by Dr Harper
It took me a long time to realize that the sun had set, and that my room was now nearly pitch black.
I was about to check the time on my phone, but then the Church bells decided to help me out. As they rang out in the distance, I listened and counted from my office.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
By eight o’clock, Elliot would be finishing his choir practice and heading up to the bell towers with–
And then suddenly, it felt like all of the blood had left my body.
I had completely forgotten someone who should have been a prime suspect the entire time.
Zach.
◆◆◆
How had I missed this?
As I sprinted up the stairs to the bell tower, it all started making sense. Ruth said the burns always appeared after choir practice, but Elliot and Zach also came up here every night after choir practice.
Maybe “God” was the stars. Maybe Elliot was staring up at them every Sunday night while Zach burned him, and then he used “God” to mask the unbearable pain of his friend’s betrayal.
“GET AWAY FROM HIM!”
At the top of the tower, I sprinted over to Zach and pulled him away from Elliot.
“Who are you?” said Zach.
“Why are you doing this to him?” I stood in between the two of them, facing Zach. “Why would you ever do this to your friend?”
Zach swallowed, fear in his eyes.
I lunged forward and shook him. “Tell me!”
“It’s not him!” Elliot suddenly yelled out, eyes burning red.
“It has to be,” I said. “Elliot, you don’t have to be afraid of him anymore.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” he stammered. “I’m– I’m in love with him.”
Zach looked at him, confused.
That made two of us.
In love…? With– him?
Oh. I sighed. Of course.
0 for 3. That had to be a new record for me. But this time, everything clicked – for real. If I had actually done my job and spent more time listening to Elliot, we probably could have gotten here a lot faster.
“Zach, could you give us a moment alone?”
Zach nodded and walked over to the stairs.
“Elliot…” I put my hand on his shoulder. “What do you mean you’re in love with Zach?”
“I can’t help it!” he sobbed. “I’ve been trying to stop for so long.”
“Elliot, are you trying to stop yourself from loving Zach?” I asked. “Are you the one burning your body?”
“Yes,” he said, ashamed. “I thought it would make my feelings go away. I said it was God because I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble. But you kept accusing everyone. And now – now Zach knows I’m bad.”
I closed my eyes, pained by his pain. This wasn’t a case of molestation. It was a story of first love, internalized homophobia, and self-flagellation.
“Bad?” I repeated gently. “Elliot, it’s wonderful to love your friend.”
“No it’s not!” He raised his voice. “Leviticus 18:22, Timothy 1:8-10, Corinthians 6:9-10. They all say the same thing. It gets you thrown into Hell with murderers and liars and cheaters.”
I shook my head angrily. He probably heard Father Michael recite verses like that every day. Who needs an abuser when you have a big book telling kids that an omniscient deity thinks they’re defective.
“A real God would never punish you for having love in your heart.”
He looked up at me desperately. “Because Jesus forgives me?”
“There is nothing to forgive, Elliot”. I said, frustrated. “This isn’t anything like murder and adultery. You haven’t done anything wrong. You are wonderful as you are. Whole and good.”
He hung head down. “Then why do I feel so bad?”
“Because of shame,” I said. “Shame feels bad. You’ve absorbed messages about yourself that are not true, and your mind is tricking you into thinking that those messages are coming from God.”
“But what if they are coming from God?” asked Elliot. “Isn’t it better to be safe, so I don’t go to Hell forever?”
“Can you imagine God creating this vast universe, full of oceans and mountains and stars and galaxies – and then being so petty that He punishes you for loving who you love?”
This was completely inappropriate, and unprofessional, and not at all my place. And yet, I continued:
“What if shame and fear are the only things blocking you from realizing who you truly are?” I said. “What if God is less of a punitive human figure, and more of an abstract energy that runs through all of us?”
“All of us?” he repeated curiously.
“Yes,” I said, gesturing around me. “This tower is God. This Earth is God. The stars are God. Zach is God. I am God. You are God.”
He stared at me with wide eyes, and then whispered: “I am God.”
Something about the way he said that made my skin crawl.
And then, in the glow of the moonlight, I saw his face light up. It was a combination of relief, euphoria, and… power.
I’ve seen the same look on a few other patients – when they finally shed all the darkness that blocks them from their greatest potential. But I’ve never seen it happen so fast, and I’ve definitely never seen it happen to a 14-year-old boy.
“Dr. Cole, when I grow up, I’m going to be just like you.” He smiled, a tear running down his cheek. “I’m going to save everyone.”
“That’s very humbling,” I said with a nervous laugh. “But we can’t save everyone.”
A shadow cast over his face. “Well I’m going to save everyone.”
I gave him an encouraging nod. It was touching, if not a bit unsettling.
He walked slowly to the edge of the tower and surveyed the stars. Then he leaned his head back and raised his hands into the night sky. In that moment, it was almost as if he commanded the Heavens themselves.
