Witch Water Part 9

Fanshawe waited, hunched over on the bench with his foot tapping. Minutes seemed to tick by; his paranoia made him think they were doing it on purpose. Eventually the line clicked, and Dr. Tilton's voice came on.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Fanshawe-I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I was tending to a chronic patient in need-a unipolar depressive suffering from delusions of morbidity and suicidal ideations-"

Fanshawe ground his teeth. Was she trying to make him feel guilty for bothering her. I don't care who you're tending to-I'm paying more. Before he could speak, she added, "I'm very much hoping that you've successfully removed yourself from the-"

"-from the purveying environment, yes, I have. I'm in some out of the way town in New Hamps.h.i.+re, a tourist spot, and-and..."

Her voice sounded dry. "Yes?"

Fanshawe's nervousness rose up in a sudden wave. "I...had a relapse, I- s.h.i.+t!"

"That's astonis.h.i.+ng, Mr. Fanshawe, and quite disappointing especially considering how well your out-patient therapy has gone thus far. Don't tell me you actually purchased a pair of binoculars..."

"No! I didn't, but then-my G.o.d-I found a pair, here. It was in this display-"

"Display? What are you talking about?"

Fanshawe could only release what seemed a string of ordered babble. "This town, it's...kind of odd. There's this Colonial theme or something, and a bunch of witchcraft stuff, you know, for tourists like in Salem."

Somehow the image of the woman's stern expression slipped through with her words. "Mr. Fanshawe. What does witchcraft have to do with your problem? Not only were you supposed to remove yourself from the purveying environment, you were supposed to banish any implements-such as binoculars-from your proximity."

A lump appeared in his throat. "I-I found them in this display full of old relics, and-and...I borrowed them..."

"You stole them?"

"I-I-" He winced and ran a hand through his hair. "I-yes, I guess I did, but, I swear, it wasn't conscious, I don't remember doing it. I felt like I was in some sort of trance, and next thing I knew it was in my pocket."

Tilton's voice sharpened. "It's called an appositive fugue-state, Mr. Fanshawe, which is a result of undue stress factors as well as other more nebulous things. This led you to drop your conscious guard. Seeking out the implements of purveyance is no better than willingly putting yourself into a purveying environment. We've discussed this."

He looked up, glimpsed some attractive women crossing the street, then grit his teeth. "I know, I know. I just...lost control. I couldn't help it."

"That's a loser's excuse. Addiction therapy only goes so far. There must come a time when the patient must harness his own free will if he truly wants to reclaim his life. You will return the binoculars immediately-"

"Actually, they're not binoculars-it's a looking-gla.s.s, like, er, a s.h.i.+p's gla.s.s, I guess you'd call it. One lens, like a miniature telescope. It's very old, and-"

"Don't circ.u.mvent the subject, Mr. Fanshawe; it won't lessen my extreme disappointment in any way. The exact nature of your object of purveyance means nothing. You will resist the impulse to solicit your paraphilic symptoms. You must make this effort, Mr. Fanshawe, and you must make it now."

"I will, I swear." He felt ludicrous, pathetic. "I just...needed someone to talk to. Christ, it's not like I can talk to just anyone about-about...this."

"I should think not. You've no one to blame but yourself for this mishap. It's all up to you. If you fail, there's only one suitable recourse left: chemical intervention."

Fanshawe gulped.

"You've already been caught once," the doctor reminded, "and I'm sure that was an experience you'd just as soon not repeat. You're like a gambling addict, Mr. Fanshawe. Some irregular synapses in your brain have habituated you to whatever thrill it is you get from looking into innocent women's windows..."

"You would put it that way."

"At this point, the only thing besides drugs that can potentially correct this synaptic anomaly is the positive reinforcement of learned behavior. You must relearn your mental health by making a concerted commitment via your free will. I'd think it would be rather easy for someone like you."

Suddenly he felt steaming in angst. "Someone like me? You mean a pervert, I guess, huh? A peeper?"

