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Well folks, this is it. The end of the story that I’ve kept hidden for over ten years, and which nearly destroyed my interest in the fields of medicine and psychiatry forever. There’ll be plenty to say to wrap this up at the end, so for now, all I’ll say is that this should have been the most difficult part of this story to write, yet because of all the positivity and receptiveness you’ve all shown, I felt nothing but relief in being able to record it. Now, I won’t waste anymore of your time. Let’s finish this puppy.
After my horrifying discovery, the next few hours passed in a haze. I suggested to Martha, half-heartedly, that she should call the police, but she seemed to be too much in shock to really listen to me. Either way, it seemed that I was probably no longer a welcome presence on her property, especially considering how I’d probably just wiped away whatever traces of hope she had left that she might get her son back, while also raising all sorts of uncomfortable and sanity-threatening questions about what, exactly, she’d been paying to hospitalize for the past 20 years. It was best, I reasoned, if I wasn’t the first psychiatrist she talked to after that, so I excused myself and headed for my car.
I recall it being about 4 PM when I left that cursed mansion, fire axe in hand, whereupon I immediately drove back toward the hospital. But I didn’t head straight there. If there was a way to catch the Thing that called itself Joe admitting to what it had done, I wanted to be able to use it, so I stopped off at a dinky Radio Shack near the hospital and bought a small tape recorder and a blank cassette. I figured if it didn’t know I had the cassette, it might slip up and let itself get caught on record.
Then I drove to the hospital.
I arrived around 5:45 PM, and considered taking the fire axe out of my trunk to end this problem then and there, but my knowledge of the typical staffing procedures stopped me. There would be too many people to try anything now, and while I did want to inflict some sort of revenge on the monster, I also didn’t want to get locked up for it.
All the same, even if I couldn’t kill “Joe” right then, I was definitely going to get some answers out of him. Whatever else he might have been, he was still a prisoner at the mercy of whoever held the key to his room, and just now, that was me. I stormed into the hospital and headed straight for the cursed creature’s lair. Once outside, I snapped the tape into my recorder, hit the “Record” button, and concealed it in my lab coat. Then, I shoved my key into the door and pushed it open furiously, my righteous anger overpowering whatever trace of fear I might have felt at facing this unknown agent of terror.
“Joe” looked up as I entered his room. Seeing it was me, his face split into its usual crooked grin, as if nothing whatsoever had happened since my failed attempt to release him. When he spoke, it was in the same hoarse rasp he’d used while pretending to be sane.
“Well, well, well, long time no see, Doc.”
“Cut the crap,” I snapped at him. “What are you?”
“What am I? Boy, she really did a number on you, didn’t she? I told you, I’m a sane man that they’re using for mon—“
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I growled. “I’ve just gone to the real Joe’s house. I’ve seen what was in the wall. I’ll ask you again: I know you’re not human, so what are you?”
This next part I hesitate to write down as I remember it, for reasons that will become abundantly clear as you read on. However, I have spent years trying to convince myself – with all the tools psychiatry can offer -- that what I remember is only my imagination. Nevertheless, the memories stayed stubbornly the same. Therefore, if I am to convey the danger I feel a duty to warn you all about, I have to give my experience the credence it deserves and report it as I recall it, even if I myself find it more comforting to pretend it was my own mind momentarily abandoning sanity. But the Hippocratic Oath says “first, do no harm,” and so I cannot let that pretense get in the way of protecting people from the chance, however slight, that what I saw and heard represents real danger. Now, back to the story.
“Joe” stared at me for a long moment. My knowledge was a development he evidently hadn’t expected. Then, his smile widened, and kept on widening until his cheeks peeled themselves apart and slid open into a bloody rictus. Skin connected to his forehead peeled off, causing blood to gush down his face, matting his hair as his skull caved in from an invisible blow. It was exactly the state my dog Marty’s head had been in when they’d fished him out of the river.
When the Thing that called itself Joe opened its mouth again, blood dribbled from its exposed gums, and it laughed with the moist, rotting wheeze from my nightmares. A chill ran down my spine, but I ignored it. The message of that carefully chosen laugh was clear: It was claiming credit for Marty’s death. I forced myself to react with anger rather than the fear it wanted.