And then, with a fire burning in his eyes, he turned to me and spoke again:
“They’ll call me Dr. Harper.”
As the bells rang out above us, a shiver coursed through my body, even though it was the middle of summer.
I know it sounds strange, but I got the uncanny feeling that I had accidentally created a hero.
Or a monster.
End of Stolen Patient File - Elliot Harper, 14 Years Old
A Note on Elliot
For any readers confused by that ending, I am Elliot.
Dr. Cole was my childhood therapist. When I got older, I worried that a history of self-harm could hinder me from entering a career in medicine, so I stole the file from her.
Dr. Cole saved my life, and I regret stealing from her, but I hope she would understand why I did it. I also admit I “borrowed” her idea to write out each patient file, as well as her hot-headed temperament.
Don’t worry, the rest of the patient files are mine. No more tricks.
For anyone wondering if my voice remained beautiful after puberty the answer is a resounding ‘No’. It sounds like a cross between a seagull and a birthday kazoo. I still enjoy singing in the shower.
But most likely, you want to know how Zach reacted. Well, he was straight, so I got to experience my first heartbreak. But that’s better than feeling nothing at all. Zach remains one of my closest friends to this day, and we go out for tea each month.
I have just three more patient files to share with you now. I’ve chosen these ones, because they all lead up to Patient #220, which is when everything went to hell.
PTSD Nightmares
PART ONE
“Known as ‘The Zombie’, this terrifying new serial killer bites victims to death before feeding on their organs – mimicking tropes from zombie horror films. Primarily targeting young men, this elusive murderer has an entire state living in fear. With six victims and no leads, authorities encourage local residents to remain vigilant–”
I switched off the news and pushed my cereal across the tabl
e. Another breakfast ruined by CNN.
I locked up the house and drove to work, pleased to see Noah’s car already in the parking lot. It took a long time, but he had grown into quite a good assistant – and he’d stuck around far longer than any of the others.
“Good morning, Noah.”
“Hey, doc!” he said, hurrying over to take my coat. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you.” I walked into my office and he trailed behind with his iPad.
“This morning, you have ‘Mormon grandpa with nightmares’,” he said, scrolling across the screen. “Howard Prince, and his wife – Jane. Oh, and their grandson, Eric.”
“What are the nightmares about?”
He scanned the screen again and shook his head. “It doesn’t say.”
“Thanks, Noah.”
I began preparing my office for the morning. Three pillows on the couch today, one for each patient – assuming they wanted to sit together.
A few minutes later, Noah showed the family inside. On his way out, he placed a coffee on my desk and gave me a thumbs up.
I cleared my throat.
He turned around. “What’s up, doc?”
He had a big smile on his face – so happy with himself for remembering the coffee I didn’t ask for.
“Nothing,” I said, smiling back. “Thanks for the coffee.”
As he walked out of the office, I let out a sigh and took a sip from the mug.
When had I gotten so soft?
◆◆◆
“The nightmares started two months ago,” said Howard. “I’m always alone in a dark field, wandering around aimlessly. And I’m eating something, but I can’t remember what.”
He fiddled with his thumbs and moved his mouth around strangely, as if he was biting his tongue.
His wife, Jane, placed her hands on his – and the fiddling abruptly stopped.
Then Howard’s grandson, Eric, spoke up. “Tell Dr. Harper what happens next.”
Jane shook her head. “I don’t think–”
“Come on, grandma,” said Eric. “This is why we came to therapy.”
“I don’t judge,” I said encouragingly. “Trust me, I’ve seen a lot of things. Nightmares are more common than you’d think.”
Jane closed her eyes and let out a disapproving sigh.
“Screaming,” said Howard quietly. “When I finally wake up, there’s a lot of screaming.”
“Howard, it’s totally natural to have strong reactions to nightmares.”
Howard shook his head grimly. “They’re not my screams.”
I leaned forward. “Whose are they?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “By the time it’s all over, I’ve forgotten.”
I frowned. This sounded a lot like parasomnia. But he said it only started a few months ago, and sleepwalking isn’t usually something that kicks in at age 78.
“Have you noticed any behavioral changes that accompany these nightmares?” I asked.
“It’s been really difficult,” Eric answered for his grandfather. “He’s become irritable and hypervigilant – and he seems detached from us.”
That was interesting. Three textbook symptoms of PTSD, in addition to the nightmares.
“Howard, before the dreams started, can you recall any significant events? Possibly a trigger of some sort?”
He thought hard. “We were on a family vacation with Eric and the great-grandkids up north. I was on an early morning walk with Jane, and that was the first time I blacked out. I’ve never blacked out before.”
“Jane, do you remember this walk?”
“No,” she said flatly, standing up. “This was a mistake. We shouldn’t have come in today.”
“Stop it, grandma!” Eric stood up too. “He needs help.”
“He’ll be fine,” said Jane. “We’re handling it in our own way.”