Tilton laughed, a rarity for her. "Goodness, no! Someone like you: a good man, an attractive man, not to mention a very successful man. Most patients with your problem have nothing going for them, but you? You have everything."

"Gee, I guess that's a compliment-"

"Not much of one, Mr. Fanshawe. The best way to relearn your normalcy is to do what normal people do. But if you're unwilling to pursue this avenue, I think it would be in the best interest of both of us for you to find another therapist."

"I'm filled to the brim with confidence, doctor."

"You need to be, otherwise, you'll probably wind up back in jail, and how much confidence can you expect to have there?" She paused, perhaps deliberately. "Is there anything else, Mr. Fanshawe?"

He cringed where he sat, struggling with a thought. "Well, yes, uh, a question. Do people with my problem-"

"Chronic paraphilia? Scoptolagnia?"

He frowned. "Yeah. Do they ever have...you know, hallucinations?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

Suddenly, no force on earth could make him tell her what he thought he'd seen last night. He was afraid of her reaction. "Well...it's nothing. I just had a bad dream last night, that's all."

"I don't believe you, Mr. Fanshawe, but that's neither here nor there. When you're ready to tell me whatever else it is that's bothering you, then call my office." Another pause. "Mr. Fanshawe? Did you hear me?"

"Yes, I'll...I'll call."

"Goodbye, Mr. Fanshawe."

"Yes. Uh, bye."

Fanshawe put his cell phone away, his face pulled into a fierce smirk. "f.u.c.king behaviorist. Why do I continue to pay to be insulted by that woman?"

But moments later, as he began to stroll the quiet street, he did feel better. Around one corner, he spotted the Travelodge pool but winced and turned away.

He sputtered. Dr. Tilton had said he was a "good man." He didn't feel like a bad one but... Would a "good man" want to look in windows? Would a good man do what I did last night on the hill? Maybe I just think I'm a good man-a defense mechanism-but I'm really a bad man...

His hand drifted to his jacket pocket, and felt that the looking gla.s.s was still there. s.h.i.+t...

Good man or bad, he couldn't lie to himself. He wished he could flee to the hillocks right now and peep at all those tempting bodies at the pool; and stare, stare, stare into all those windows.

Hunk of s.h.i.+t. Just when he'd started feeling better, here came these waves of contemplations, to bring him right back down again...

And next?

He pa.s.sed the pillory.

He smiled falsely at a middle-aged couple, waited for them to move along, then bent to inspect the ancient punitory device. There was nothing there, on the wood or the pavement below, to indicate that the device had been sullied or occupied in any way. An elderly man walked by with a cane, perhaps one of the professors. "G.o.d, that thing makes me sick to my stomach. They say it's real, been here hundreds of years. G.o.d knows how many men and women were tortured in it."

Off guard, Fanshawe stood up straight. "Yes. I guess the good old days weren't that good."

"Disgusting to think the authorities back then put people in that blasted contraption. It's evil if you ask me."

Well, I didn't. Fanshawe was annoyed. "Yes," he faltered. "Things must've been pretty hard back then, and hard measures were the result," but he wished the old man would go away. Believe it or not, mister, I saw a woman get raped in this thing just a few hours ago, by men in Colonial clothes. He could imagine the elder's reaction.

The gentleman uttered a few more gripes, then ticked away on his cane.

An ACLU supporter, I guess. Fanshawe stared back at the pillory, and also recalled all he'd thought he'd seen through the looking-gla.s.s. It was all just a bad dream. It HAS to be...

"Eyin' the ole pillory, are ya, sir?" piped up Mrs. Anstruther's c.o.c.kney voice. She'd just turned the corner, on her way to her kiosk.

d.a.m.n. "Yes, ma'am. It's...something, all right."

"Somethin', indeed. Would ya fancy a picture?"

"Pardon me?"

"What I mean, sir, is I'd be pleased to take a photo of ya in it."

Fanshawe's brow ruffled. "What, the pillory?"

