really am sorry for the inconvenience, but we’ll reschedule this again soon.”
Follett said nothing and sipped his tea. H
e often had difficulty researching the genetic history of upper-class patients. They were proud of the names and fortunes they inherited, and any signs of flaws in their bloodlines were hushed up. In a judgmental society, even those at the top were vulnerable to rumors and slander. Follett had no patience with any of it. But he had unlimited patience when waiting for them to open up and talk.
Stockhurst glanced at him, pulled out his pocket watch, then glanced at him again. Follett stared patiently at the dunes and the waving sea oats.
“It’s not that I don’t want to cooperate,” Stockhurst said.
“Of course not. Since this line of inquiry is the most important part of my research.”
Stockhurst sighed and rubbed his eyes some more. Follett sipped his tea.
“The fact is…” He sighed again. “You see, I was adopted as an infant. I know nothing about my real parents. I hope you understand this is absolutely confidential.”
Follett finally looked at him. “Mr. Stockhurst, all my patients enjoy complete confidentiality. And I hope you don’t find any shame at all in having been adopted.”
“Ironically, I didn’t until Darryl was born. I was blamed for his deformities—actually, my unknown parents were. My wife, you see, wants no responsibility at all for the genes that have done this to him. Nor does her family. This,” he gestured back toward the inside of the house, “was all because of me and my monstrous heritage.”
“Is that why you spend so much time in Florida and abroad?”
“Partly. But what most people don’t know is that we, my father and I, have come to Florida my entire life. We came when there was no one here but trappers and fishermen. We used to stay on his yacht before there were any hotels to speak of south of St. Augustine. We came down at all times of year to fish and hunt. We brought Darryl here as well when he was a child. If it weren’t for his business interests, Father would live here.”
“I want to stress, Mr. Stockhurst—and you’re an educated man so I know you understand—that there is nothing monstrous about your bloodline. Darryl presents a series of birth defects that have been well-documented in other cases. As physicians have told you, the excessive hair is called hypertrichosis. The growths on his head are cutaneous horns. The jaws are prognathic. The extent that each was caused by genetic versus environmental factors is what I seek to determine. But they are all a matter of science.”