Note Written By A Psychotic

If I could trade this pen and paper for a bottle of Brandy, I’d do it. But when you’re stuck in an asylum, all they give you is juice. Let me tell you something, I’ve about had it with that. So instead of getting wasted, let me tell you about a time when I was really wasted. I’m sure the doctor won’t mind. After all, it’s therapeutic, right? Booze is therapeutic too when you really think about it. And I was full of booze that night, the night that led me back to the DeSanto House

We were drunk; we must have been drunk. I think that I was so damn drunk I could barely stand. Vaguely, I remember getting into the truck with some guys from the bar after hitting the booze all night. Somewhere east of Concord those coloreds dragged me out of the truck and dumped me. I guess that’s what they did. I don’t remember that clearly. Those sons of bitches! I must have laid there in the dirt for a half-an-hour, puking in those damn weeds!

It was approaching the small hours of morning when I had the sense to look around me and see where I was. This godawful old house stood dark against the sky. I never seen nothin’ like it. There was so much ivy on it that I wouldn’t have even known it was a house if it hadn’t been so close. It stood there like some gaunt, shapeless horror. I don’t know why, but it reminded me of my old man before he passed on, lyin’ on that old bed of his when the dusk came on. With a gasping shudder I started crawlin’ towards that old place, ‘cause I was so damn drunk I could barely stand. Seemed like somethin’ was lookin’ out of one of those top-story windows at me, but I couldn’t tell for sure. Might have been one of those ivy branches, I guess, or some shred of ragged drapes still hangin’ in the window from some forgotten day gone by. I thought of my old man again, and somethin’ made me shudder. I thought of him starin’ out of those old shuttered windows back when I was a kid, just starin’ through the glass out into the cold night in that house we had once’t years ago. And as I looked back at the house, it seemed to take on the semblance of an old man, rotting away through the years like a corpse in its grave, long dead.

I finally reached the doorstep. The door was already open. Seemed like others had sought shelter from the cold night here before, I thought. I crawled inside. The moonlight draped itself across the floor like a rag. Rotting boards lay cracked and splintered on the floor. Holes gaped in the rotted walls and floors. Shadows haunted the rafters and splashed the room with their black presences. The air smelled like a fresh-dug grave.

I saw a staircase by the far wall, and started crawlin’ up that old thing. The boards still seemed to hold after all the years gone by. When I reached the upper landing, I laid on the torn rug with a gasp. I was just plain worn out.

Splintered shards of moonlight lit the upper hallway in a jagged array of shadows and ragged images. I looked around me. The upper story seemed to be one long hallway with about five doorway down the right hand portion and two down the other. The dancing shadows seemed to throw each other around as if in agony. Outside the window in back of me the thrashing poplars whipped each other in a frenzy as a high wind began to blow without.

It was just at that moment that it dawned on me that there was a door at the end of the corridor. Somethin’ about that door just gave me the creeps. The wind kept knockin’ it against the jamb, and the more I looked down towards that door, the more it seemed like somethin’ was movin’ inside, sniffin’ under the door, and scratchin’ lightly at the other side of the door. With a gasping rush of cold wind the door started to swing open and somethin’ that weren’t human came draggin’ itse’f down the hallway towards me. I got up on my two feet and stumbled down the stairway. I ran across that old floor, out the doorway, and went reelin’ across the brush and weeds towards the side of the road. I paused and stared back at the old house. And it seemed like somethin’ was a-starin’ back at me from the dark, ivy-hung windows of the rotting porch.

Suddenly, headlights showed along the distant stretch of the road that led back into town. Someone in an old pickup truck came quickly into view. I flagged him down and asked him if he would take me into town.

An old man with an overcoat on leaned out the window and stared at me in the darkness. He was smoking a cigarette and regarding me like I’d come from outer space. “What’s the matter, mister?” he asked, “You look white as a sheet. You ain’t been pokin’ around in that old house, have ya?”