"Oh, yes, sir," and then she lifted the pillory's top slat. "Quite a few tourists 'ave their pictures took in it. Makes for good conversation, don't ya think, sir?"

Fanshawe figured she was angling for a tip-today, he wasn't in the mood. But it would almost be funny if he did have his picture taken in the archaic device. I could send it to Dr. Tilton. "I don't think so, Mrs. Anstruther, but thanks for the offer."

She looked at the pillory as if with fascinated interest. "Perfect punishment these b.u.g.g.e.rs was, sir, for folks who was tarnished, as you might say. Steal a gobbet'a meat from the butcher's? Well in ya go for a day at least. And ladies caught sellin' thereselfs"-now she whistled-"well, now, those poor things could get up to a week, and with just bread'n water, sir. And blokes got even more'n that for rabble-rousin' on a Sunday or cheatin' on their proper wife or sayin' untruths to the Sheriff. Late on your land rent? In ya go! Why, they'd put a fella in this here pillory for long as they saw fit, even for takin' a peek in a bird's window!"

The last bit of information fogged Fanshawe's mind.

"Anyways, sir, I must be off to me work, but I hope your day's a jolly one!" She made to leave, but her frail formed paused. She lowered her voice. "And if you're in want of exercise today, sir, you might be wise ta stay off'a them trails you've grown so fond of amblin' on. Don't know if ya've 'eard, but"-she leaned over-"there been some dirty-work, I'm afraid. Some poor man was murdered on them trails, he was, just yesterday, sir-a man who was stayin' in your hotel."

Karswell, Fanshawe thought. Not just my hotel, but my ROOM. He could have done without the reminder. "Yes, I did hear, ma'am," he said, avoiding the rest. "What a terrible tragedy."

"Oh, yes, sir, to be sure. So you're best to keep your distance"-a thought seemed to perk up her tone-"and if you got your steel up, sir, you know you can anyways have a go at the waxworks," and then she walked off with a smile.

There she goes again. She seemed to be daring him to investigate the wax museum. Why?

The deadpan stares of the Revolutionary mannequins seemed directed specifically at Fanshawe. A short line of tourists waited at the ticket booth. Maybe it's pretty good, he considered. It might get my mind off all this bulls.h.i.+t. He got in line, paid for his ticket, then cool darkness invited him to enter a faux-stone hallway with an arched ceiling.

Other patrons with their children appeared to be enthralled by the staged displays of old-time figures: smiling women in sack dresses working spinning-wheels and washboards; motionless toddlers playing with hand-crafted toys; an old crone bent over a hearth oven. One corpulent dummy in tri-cornered hat and b.u.t.toned vest displayed a starred badge over his heart. He held a roll of paper, and had a flintlock pistol on his hip. SHERIFF PATTEN read a plaque. The sculptor proved his or her skills by incorporating an all-too-realistic bad complexion on the officer, and a nose like a rotten strawberry. They probably didn't have Stridex back then, Fanshawe thought and moved to the next stage.

He found the exhibits to be very competent but far less interesting than the slow-moving lines of other patrons seemed to believe. Several varieties of soldiers, clerics, farmers, and wood-workers came next. But Fanshawe's stiff lack of interest suddenly left him feeling- Anxious?

Why should he feel like that?

Next, like a carnival horror-house, a short corridor festooned by rubber cobwebs drew him into what could only be- Ah, the torture chamber...

First, a sign said NO CHILDREN, PLEASE, and all at once-and for some reason he couldn't guess-Fanshawe's boredom was trans.m.u.ted into a dusky thrill. Abbie had said this particular exhibit had given her nightmares; now Fanshawe understood why. The rictus of a slatternly woman in an iron maiden couldn't have been more realistic, while the expression of the rustic man chained into a chair with a wood fire under the grilled seat made Fanshawe's innards clench. Several cloaked witches stood in a circle listening to a grim, hooded figure who read from parchment, a pentagram about his neck. Fanshawe felt a chill when he looked closer at the figure's face and saw that the artisan had blended into the features of a human face some characteristics of a skull. Did the eyes of the witches themselves glow with the faintest traces of scarlet light? Next, a woman in a bustle-dress cringed as inquisitors stretched her on a metal rack; her mouth locked open in a silent scream. A man shackled to a brick wall projected a look of perfect horror as he was approached by a stooped witch-finder bearing an iron rod with its end red-hot. A proverbial s.h.i.+rtless man with considerable muscles grinned as he held a great curve-bladed ax above a headsman's block; the victim with his neck on the block seemed to have tears in his eyes.