“You fucking liar!” I spat at the Thing. “You just want me to think you’re what killed Marty in order to frighten me. The same way you knew looking like some giant bug would scare the real Joe.”
There was no reply, only more blood gushing from the Thing’s mutilated mouth. However, seeming to want to communicate something, it stood up and crossed to me. I wanted to sock it in the jaw and run, but was too transfixed to move. Fortunately, something in the way it moved suggested it didn’t mean to attack me. It raised one of “Joe’s” hands, and pressed right on the pocket where I had concealed my tape recorder. Then, with another moist laugh, it wagged its finger at me in mock reproach. Here again, the implied meaning was obvious:
That won’t do you any good.
Another chill spiked over me. I ignored this one, too, but with more effort.
“What are you?” I repeated as fiercely as I could. “I must know.”
The Thing’s Jaw seemed to scrape itself loose, and this time, its dank, decayed voice managed to form words.
“What…do…you…think?”
It was a trap. It wanted me to give it a new part to play. I wasn’t going to fall for it.
“I think you’re a fluffy little bunny rabbit,” I said in a mocking voice. “I think I’ll call you Cuddles.”
The Thing gave another horrible, hoarse laugh.
“You…don’t…”
It paused for longer than usual as more blood dribbled down its chin.
“…believe…that.”
I glared at it.
“Maybe not, but I’m not going to feed you a role. I know how you work,” I said. “But I’ll tell you what I know. I know you killed Joe. You killed him and took his place.”
It didn’t reply. For a few seconds, it didn’t react at all. Then, with another blood-soaked chuckle, it jerked its head up and down, nodding in agreement. I repressed a shudder.
“Why?” I asked, more out of reflex than actual curiosity.
The Thing paused, seeming to seriously consider my question. When its mouth opened up to speak again, I nearly choked on the fetid smell of its breath as it leaned in close to me.
“Nothing…like…me…ever…got…the chance…to be…”
“To be human?” I finished in a low, horrorstruck whisper. It wagged its finger at me again, shaking its head with exaggerated knowingness.
“…to be…prey…” it finished, laying special emphasis on the last word.
I felt ill, but I forced myself to confront the situation with as much detachment as I could. It was taunting me, but at least it was being honest.
“But why stay here?” I asked in my most detached, clinical voice. “You could’ve been free all those years. You could’ve tortured people without being imprisoned. Why spend so long here?”
“Didn’t…know…how…to be…prey…,” the Thing hissed. “Here…so much food. Here…safe. Here…I learn…how prey…think.”
It jabbed one finger at its chest, then at me.
“Curious,” it wheezed. “Like…you.”
Reflexively, I stepped back, appalled at the implication.
“I’m nothing like…whatever you are!” I snarled before I could stop myself. Its laughter hacked and wheezed in my ears.
“Yes…you…are,” it rasped. “Both…live…on…misery. You…profit. I…eat.”
“Shut up,” I tried to shout, but it came out hollow and tremulous. The Thing was leaning very far into me now, so close it felt grotesquely intimate.
“Could…help you. Could…show you…what…other prey…fear.”
I felt so sick I had to lean against the wall, but I was still defiant. I faced it with all the courage I could muster.
“No,” I said. “I know what you’re doing. You know my worst fear is not being able to save people. You’re just making me think you can help me do that so you can watch me fail and feed on my misery, too.”
The Thing’s expression – if you could call its mutilated face that – darkened momentarily. I’d seen through its ruse, and that made it angry. However, in a moment, its smile had returned, and with it, a laugh like a waterfall of acid.
“You…can’t…fight…” came that hideous croaking burble. “Stupid prey. You’re…helpless.”
“More fool you,” I said, reckless bravery entering my voice. “It’s you that’s helpless the way you are now. All you can do is pull parlor tricks to try and scare people, but if that fails, you’re up shit creek.”
“Then…why not…try to kill me? sneered the Thing. “Get…axe. Come back. Try. I…look…forward.”