He spat in the dirt and gave the house a fearful look. “Why, that’s the old DeSanto House,” he continued, “No one’s lived there nor gone there since what happened. Why the place has been abandoned for years. You git on in this truck, and I’ll give you ride to where you’re goin’. Ain’t nothin’ out here but ghosts anyway.”

He was an older man, wearing a white, button-down shirt with a collar and a pair of old jeans. As he drove, he puffed on his cigarette without using his hands, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. His brow and face were lined with care, and his gray hair was balding at the top. He appeared to know where he was going so I presumed he lived in the same town as I did though I couldn’t recall having seen him before here or there.

As we rode into town, I learned the awful truth. About the bodies they’d dug up around that old place and the manhunt the police had set up. All the bodies had been buried in the old riverbed near the house or stuffed into the crawlspace. Nothing was left of them but chewed-up bone and rotted flesh, according to the old gentleman, as if they had been cannibalized or somethin’. As he discussed the house, I recalled that I knew the old place from years back but just hadn’t recognized it because of my state of mind. I wasn’t about to tell him how I knew the place, though. It just wasn’t any of his business. In fact, the more he talked, the more ticked off I began to get about the whole thing. Sometimes it’s as if a person knows too much about what’s better not knowin’ about. And let me tell ya, this guy needed to learn a lesson about that. I’m not goin’ to tell you why. Maybe I’ll tell you later on in this little note when it’s done. Maybe I won’t. Maybe you’ll be dead too before you even read this, partner, and I won’t even have to bother to explain what I mean. But I guess that’s not going to happen, is it?

Anyway, so turn to this guy and I says, “Listen, old timer, why don’t you come on over to my place for some good, strong Brandy and tell me more about this whole thing. I ain’t heared nothin’ like it since I was a teenager. And let me tell you, I’ve heard them all. But I ain’t never heard nothing’ like this before.”

The old man cocked his head to the right in a funny kind of way like he wanted me to shoot him on the spot for my trouble. But I couldn’t do that, at least, not out in the open in the middle of nowhere. How in the hell would I get back into town? I suppose I could drive his truck myself. But I’d never driven a stick shift car before and I really didn’t want to go through the trouble. Besides, I wanted hear more about “me.” I wanted to hear more about his reaction to what “I’d” done at the old DeSanto House when I was a teenager. Little did he know that I’d lived there once. That I was the one he was talking about. That I’d put those bodies there. And, let me tell you, it weren’t none of his business. It weren’t none of the police’s business either. You can’t blame me for wanting to hear a good story, though, can ya? I couldn’t kill him yet. He weren’t done talkin’ yet. And I needed somethin’ to do when I got home anyway. You know what I mean.

“So, anyway,” says the old man,” I happen to be the police chief in this town which is why I happen to know what I know.”

Suddenly, I was glad I hadn’t shot him yet. All hell would’ve broken loose if I had. But suppose I did shoot him. Then, what? What would his family’s reaction be? How would the police react? It was as if someone had dropped a Christmas goose in my lap. I guess you’d say that at that point I really didn’t know what to do or how to proceed. I thought I might just play it by ear and see what happened.

“So,” I says, “Did you happen to know the old man who lived in that old house, the one you were tellin’ me about earlier? What was his name?”

“Ah, yes,” he answered, his eyes lighting up like Christmas candles. “His name was Edward DeSanto. He had a son, too, who disappeared shortly after the murders were discovered. Some said that he’d done it himself. Some said that he’d fled out of state or got kidnapped by the actual killer or killers. No one knows for sure what the hell happened. For all we know, he might be still around and we’d never know it. No one’s heard of nor seen him since then. That doesn’t mean that he’s not guilty, though.”

The old man brushed back his short locks of graying hair and took a quick swig of whiskey from an old metal flask. I don’t think he knew who he was talkin’ to.

