Chapter 111 - Intermission - Stone-Cold Crazy

  Frank hugged his knees, sitting on that thin mattress in the room that was carefully set up with no sharp corners. The door had no handle on the inside, and the only window sat high on the wall and was made of reinforced glass, though it did provide some natural light in his otherwise austere living arrangements. There was a single camera in the corner, which had a single red light that never stopped blinking.

  Frank tightened his grip on his knees as he kept his back firmly against the cold wall, trying to block out the dark tendrils inching closer from under his bed and every shadowed corner. He knew they weren’t real—he tried hard to believe that, anyway—but knowing and believing were two very different things.

  The medication helped a little bit, only for the fact that it left the world around him too foggy to interpret the true horrors that the witch had revealed to him. He’d give anything for her to take it back, and free him from this. The doctors wouldn’t listen, though; they would just repeat over and over again how magic and demons were not real, but they knew nothing. They haven't seen what he’s seen, and therefore their treatments would never do anything to help him.

  A sharp knock on the door grabbed Frank’s attention. “Frank, it’s Dr. Larson,” a voice called through the thick door—calm, measured—exactly what you’d expect from someone who worked at a place like this. “It’s time for your session.”

  Frank didn’t answer as the heavy lock clicked, and the door opened slowly, revealing Dr. Larson standing in the threshold. Behind him, two orderlies hovered, their hands clasped in front of them in a way that was meant to seem non-threatening. There was always at least one of those guys in the white uniform when Frank was let out of his room, particularly that big one with the buzz-cut. Frank had tried to break out of here a few times when he realized how they would never listen to him. He attacked nurses, doctors, and anyone who got in his way, but didn’t get far. By now, he’d given up on fighting, knowing it was impossible, and the medication made him too sluggish to even want to try.

  “How are you feeling today, Frank?” Dr. Larson waited for a long moment for a response. “Frank, I asked you a question.”

  “Fine…” he whispered under his breath.

  “You seem tense; you’re keeping yourself rather tight in that corner. Tell me, is there anything in this room right now other than you, myself, and Mr. James here?”

  Mr. James was the buzzcut orderly, and the second one, whom Frank had never seen before, stayed out in the hall. The staff was constantly changing though, and this was a big place.

  Frank shook his head. “No.” It was a lie. Those black tendrils were crawling from the corners of the room, and if he focused on them, they would grow until faces began to form, and then the voices would come. He was getting better at not paying attention, though.

  "Well, that’s good. It seems the medication is effective. Now, why don’t you come with us so we can speak somewhere a little less cramped?” Dr. Larson gestured toward the door, his tone soft and inviting.

  Frank didn’t move immediately. He took a slow breath, trying to focus on the tangible—on the hum of the overhead light, the weight of his body against the mattress, the cool air brushing his skin. The things he knew were real.

  Slowly, he uncurled from his spot on the bed, and though he kept his eyes low, he was aware of the orderlies watching him closely for any sudden moves.

  “Good,” Dr. Larson said encouragingly. “Let’s head to the counseling room.”

  Frank shuffled forward, his bare feet padding softly against the Linoleum floor. Mr. James and and the other orderly flanked him on either side, their heavy boots contrasting sharply with Frank’s silent steps. Occasionally there was a cough or a yell from another room, or the sound of a slamming door.

  The counseling room was a small, sterile space with pale blue walls and a round table surrounded by padded chairs. Dr. Larson motioned for Frank to take a seat, while the orderlies stationed themselves near the door.

  Frank’s eyes flicked over the new orderly. He was smiling—if you could call it that. It wasn’t a normal smile. His teeth looked too big, too straight and uniform, like they didn’t belong in his mouth. Worse, their surface had a grainy texture, like concrete.

  Or tombstones… Frank thought, his mind briefly going back to the graveyard where he had killed that girl.

  He dropped into the chair farthest from the door, his shoulders folding in. Eyes down, he traced the faint scratches etched into the table’s surface. Focusing on small details helped keep the monsters at bay. It didn’t work as well in the empty room they forced him to live in.

  Dr. Larson settled across from him with a notepad in hand. “Let’s start with how you’re feeling today, Frank. Have you noticed any improvement with the increased dosage?”

  “It… helps,” he said, which was technically true.

  Dr. Larson nodded, jotting something down. “That’s good. And what about the… hallucinations? Have they been less frequent or intense?”

  Frank’s jaw tightened. “They’re still there. But not as bad.”

  “That’s progress,” Dr. Larson said with a small smile, as if Frank had achieved something worth celebrating. “It’s important to keep reminding yourself that they aren’t real and they can’t hurt you.”

  This asshole says that like it's so simple. I’d love to put you in my shoes for just a day, you fucking asshole! He didn’t say it, though. What was the point? The doctor wouldn’t listen and just push back twice as hard.