I was momentarily at a loss for words, and started to feel intimidation creeping in on my consciousness. Then, a sudden thought crossed my mind, and I found myself returning its mocking, sadistic leer with one of my own.
“I don’t need to try to kill you,” I said softly. “All I need to do is get everyone here to stop paying attention to you. Which I can do now that I’ve seen what you did to the real ‘Joe.’ And really, that’s what would kill you, isn’t it? If we stop sending in orderlies, nurses, and doctors, you’ll have no victims. You’ll starve to death in here. Well, enjoy whatever bad thoughts you’re getting out of me, you fucking parasite, because they're the last ones you’re going to ever eat. That I promise you.”
I had nothing more to say to it. I turned around and was about to leave, when I heard the Thing speak again, this time at a normal speed, and in the normal Joe’s voice. And somehow, that only made its last words more dissonant – and disconcerting.
“Doc? Listen to the tape. For your own sake, listen to it before you try anything. Please.”
I turned back in spite of myself. “Joe” was looking at me with a fearful expression, all trace of blood and mutilation having vanished from his face and clothes. I didn’t give the sight time to scare me. I turned around and slammed the door behind me, leaving the hospital in a rage. When I got back in my car, I pulled out the tape recorder I’d carried in, stopped it, and rewound the tape. Then, as I drove home, I pushed the tape into my car’s tape deck to see what, if anything I’d recorded.
I wish I could say I’d seen the results coming, but unfortunately, even I’d held out some hope that I could gather hard evidence that I wasn’t insane.
You’ve probably guessed what I heard: My own voice, and my own angry protestations, were preserved clearly on the tape. But the mocking, jeering responses of the Thing that called itself Joe were nowhere to be heard.
Instead, all I could hear was the terrified pleading of a familiar, reedy man’s voice, raspy from disuse, but otherwise thoroughly ordinary.
Needless to say, I smashed the tape up with a hammer when I got home and threw it away. But even with that bit of evidence removed, I knew that I couldn’t tell anyone what I’d learned. I had no evidence, and anyone else would think it sounded like I’d gone insane. Truth be told, I wasn’t even sure if I was still sane, myself.
I realize that in the movies, this would end with me overcoming my doubts, going back to confront the monster that called itself “Joe,” and shoving an axe blade through its skull, or something dramatic like that. But unfortunately, while this story certainly had its moments of Hollywood-style horror psychodrama, it doesn’t end with it.
I never did go back to the hospital that night. In fact, I’m not sure if I ever went back to Joe’s room again, and not for the reason you might think.
Why do I say I’m not sure? Well, that’s the last odd part of this story.
When I got home from the hospital after that last visit with the Thing that called itself Joe, I found my fiancé waiting for me. To her credit, she immediately realized that something was wrong, and that I didn’t want to talk about it. So, she poured me a few drinks, and gave me a few other…adult comforts, which tired me out enough that I went to sleep.
What’s more, miraculously, I didn’t dream of Marty, though the dream I did have arguably keeps me up these days far more than any childhood regret.
I dreamt I went back to the hospital, but it wasn’t the way the hospital should’ve been at night. Everything was pitch black, and it was only the implacable motion that sometimes happens in dreams that even made me able to navigate. What’s more, I didn’t enter via the main entrance, but instead via a little known fire exit that somehow had been left open. Ordinarily, I would’ve been entirely disoriented, stumbling up a flight of stairs in the dark with no idea where they came out, but in the dream, I knew exactly where I was going and didn’t miss a step.
My destination, as you’ve probably guessed, was the cell belonging to the Thing that called itself “Joe.” But the path there didn’t feel anything like normal. Perhaps it was the fact that in the dream I was barefoot, but the floor underneath me felt overly slippery. Almost wet, like the janitor had just been over it with a mop. But this wasn’t the most obviously dreamlike feature of the experience. That happened when I got to the cell itself, only to hear the latch click and see the door open by itself from the inside..