“Turn right here,” I told him. “And it’s the third house down. That’s where I live. You’ve got to tell me more about this old place where you found me. I want to hear all about it. I haven’t been in town long, you know. Just moved here a couple of weeks ago, in fact. I hardly know anyone. You’re practically the first person I’ve actually met around here outside of my landlady. Come on in.”

We got out of the truck and walked up to house and, then, around to the back where I lived. The landlady peered out the window at me, but I waved at her to let her know that everything was all right.

Now you’ve got to understand that I had to do something here. I couldn’t just let this guy go! He knew too much. And, for all I knew, he knew me too and probably knew exactly who I was all the time. I just couldn’t let that slide by. So once we had gotten into the back house, I motioned him to follow me downstairs and asked him to reach back into a recess in the wall where I kept the Brandy.

“It’s just a short ways back,” I reassured him. “Just reach back in there and pull it out. You’ll be able to feel it.”

As soon as he’d reached back in the wall, I secured a fetter around his wrist and grabbed his other hand and secured that to the wall too. You see I just couldn’t let this matter slide. Somethin’ had to be done about this murder rap. The fetters were old, but, hopefully, they would hold him secure.

“O. K. So listen!” I said abruptly. “You know who I am, right?”

He stared at me vacantly, not seeming to register the question. “Son, I’m a powerful man and I know people in this town. You better let me out of these, right now, because my disappearance will be noticed right away.”

“Don’t worry about that! Just answer the question! Do you know who I am?”

“No!” he shouted, “I don’t! And I don’t give a fuck! Now let me out of these!”

“All in time,” I answered, noticing as I did so that he was beginning to sweat. “I’m the one you were talking about so freely in the truck. That’s right! That’s right! I’m the son of the man who lived in the old DeSanto House twenty years ago. I killed all those people, then, like I’m going to kill you right now!”

Suddenly, he looked behind me with a frantic look. “Help me!” he shouted, staring feverishly behind me at someone at the top of the stairs. “Call the police! Help me!”

I turned to the top of the stairs but saw nothing. I grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. “All right!” I said, “Who did you see up there? Tell me now! Tell me now or I’ll kill you!”

I wasn’t sure if he was bluffing me on this or not so I gave his hair another yank and then slapped him hard across the face. His whole countenance turned a bright red. “You were bluffing, weren’t you? You didn’t see anybody up there! So, don’t give me that bullshit, O. K.?”

Beads of sweat were beginning to roll down his face. His eyes were watering as if he were about to cry. He glared at me with subdued rage as if he would have killed me had I not fettered him to the wall.

“I’m not giving you any bullshit!” he replied. “I saw someone at the top of the stairs, and pretty soon they’ll call the cops and they’ll be all over this place!”

“Bullshit!” I replied with a snarl. “If you saw someone, tell me who it was! Tell me!” I yanked his hair back again and spat in his face. “You’re just trying to buy time. I know you are! You can’t lie to me! If you saw someone, who was it?”

He looked at me with a panicked stare. “Your landlady! It was your landlady!”

Suddenly, all in an instant, my plans would have to change. It looked like I would have to kill her too. I rushed up the stairs and searched through the entire house. Then, finding nothing, I rushed to the front yard to see if my landlady had gone back into her house. I was alarmed to realize that she was already leaving in her station wagon. She glared at me with narrowed eyes as she rushed out of the driveway. Her nightgown was still on and she was on her cell phone, probably calling the cops. She couldn’t have known that she was driving her own hearse. I pulled my 44 out of my shoulder holster and shot out her back window, trying to hit her in the head, but the old bitch seemed to have nine lives. Finally, the car swerved out of view and around the corner. If I’d had a car I would have gone after her. Frantic, I rushed to my back house, my 44 still gripped in my hand. Now I knew that I would have to kill the old man right away. I had no choice now. I could always steal a car and drive out of state. Maybe the old man still had his car keys on him!

I paused and stared down the stairs into the basement of my back house. The old man was nowhere to be seen. How could he have possibly . . . Could the fetter have broken off?