  Dr. Larson leaned forward slightly, his pen poised over the notepad. “Let’s talk about last night. Did you sleep?”

  Frank nodded slowly.

  “Are you sure? The night nurses mentioned you were tossing and turning quite a bit and got up several times to pace around your room.”

  “I guess.”

  Dr. Larson frowned. “You’re still having nightmares. Arn’t you?”

  “Look…” Frank said, tensing his hand slightly. “I’m telling you, just have someone talk to Todd. No. Deliver a message for me. It was his sister! His sister can—”

  “Frank, we’ve been through this. Magic and witches are not real. What you’re experiencing is a psychotic break, and this whole thing about killing a girl in a graveyard and your friend’s sister cursing you… its… it’s all just a story your mind has come up with to cope with the fact the world isn’t making sense to you right now.”

  “Its not!” Frank gasped. “I’m telling you, it happened the way I said it did! I should be in prison, not… not HERE.” He would have preferred prison to this hell he was living. He would gladly trade a life in jail if the monsters would just go away.

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  “Frank,” Dr. Larson said firmly, as if he were not going to listen to this any longer. “The girl you claim to have killed you said was named Morrigan Livingston. She was a missing person and a major local story around the time of your psychotic break. But, she has since been found; she’s alive, and that means you couldn’t possibly have killed her.”

  “That’s impossible!” he yelled.

  “Then why would I be sitting here telling you that’s the truth?” Dr. Larson asked. “Do you think I’m lying to you? Why would I do that?”

  Frank froze, his mind scrambled for answers, but one thing he had to agree with the doctor on is that it didn’t make sense. Morrigan couldn’t be alive. He saw her die. He felt the knife in his hand, the wet warmth of blood spilling over the backs of his knuckles. He watched the light in her eyes slowly fade, and then he and Donny dragged her into a crypt where her body should still be lying. She had been losing so much blood there was a deep pool of it around her body by the time they slid the crypt door closed again.

  “She’s dead,” Frank muttered, his voice barely audible. “I saw her die. I killed her. Donny and I—we… we hid her body. I... I didn’t mean to, but it happened.”

  “Yes, you told me this story before. The police spoke with your friend Donny, who denied ever even being at the graveyard with you that day. He never saw this girl Morrigan once in his life, and as far as I can tell, neither have you.”

  “Donny’s lying! He was there! He ran her down and brought her back for the ritual. H-he just won’t admit it because he doesn’t want to get in trouble!”

  Dr. Larson sighed, setting his pen down and folding his hands on the table. “Frank, I understand this feels real to you. Trauma has a way of distorting memories, especially when combined with psychosis. But you need to understand that the events you believe happened… didn’t. Morrigan Livingston was reported missing, yes, but she returned home. There’s no record of her death because it didn’t happen. And either way, whatever happened to her, you had nothing to do with it.”

  Frank’s vision blurred, and the edges of the room seemed to darken. The tendrils crept closer, whispering in his ears, twisting reality with their insidious presence. He dug his fingernails into his palms, trying to ground himself, but the doctor’s words were unraveling him.

  “How do you explain the curse, then?” Frank’s voice rose, desperate now. “The shadows, the nightmares, the things I see every damn day! That’s not psychosis. Todd’s sister is a witch. She was pissed about me messing with him a-and…”

  Dr. Larson’s expression softened, but it was the kind of softness that made Frank want to scream. It was pity—detached, clinical, useless. “The human mind is capable of incredible things. I believe your hallucinations are manifestations of your guilt, fear, and unresolved trauma. Frank… I would like to talk about your parents.”

  Frank’s breath hitched, and his body stiffened as if the mere mention of his parents had triggered an unseen trap. His nails dug deeper into his palms, his eyes darting toward the scratches on the table as if searching for an escape in their nonuniform lines and scuffs.

  “What do they have to do with anything?” His voice was low, guarded.

  Dr. Larson’s tone remained calm and measured. “A great deal, I suspect. Frank, you’ve told me before that your childhood wasn’t easy. Your father… he had a temper, didn’t he?”

  Frank didn’t answer, his mind racing. The memories pushed forward uninvited—the sound of breaking glass, the sharp sting of a slap, the cold, emotionless voice of his mother telling him to stop crying because he was just trying to get attention and it wasn’t a big deal.

  “So what?” Frank muttered.

  Dr. Larson leaned forward slightly, his pen poised over the notepad again. “You’ve also mentioned that your father was particularly hard on you when you didn’t meet his expectations. He wanted you to be strong, didn’t he? To not show fear.”

  Frank’s fists clenched tighter, his knuckles white. He didn’t want a son who acted like a “pussy.”

  “I’m not trying to upset you, Frank,” Dr. Larson said gently. “But I think it’s important to acknowledge how those experiences might be influencing what you’re going through now. Your father taught you to suppress your fear, and you learned to act out aggressively when you felt cornered.”