I didn’t have time to react to this dreadful sight, though, because no sooner was the latch drawn back than the door burst outward and I found myself swept up in a rush of stagnant, filthy water that smelled incongruously of moss and soil. It poured out of the cell, almost as if I’d opened the door to a sealed aquarium, and swept down the hall in a torrent, the sound of moist, rotting laughter echoing with deafening volume along with it. There might have been more to the dream, but the rush of cold, wet sensation against my skin felt so real that it jolted me awake, and I felt my fiancé frantically shaking me. Apparently I’d woken her up when I started mumbling in a deep, watery voice which scared her enough that she had to rouse me. What’s more, I must have sweated through my nightclothes, because they felt like dripping rags when I woke up. At least, I tell myself I sweated through them, because the alternative is just too unnerving.
Anyway. Needless to say, when I went back to the hospital the next day and saw the electrician’s van, as well as several police cruisers, I suspected something was up. It didn’t take long for one of the orderlies to tell me the story. Apparently there’d been a power outage the night before, and in the process someone had broken into the hospital and allowed one of the patients to escape. I didn’t need to ask which one, though I put on as much of a show of surprise as possible when Dr. G----- sent me a memo instructing me that I wouldn’t need to care for Joe anymore. His escape the night before had insured that. The police questioned me as a suspect in his escape, of course, but with my fiancé willing to vouch for my whereabouts the previous night, I was soon let off. The hospital staff, particularly the two orderlies who’d followed me, were slower to believe my innocence, but eventually, even they came round.
I tried several times to see Dr. G----- after that, and tell her what I’d found out, but somehow, whenever I showed up, she was either out, or had a meeting, or for some reason or another, couldn’t see me. I don’t blame her. She probably wanted to put the whole thing behind her. I suspect this desire got even stronger when news came that Dr. A------ had died of a heart failure shortly after a home invasion. I, of course, have my suspicions about who the invader was, but I can’t prove it. I do know, though, that if Dr. A------‘s worst fear was not being able to keep Joe contained, then seeing him break into his house would’ve certainly fulfilled the Thing’s ghastly purpose.
Still, for the longest time, one thing didn’t make sense. Why had the thing escaped then? It had been living comfortably in the hospital for decades, and had neutralized the apparent threat I posed. Why decide to risk its luck outside?
I’ll never know the answer for sure, but I have a theory, and it fills me with guilt when I think of it. You see, I keep replaying that last conversation that I had with the Thing, and what I remember most is that its reason for staying was that it “didn’t know how to be prey,” ie human, and that it turned down my “fluffy bunny rabbit” taunt because I “didn’t believe it.” What’s more, all its means of inflicting psychological torture, while they relied on knowledge a human couldn’t have, were still methods that a human could use. Which leads me to conclude that as long as everyone on staff treated the Thing as if it were human, it had to go along with their perception.
So in his own, terribly sad way, poor little Joe had imprisoned it by making it pretend to be human. True, one patient had called it a “fucking monster,” but it must have sensed that he meant a metaphorical monster, not a literal one. He didn’t believe it was inhuman, so it couldn’t change. And as long as no one else called its bluff, it was trapped in that form.
But then, I had to come along and tell it that not only did I believe it wasn’t human, but I knew it wasn’t. Which meant that I must have freed it to assume the most effective shape it could, whether it was a monster, a person, or the wave of stagnant river water that I felt in my dream. It was free to assume the actual form of what had killed Marty, rather than simply aping its voice, and with its ability to shapeshift restored, it had no need to rely on our hospital as a sanctuary where people were trained not to believe in monsters.
Or at least, that’s my theory.
But though that thought kept me up at night, outwardly, I tried to give the appearance of having moved on. I think I might have even convinced the rest of the staff that I’d managed it, too. The last few months of my residency passed without incident. I came up with successful treatment plans for a number of other patients, some of which earned me plaudits from my supervisor, and even acquired something of a minor celebrity due to being the one doctor who hadn’t gone insane or resigned after treating “Joe.” If I’d been more willing to talk about what had happened, I probably could’ve kept this mythical status going, but as it was, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want them to think I was insane, and besides, I had other things to worry about.