“Right, the Mormon way,” said Eric angrily. “Load him up with Prozac until he seems normal and happy.”
“How dare you,” hissed Jane. She reached for Howard’s wrist. “Come on, Howard. We’re leaving.”
“Howard,” I said calmly, trying to diffuse the tension. “You’re presenting several signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, which is actually quite treatable. Of course I would need more time to make a formal diagnosis, but different techniques like EMDR or mindfulness could help you feel a tremendous amount of relief.”
He turned to me curiously. “I thought PTSD was something that happens to soldiers who fought in wars.”
“No, it can be any traumatic situation,” I said, trying to keep his attention. “As a result, your body tends to contract or tighten up – replacing your regular emotions with numbness and agitation, and terrifying you in the middle of the night with scary dreams. It’s a very painful way to exist.”
“Why does the body do that?”
“Because it’s trying to protect you,” I said. “Think about a kid who touches a hot stove. His body and mind quickly learn to never do that again, right?”
“Right,” said Howard. “But what does that have to do with PTSD?”
“The problem with PTSD is that the body and mind work on overdrive to prevent the same fear or pain from happening again. It’s like repeatedly touching a hot stove to remind yourself that it hurts. It’s stuck in a feedback loop.”
“But what is it trying to protect me from?”
“That’s exactly what we need to find out,” I said. “But I need more time with you, and I’d prefer if we could meet one-on-one.”
“That’s enough!” said Jane. She pulled his arm and marched him out the door.
I wanted to stop them, but you can’t force patients to accept your help. I learned that the hard way.
“Sorry,” said Eric, hurrying after them. “I’ll convince them to come back, I promise.”
I sat there, feeling increasingly frustrated by the outcome of the session. I hate unsolved patient mysteries, and I got the sense Jane would never allow Howard back in my office.
A few seconds later, Noah appeared in the doorway.
“What happened?” he asked. “They were only in there for a few minutes.”
“The grandmother – Jane,” I said, fuming. “She wouldn’t let him finish. It’s like she just stole the whole conversation away from us.”
Noah looked like he was thinking hard for a few moments, and then his face lit up. “It’s convoluted”.
I looked up at him impatiently. “What?”
“Stolen conversation,” he said proudly. “Convo-looted.”
I stared at him and blinked.
“Please get out of my office.”
◆◆◆
I’d finally reached the end of the day, but I was too distracted with Howard to offer much help to my other patients. When someone leaves before I can figure out their problem, it gnaws away at me like a parasite in my brain.
I began packing up my things and turned out the lights. When I got to the lobby, I was surprised to see that Noah was already gone. He never leaves before me.
Was he seriously offended that I dismissed him from my office? I mean, I’ve punched the guy in the face before, and he still stuck around.
Oh well. We’d figure it out in the morning.
I locked up the doors and started the long drive home. My house is in the middle of nowhere, deep in the woods with a winding driveway.
I love my privacy.
The only thing I don’t like about the house is the separate garage. The builders apparently thought it would be neat to have the garage and guest house disconnected from the main house, which is all well and good – until you have to walk between the two at night.
I’ve dealt with some scary people in my life, but nothing frightens me quite like the path from the garage to my house. My mind starts playing tricks on me, convincing me that a stalker or a discouraged patient could be waiting in the woods for me.
As I stepped out of my car, I picked up my bag with one hand and shielded the view of the lawn a
nd woods with my other hand. Don’t judge. I’ve got it down to a science.
I hurried across the path, but then I saw something between my shielding fingers – an unexpected movement in the woods.
My body went cold.
“It’s all in your mind…” I whispered to myself.
I picked up my pace, and then I heard an unmistakable choking sound.
“What the hell.” I dropped my hand and spun around.
I fumbled with my phone and turned on the flashlight, shining it at the lawn.
The image I saw next is one that I’ll never forget.
Standing there – on the edge of my lawn and the woods – was a hooded figure kneeling over something.
Or someone.
When the hooded figure saw the light of my phone, it raised its head to face me.
I couldn’t see its eyes, but I could see its mouth.
It was chewing slowly, and dark chunks were spilling from its teeth to the ground.
PART TWO
“Why is it always your house, Elliot?”
Officer Donahue made his way into my kitchen after searching the woods.
“It’s not like I want these visitors,” I snapped.
“Well, we’ve searched the entire premises, and there’s no sign of anyone,” he said. “And certainly nothing on your lawn to indicate The Zombie killer was here eating someone–”
“Then what the hell was it eating?” I pressed, irritated that he wasn’t taking me seriously. “There had to be something – some sort of food at least.”
“Listen, we can check again in the morning,” he said with a slight smirk. “But I promise you there wasn’t any human flesh on your lawn. Maybe all those crazies are finally getting to your head?”
“Oh, fuck you,” I muttered under my breath.
“Excuse me?”
“I was just saying ‘thank you’.” I smiled back. “Now, it’s late. I better be getting to sleep.”