  Frank glared at the doctor. “So you think I went crazy just because I had shitty parents?”

  Dr. Larson didn’t rise to the anger in Frank’s tone. “It could be a factor. Trauma doesn’t just go away, especially when it’s left unaddressed. It festers, and sometimes it takes shape in ways we don’t expect. The shadows you see, the voices you hear… they might be tied to that fear you were never allowed to express.”

  Frank shook his head violently. “No. That’s not it. You don’t get it. This isn’t in my head! This is real!” His voice cracked, and he felt the burn of tears threatening to spill. He hated how weak he sounded.

  Dr. Larson placed the pen down again. Frank’s eyes shot to the pen. How many times did he put it down like that? Did he keep picking it back up when Frank wasn’t paying attention?

  “I know it feels real, and I don’t expect you to accept what I’m saying overnight. But I do want you to think about it. If those shadows represent something—your father’s anger, your own fear—then maybe understanding that could help us find a way to quiet them.”

  Frank slammed his fists on the table, the orderlies tensing immediately. “You don’t get it! I don’t need your fucking breathing exercises or your pills! I need someone to go to that fucking witch and tell her to lift this damn curse!”

  Dr. Larson raised his hand slightly, signaling the orderlies to remain calm. His voice kept on an even keel, even as his expression tightened. “Frank, I need you to take a deep breath. We’re just here to help.”

  Frank’s breathing grew ragged, his hands trembling as the room seemed to close in around him.

  One of the orderlies put a hand on his shoulder and, in a smooth, gravelly voice, said, “Now, now, Frank. Why don’t you just take it easy, son?”

  Frank whirled—it was the guy with the tombstone teeth. As their eyes met, the orderly’s lips pulled back in a slow curl, revealing how unnaturally high those teeth were set into his gums. The whites of his eyes began to shift, dark clouds swirling within them like ink dissolving in water.

  “HEY! H-hands off, you freak!” Frank yelled, knocking his hand away. Frank tried to get up but tripped, knocking over several padded chairs as he scrambled across the floor and tried to get up again.

  “Frank, please calm down and breathe!" Dr. Larson said.

  But it was no use; the shadowy tendrils began to slither from every shadowed corner around him like he had just fallen into a den of snakes. Their whispers turned into hissing laughter as the edges of the room seemed to melt into shadows, and the faces of the orderlies warped and twisted into something monstrous.

  “No, no, no, no!” Frank’s voice cracked as he scrambled to his feet, gripping his temples and looking around for somewhere to run. “They’re back! They’re back!” The faces amongst the tendrils now had bodies, naked, decomposing bodies, and sick yellow eyes as they grabbed tables, chairs and counters to hoist themselves up and out of the shadow, as if emerging from pools of darkness.

  Mr. James stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “Frank, we need you to calm down, okay? Just take a deep breath. Everything’s alright.” Behind him, that other orderly stood just over his shoulder, giving Frank an exaggerated smile as if he were purposely showing off those weird, oversized teeth.

  “What are you smiling at, freak!?” Frank screamed.

  The shadow people suddenly lunged toward him, surrounding him from all sides. “Get them away from me! NO! NO! GET AWAY!”

  He felt his arms being grabbed, pinned to his sides as he was brought to the ground. He was thrashing too wildly to make sense of what was happening to him, but amidst the chaos, he still saw that other orderly. Looming over him as a quiet observer, his unnaturally straight grin fixed on Frank like a predator toying with its prey

  “Frank, Frank, just relax Frank,” Mr. James said, his voice calm and reassuring as Frank uslessly tried to fight.

  “Sedative,” he heard Dr. Larson say, and a moment later something sharp jabbed into his neck.

  “No! Don’t do that!” Frank cried, his voice raw and panicked. “Don’t put me back there! Don’t do it, please!”

  Last time he felt that jab in his neck, he woke up strapped to a table, unable to move an inch, and all he could do was scream and beg to be let go, but nobody seemed to care about how much he pleaded with them. He wasn’t even sure if anyone could hear him.

  “No…” Frank gasped, his voice getting weaker as the darkness encroached on his vision and everything began to disappear. “Don’t… don’t… make me… g-go…”

  He felt himself being lowered to the ground. The shadows receded as those decomposing zombies sank back into the dark corners they had come from. He heard the sound of fabric being pulled through a loop.

  “Straightjacket,” Dr. Larson instructed softly, his tone tinged with regret. There were more orderlies now, guiding Frank’s arms into the restraints and securing him. His head lolled to the side, his breathing slowing. He finally gave up on keeping his head up and let it rest of the cold linoleum tiles. That stone-toothed man still stared down at him, not disappearing with the rest of the monsters, and instead whispered a few short words. “I’ll be seeing you again soon, champ.” His lips curled back in that haunting, grey-toothed grin once again as Frank’s eyes closed and he lost consciousness.

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