Needless to say, I was told there’d be a job for me if I stayed through my residency, but for equally obvious reasons, I declined to take the offer. In fact, when I got an excuse to resign my residency early, I jumped at the chance. You see, my fiancé had been letting the stress of her last semester in college get to her in a very serious way, and after a while, it became clear that I should probably take some time off to make sure she made it through okay.
The precipitating event was probably when, after one particularly hard day, she failed to come home entirely. This prompted me to call her friends and ask, in a near panic, where her favorite hangouts were, just in case she’d gotten too drunk and hadn’t actually gone missing. After a frantic drive from bar to bar in the neighboring town, I found her at last, slumped against the wall of an alleyway and puking, her luxurious blonde hair askew and her dress stained. She was so drunk that she didn’t seem to notice when I called her name the first few times, but after I got close enough, she seemed to recognize me, though with quite a bit of bleariness. The next day I put in my two weeks, squared away my references, and started looking for work someplace more suited to my skills.
In the years since, I’ve worked with any number of brilliant psychiatrists in many, many nicer hospitals, but increasingly, I found that my heart wasn’t in that kind of work. I couldn’t get the words of that Thing about how I lived off the misery of other people off my mind. It nearly drove me to quit medicine, hence the title of this story.
But I haven’t quit. Instead, I’ve decided to use the knowledge I gained from that one patient in the best way I can think of. I’ve opened a private practice where I specialize in treating children with paranoid delusions, or other fear disorders. Some of these have been fairly standard cases, while others have involved shared delusions, like the boy whose parents thought he was being haunted by his aborted sister’s ghost.
But every now and then, I get a child who tells me about a monster that won’t let them sleep. Sometimes it comes from the wall. Sometimes it comes from the closet. Sometimes it comes from under the bed. But wherever it comes from, it’s always the thing they’re most afraid of. Except now there’s another detail, which makes even me have trouble sleeping: sometimes, the monsters goad their victims, saying they’re just children who’ve gotten turned into monsters, and asking the children they torment to “free” them by telling them they’re people, too. Worse, sometimes I’m not sure if those children are really even asking for my help, or if they’re just more of whatever ‘Joe’ was gloatingly showing off their handiwork to the one person who would know how to stop them. Sometimes I think they’re laughing in my face behind those ostensibly innocent, terrified children’s eyes.
But whatever the reason these children tell me these stories about what terrorizes them at night, and whether all of them even still are children or not, the fact is that some of them are. And those children are the people I’m in medicine for. Because unlike other doctors, I know what the stakes of those cases are. Maybe I’m paranoid, too, but I remember the words of the Thing that called itself Joe. I remember how it exulted that “nothing like me has ever got the chance to be prey,” and I shudder at the connotations of those first three words, because I know what they mean: Whatever “Joe” was, he wasn’t the only one. There might be an entire species of those things living alongside us, and only now waking up to the fact that they can live among us.
Well, I’ll be damned if I let another one take over a child’s life. And I guess my suspicions are usually right, because the kids I treat who do suffer from those sorts of nocturnal visitations rarely need a second session after I’m done with them.
Until now, only my wife knew this story. And like I said, she believes me. If you don’t, that’s fine. I’m not sure if I believe it, myself, or if this is just an episode of some larger psychosis that one day will drive me as insane as my patients. But if you’re parents, or psychiatrists yourselves, and you have patients or children who are telling you stories like the real Joe’s, then this is the warning I am obligated by medicine, and by my common humanity, to give you:
Whatever you do, don’t tell your child that the monsters they see are only their imagination. Because, if even a little bit of this story is true, you might be signing their death warrant, and many others’, too. And the worst part is, you might not even know for sure, because now that they know how humans act, they can use their mind-reading abilities not just to scare you, but to ape the behavior and memories of whoever you think they are. Who knows, that might make the moment when they finally do drive you mad taste that much sweeter to the foul things.
Thanks for listening. That’s all I personally have to say, but there’s just one more thing. Because I don’t like thinking about this too much if I can help it, I’ve been leaving it up to my wife to post this and filter through the comments to find ones worth responding to. So I figure I’ll give her the last word, since it’s thanks to her diligence that I’ve been able to find such a willing audience, which has given me the smallest jot of hope that my efforts to stop the Thing that called itself Joe might not have been in vain.