I ran down into the basement, cocking my gun as I did so. He would have to be shot right away. But as I rounded the corner of the basement, a loud report sounded and fire coursed through my chest. The blood gushed like a volcano down onto the stone floor. My gun dropped to the floor with a thud. I looked up and saw none other than the old man, glaring back at me through the shadows. Apparently, he had had his police-issued firearm with him all along. I cursed myself for my own stupidity. I tried to lunge upward, but he shoved me to the ground and put the cuffs on me before I even knew what had happened. The cuffs I hadn’t noticed earlier either. Another strike against me! Apparently, he had escaped his fetters. How? I don’t know. They had probably come loose.

He pulled me upstairs and shoved me to the floor. As he called the police to make sure they were on their way, he kicked me in the gut real hard, I guess to get back at me for fettering him to the wall.

Before the police could come and take me away, I told him that I was only trying to clear my name of his malign comments when I shackled him to the wall. I was only trying to protect my dignity.

“What would you do if someone were talking about you that way?” I asked him. “Don’t you people care about anyone but yourselves? You don’t care about the guy who gets the rap! All you care about is the other guy, the asshole who gets what he deserves for his bullshit! All I’m trying to do by killing you is to clear my name. I can’t have you talking that way about my family and me! Let me out of these cuffs so I bring justice to this situation! I have to kill you, O. K.?”

“Son,” the old man said when he put down the phone, “You’re going to rot in hell before you do anything like that again! And, by the way, like I said, I’m the Chief of Police here. Emil Gant is my name. And you’re going to hear that name quite a bit where you’re goin’. We’ve got a lot of talking to do. So you just hold tight and stay down there on the floor until some more people get here. Then, we’ll wrap this up.”

Within several minutes I could hear the police cars pulling up. Voices shouted and footsteps coursed down the walkway. As the door was thrust open, I reeled up from the floor and rushed the old man with one last lunge, but he whacked me on the head with a chair and that was the last I remember of the whole ordeal.

As I write this, I’m in my cell room at the asylum. The judge told me that I was Jesus Christ and the Devil, the master of illusion, the creator of reality and fantasy. He sentenced me to a life term of never-ending slaughter. Even the nurses admit that I have powerful psychic abilities that I’m only just beginning to tap. I can channel people too. Right now, I’m trying to channel that old man Gant into coming to my cell today so we can finish what we started several months ago before the trial began. He has to die, you see, he has to die. And I have to clear my name. I can’t have people maligning me like that. I’m a good guy inside. It’s just that sometimes people go too far, and I have to do something to correct that. And if that means killing someone, that’s just how it has to be. Last time I saw Gant, I told him that he would find the real killer back at my house hiding in the basement. You see, I was being controlled by alien forces and by other powers separate from mine. And the one behind it all lives in the basement in my house, buried under the floor. Sometimes bodies would writhe out of the earth there and would come upstairs to give me instructions on who to kill next. So what if they were already dead themselves! But, in the end, I’m in control, because I’m the one who has to do all the killing. So why did this Police Chief Gant have to get in the way of someone so powerful as myself? Maybe I just let him do it, because I know that I have only to will myself out of this asylum and it will happen. And I’m still waiting. I’m still waiting.

They say they found some missing negro men, lying on the floor inside the DeSanto house where I once lived. They’re trying to blame me for that too. I guess those guys that dropped me off there that night came back for me and got killed. How should I know who did it? I’m just an unwilling victim of alien forces operating in the universe. Or maybe I did know it, but I didn’t mention it at the beginning of this note because I wanted you to read the whole thing through. You see, you have to get me out of here. C’mon, I’ll cut you a deal. You get to walk away from me, unharmed, afterwards. Maybe! But, be quick, O. K.?

I can hear voices outside my door. The psych techs have come to do a check on my room. A key rattles in the lock. There is a blur of movement in the room. Remember not to tell them what you’ve read in this note if you see them, O. K.? The notebook is being snatched from my hand. I . . .