Story contains disturbing themes, including death and questionable non-consent.
[Dedicated to and inspired by the shades of those that have gone before. Small, petty minds can't appreciate greatness but can only attempt to tear it down.]
*
Of course I'll tell you my story if you're willing to listen, though I doubt it will do much good. Still, if there's even the slightest chance of the truth getting out then it's worth it. Besides, one gets tired of talking to the same few people all the time. The orderlies aren't here for their conversational skills, I assure you, and Dr. Phillips spends a lot of time listening to me but never says what he thinks about what I've told him.
You say you're a reporter from a New York newspaper. That's good, I guess. Perhaps with your help I can warn the world before it's too late, if it isn't already though it may be. Can you tell me today's date? I ask them but they just laugh at me and say it doesn't matter if you're never going anywhere again.
July the tenth you say. Hmm, I could be wrong because since I've been here my mind acts queerly sometimes. Let me think about it, no that's right. That means that I've been in here for almost eight months now and time is running out. Listen to me; you must get the word out! All of our lives may depend on it! Hell, the stakes may be a lot higher than that!!
Wait, wait. Please don't go. I'm sorry, please sit back down. Don't worry. I just get a little excited nowadays. I'm in control again, no need to be alarmed. That's a good fellow, thank you. I'm not really crazy you know, no matter what anyone says. To tell the truth I wish I was, it would be far better than knowing what I do. Just listen to my story and decide for yourself is all I ask.
It's funny how things can change so quickly, really in a blink of an eye. A year ago I was on top of the world and now I'm in a madhouse. And to think that I caused it by doing what I thought was best for my family, that's the hardest part for me to accept.
At the time I was doing well, too well in fact, because that's what allowed us to move here from the city. I bought a nice house, not as fancy as most here, but still beyond my wildest dreams of ten years earlier when we got married. Each morning I'd take the train to the city for work and return every evening. The house was close enough to the station that I could walk, making it quite convenient. We had a nice backyard for Jack to play in and Cornelia soon made friends with some of the other neighborhood wives. The only drawback was there weren't any boys close to Jack's age on the block to play with, but with him starting school in the fall we assumed he'd make friends, and to my everlasting regret he did.
That brief summer interlude was the last time my mind had a moment's peace and I find myself reliving those carefree times constantly. Taking a stroll after dinner to get ice cream or teaching Jack to ride his bike, how I wish it could have remained like that forever. But of course things don't. Progress marches on the fools say. If they only knew where we're marching to and who is leading us they wouldn't be so sanguine, I assure you.
I'm fine, just let me collect myself. By any chance do you have a smoke? Very hard to get in here unless someone from the outside brings them to you. Thank you, you're a good fellow.
Now, where was I? Yes it all started once Jack started school. I even went in late to work on his first day so I could accompany him. He was so proud of being a big boy that we had to take his photo at the schoolhouse door. When I got home that evening Cornelia informed me that Jack loved school and had already made some friends. I wasn't surprised as he was such a sweet boy and a joy to be around. I'm sorry, give me a minute. I didn't realize how difficult this would be on me. No, don't go. I need to tell you this for everybody's sake.
So life proceeded like normal with me going to the city to work and Jack attending school. Most nights before he went to sleep he'd tell me all about his day -- what he learned in class, the games he and the other children played during recess and so forth. As the days went on I heard him mention one name more than the rest, some boy named Peter. My wife told me that he had become our Jack's dearest friend and the two boys had become inseparable. In fact Peter's birthday was coming up and we were all invited to his house for the party.
"I've met Peter's mother at school," Cornelia had told me, "and I'm not sure what to make of her. There's something odd about her though I can't quite put my finger on what. Maybe it's because she's foreign, I don't know. She dresses very stylishly and its plain the family has money. She doesn't walk to school like most of us mothers do but rather she's driven by a chauffeur."
"Well it's to be expected that most here have more money than we do. I'm not doing badly but I suppose by the standards of Greenwich we're practically destitute. You say she's foreign dear, where from?"
"Her last name is van Vliet but I suppose that's her married name. I'm not sure, some European country no doubt. She does have an exotic Mediterranean look about her and a bit of an accent but despite that she is quite charming really. Well you'll get an opportunity to judge for yourself when you meet her at the party. Of course we'll have to buy Peter a gift and perhaps Jack can give me an idea on what to get him."
I thought it odd that all the attending children's parents were invited to a party for a six year old but Cornelia explained that since Peter's parents didn't know many of his classmate's parents it seemed a nice way for all to get to know one another in a social situation. It was also strange what Jack said his friend wanted for his present. All he wanted was a leather bound journal that he could write down his thoughts in -- I thought he's just a child, what thoughts would be worth preserving but we dutifully purchased it.
So on a breezy Saturday afternoon in late September we found ourselves driving to the van Vliet house, or mansion to be more accurate. You couldn't see it from the road for there was a high yew hedge blocking one's view but once we turned onto the long, tree lined drive we saw it looming up in the distance like a colossus. It was built in the Tudor style with many gables and numerous brick chimneys rising high above the peaked slate roof. The first story was constructed with tan stones while the second story and attic were built in the familiar half-timber style and it appeared to my untrained eye to be quite old, not one of the newly built facsimiles.
There were many automobiles already parked on the circular drive as we pulled up and climbed from the car. A dour looking servant directed our feet onto a stone path that ran along the side of the building which took us to a spacious and well maintained lawn in back of the house. It was filled with groups of people, both adults and children, some standing or moving about and others seated at one of the many tables dotting the green sward.
"It seems like half the town is here," I said to my wife in a low voice but before she could reply we were approached by our hosts who had been standing nearby greeting the new arrivals.
"Hello Jack, I'm glad you could come. Peter has been anxiously awaiting you," the woman said with a smile as she ran her fingers through my son's hair. "Peter, Jack is here. Come over and say hello."
"Yes Mother," a pale, blond haired boy replied as he approached. "Hello Jack, thank you for coming."
"Hi Pete. Happy birthday. Here's your present," my son told his friend as he handed him the wrapped package.