Thank you all. I’ll leave it to her now.
All my best, Parker
Hi! It’s a pleasure to be able to speak to all of you openly, rather than simply operating behind the scenes, for once. I can’t tell you how happy I am with the reception you all have given Parker’s story. He seems a new man, knowing someone out there believes him.
Truth is, the idea to post this began when Parker told me the story in the first place. Because while that experience seemed to help him, I think he wanted to reach more than just me. I think he wanted to warn people, but didn’t know how, or if anyone would believe him. I wanted to help, but I also didn’t want him to get locked up for telling the wrong people, so I did some searching, and found this forum. From there, I just copied and pasted the installments as he wrote them and screened the comments after the ywere posted. I must be doing well, because he’s been thrilled to know there’s someone out there who believes him. In fact, knowing open minded people like you are out there now also gives me quite a bit of hope.
Either way, thank you for listening to this story. I know I’ve kept you all waiting a long time to get the full story, but Parker did write slowly, and we decided we had to ration it in small doses. Neither he nor I thought you’d have believed it as easily if we’d dropped the whole thing on you and asked you to accept it outright. Well, that, and I did enjoy seeing your reactions a bit. If I ever showed Parker the threads on this story in full, he could probably write a book about fear with all the theories you people have thrown out about what he was dealing with. Those theories speak volumes about what all of you are afraid of, and that’s awfully personal. So, I suppose it’s only fair I share a few personal details with you.
First off, this really was painful for Parker to even think about, let alone write, and I should know. I lived through both the events of the story, and the process of recording them, with him. I expect he’ll have bad thoughts about these experiences for the rest of his life, and I’ve certainly made my peace with being by his side for them. However, I think that whatever his failures might have been, this story confirms one thing: Parker is a good man, who takes great care of those he loves. He’s certainly always been good to me, and my family loves him. And for reasons I’ll get into shortly, I wanted to remind him of that side of himself now particularly strongly.
But first, let’s deal with a question a lot of you are probably wondering: Do I think he’s insane?
No, I don’t. But even if he was, I wouldn’t care, and I wouldn’t let anyone lock him up. Parker is the best thing that ever happened to me. I feel freer with him than I ever have before. I was at my low point the night he found me down that alley, but I feel happy with the person I am now, and the longer I stay with him, the more set in stone that person feels. Plus, we really are quite alike, and while I know all couples probably say that and you haven’t got much evidence for it, I promise you that it’s true. And anyway, we’ve been through so much together, and I just want to make sure he understands what a wonderful thing it was that he came into my life.
What’s more, I really couldn’t afford to lose him now. Which brings me back to why I had him write this down at this precise moment. You see, I’m pregnant, and while I haven’t told him yet, I want to make sure he remembers what a good, protective man he’s been to other peoples’ children, before I tell him he’s going to have his own. Particularly since my mother’s intuition tells me that our child is probably going to look more like him than me. Though even if I’m right, I’m sure he, at least, will be perceptive enough to recognize whatever resemblance the baby has to me, too.
I suppose you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this. Well, I may be sentimental, but after I’ve spent so long relaying my husband’s most painful experience to you, I sort of feel like all of you are family. And so, you deserve to know who’s really been posting all of this, and relaying Parker’s replies to your comments. It really is a pleasure to talk to all of you in my own voice.
Oh, that reminds me: even though Parker’s referred to me many times in this, he never mentioned my name. I should probably find that insulting, but honestly, given what he had on his mind, I can forgive him. But there’s no reason you shouldn’t know my name. And unlike Parker, I won’t bother disguising it behind a pseudonym.
So hello, I’m Jocelyn. Or at least, that’s my full first name, and it’s also what Parker always calls me. I don’t mind, but all the same, it’s always felt a bit formal. But you readers have been so lovely, and he’s told you so much about me, that I don’t feel we need to be formal with each other.
So please, call me Jo.
:)
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