The Pale King - III

Part 1

Dr. Henry Starcross took a deep breath and unlocked the hall to yellow ward. He hated his rounds on this ward. He wished he could just sequester them to the basement and leave them there to rot away. There was no point in attempting “treatment” of these murderous beasts. How does one rehabilitate a bloodthirsty killer to be able to work in a mill house or a factory or a construction site? You simply can’t. Henry recounted one attempt at rehabilitation he had overseen as a new doctor. The young man had been sent to Westknell for killing his father in what was deemed a crime of self defence. The boy was only seventeen and was seen as someone who could turn his life around. He spent eighteen months at the ward and was released after dropping from yellow ward status to green level. All the staff were excited at their success and Henry’s head physician, Dr. Robert Dearing, rejoiced at his breakthrough. They soon moved onto the next hard case hoping the same results would arise.

                Not two weeks from the boy’s release he was reported to have stabbed and killed three in a bar dispute. He was brought immediately back to Westknell for treatment and Dr. Dearing sat him down.

                “Why did you do this? You were cured?”

                “Cured?”

                “Yes! You were ready to rejoin society? What happened?”

                “I did what I could to leave this place. Acted the ways you wanted, said the things you wanted. I played the part so you would let me leave. I had more to do.”

                The boy dissolved into a murderous cackle as the orderlies strapped him down and led him away. Dr. Dearing stayed at the Sanitarium only for a week more before Dr. Starcross was promoted to take his place. Since that day Starcross never had the same woeful enthusiasm and hopeful thinking when it came to the yellow ward. They were dangerous, murderous, and in some cases very intelligent. You couldn’t trust them for a second.

                Henry stopped in front of his newest patients door. A man, recently turned 30, sent to Westknell after brutally murdering his sister. It was reported that he was found about to jump off a cliff into the ocean. He was talking to himself and smiling. Henry’s stomach used to turn at the news of the patients reason for being here. Now, after years, he saw it only as words on paper in a report he was handed when the patient was rolled in. He dismissed them as scary stories that didn’t actually occur. Being so far away from the real world behind these walls and thankfully never actually seeing the atrocities these men committed gave him that healthy distance. Otherwise he was sure he would go insane himself. No matter the man’s resolve being around the insane day in and day out can weaken your constitution if you don’t find a way to cope.

                “Unlock cell hatch 27.” Henry called down the hall towards the orderly at the switchboard. The man nodded and flipped a switch sending electricity to the large metal door. The hatch at the floor opens. The man beyond the door shuffles forward and pushes his plate out the hole. The orderly standing with Dr. Starcross picks it up and retreats leaving the doctor by himself with the patient. Henry sits down and pulls out his notepad.

                Reports aren’t strictly looked over anymore since the district overseer agrees with Henry about the state of the yellow ward but Henry keeps notes of his conversations with the men anyway for his own records. He planned on writing a book one day about these insanities and wanted to make sure he had the best information straight from the devils mouth.

                “Reginald, can you hear me?”

                “Yes doctor. How are you today?” The voice was muffled from behind the metal door. It got louder as the man who spoke laid on the floor next to the hole. Starcross could see the man’s hair falling out the hole into the light.

                “How are you feeling today?”

                “Much better actually. Has any word come from my mother or my dear Geoffrey?”

                “Not as of yet Reginald. Please can you tell me more about this pact you made?”

                There was a grumble from the hole and the man shifted his weight.

                “A pact? What do you mean doctor?”

                “Now Reginald, don’t play dumb. When you first came here you spoke of a pact with a shadow devil. Did you not?”

                “Oh yes! That pact, well it seems it was just a symptom of my brain fever you see. It runs in my family line. There was no actual devil, as I’m surely convinced now.”

                “Indeed. Do you hear these voices any longer?”

                “Voices? No. I do not.”

                “I see.”

                “Actually doctor, I’m feeling rather well in all regards. The medicine has calmed the fever that ravaged my brain and the voices are gone. Perhaps I could be moved from this ward to another? I would love to be able to read, or perhaps write my mother a letter. Would that be possible?”

                “Maybe Reginald. Your evaluation will be coming very soon. Be patient.”

                There was another grumble and the man shifted his weight again. It sounded as if he whispered.

                “What was that Reginald?”

                Another whisper.

                Against Starcross’ better judgement he slid off the chair and put himself closer to the hole. The man’s arm shot out of the hole and was close to grabbing the doctors throat. Starcross fell back in time to avoid the attack. Reginald spun and put his face right to the hole.

                “You won’t keep me in here for long! The King will rise, and we will be free! You made a mistake bringing him here. He will destroy you all!”

                Starcross felt a shudder of fear flow down his spine. He had never seen such darkness in a man’s eyes before. He had seen hollow dead eyes in the invalid, he had seen anger in many of them as well but this shade of black it was something else. It seemed to move and pulse without the light flickering.

                “How do you know about this man?” Starcross said asking about the Pale King.

                “I’ve heard him.”

                “He cannot speak!”

                “Not in words…in dreams.” The man moved away from the hole in the floor and started to mutter to himself. Starcross crept closer to the hole again to hear what the man said he could barely make it out.

                “Is this my next trial? To serve the King? I accept this role. I will follow him to the ends of Hell and back. Yes. The coil is almost unfurled.”

                Henry wrote in his notes that night at his desk before retiring. Recounting and rewriting from his notepad into his leather notebook what had transpired. Most men he worked with spoke of the dead ones they had killed, the urge to kill again or as Reginald had shown, a willingness to give their life to some other being. The silent man, whom the patients had started to call Pale King, was concerning to Starcross from the very moment he was found and brought to the ward.

                Starcross pushed the record button on his desktop tape recorder and spoke.

                “This Pale King phenomenon needs to be investigated further. More and more patients refer to the while level patient by this title and I need to understand why. His presence, this silent man, has caused nothing but trouble. I will speak with his caretaker in the coming days to discern some sort of plan.” Henry turned off the recorder and sat back in his chair.

                “Trials, pale king, and that man’s eyes. What is this? Some new delusion? Some new mental malady?” Henry mused to himself as she poured a glass of brandy for himself in the dark.

                There was one more peculiarity that Henry wanted to figure out as well. After the silent man had entered the ward almost every man in the building had been affected. There had been interviews conducted in group sessions or in private to discern who had been touched by the man they called Pale King. Every patient that could speak sensibly enough mentioned the silent man and him “whispering” to them. All accept Thomas Baxley, the Tourette’s patient in the blue ward.

                “I wonder.” Henry said putting his glass down and drawing out Thomas’ file. He would start with this man. “Why was he immune? What answers could he hold? What can I do about this…Pale King?”

Next →