Fanshawe was unnerved by the grueling authenticity of the figures, but what actually stopped him in his tracks was the next presentation: a blond woman hung off a whipping post, her face in absolute turmoil. Her dress-top had been ripped open to reveal her bare back, while the torn material strategically hung to block the sight of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The voyeur in Fanshawe tempted him to reach over the velvet ropes that bordered the display, to see how detailed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s had been rendered, but, of course, he didn't. Even if he was alone in this section, there might be a security camera; he could picture himself on some World's Dumbest Criminals show.

Pervert, the thought hissed. When I'm not spying on women in windows, I'm spying of wax dummies. Get a life.

However, the blond victim's oppressor-a staunch-faced man wearing a b.u.t.toned vest and a cross round his neck-stood poised as he lay a cat of nine tails across her back, the lengths of the whip actually frozen in mid-air. Fanshawe blanched at the streaks of b.l.o.o.d.y scars lain into her flesh.

Good Lord, this is some realistic stuff.

Suddenly he was itching to move on even though the tour of the chamber seemed to be complete. The several patrons who milled about with him seemed visibly shocked by the displays, as if they'd seen enough, but they turned into the next fake-brick-walled corridor. They all stopped at the final exhibit.

There they are, just like Mrs. Anstruther promised...

Two figures that looked very much alive stood arrogantly in a cove made to represent an occultist's hideout. Ancient books lined several old shelves; a row of skulls adorned the top. An astrological chart hung on one wall, with another chart full of circles and symbols like Hebrew and others that must've been Latin. These characters immediately made him think of the strange pedestalled ball off the trails.

Then his gaze locked ahead.

A disturbingly realistic likeness of Jacob Wraxall seemed to contemplate Fanshawe and the others, with green eyes full of amused mockery. He wore black knee stockings, buckled shoes, and a ruffled tailcoat: an aristocrat of the late-1600s. The wax-worker had even hung a similar sickle-moon pendant around the warlock's neck, and in his hand he held an ancient book.

Fanshawe stared. The Van d.y.k.ed patriarch seemed alive enough to lean back and laugh.

"Oh, that's the guy who built the original inn," a man remarked to his wife. "How'd you like to pull back the shower curtain tonight and find him standing there?"

"Oh, stop it, Charlie!" his spouse replied, gripping his arm. "Let's get out of here. The woman is even ghastlier!"

The woman-yes. Evanore.

The likeness of Wraxall's daughter wore-instead of the fineries of the day-a dark hood and cloak, which would've been trite had it not been for the look on the dummy's face. It was a look of enchanted hatred and hideous knowledge. The more Fanshawe stared back at the replica the more significantly the drone refilled his head, like a faint, inanimate groan. Had his jaw dropped at the three-dimensional image? The waxen mannequin looked so real he thought sure that its flesh would yield if he touched it.

Another couple stepped up; they seemed intrigued. "They look so real!" exclaimed the wife, marveling at Wraxall's pompous replica, but it was the dummy of Evanore that hijacked her husband's attention. "Yeah, too real," he remarked. "They're people in costumes"-he shot out his hands without warning toward Evanore, to startle the person he presumed was masquerading as her, but the figure did not move or even blink. Aside, his wife frowned; she could see him glancing more than incidentally at the dummy's thrusting bosom. His brows rose, then he smiled and elbowed this wife, lowering his voice. "Hey, do you think they put nipples on her?"

"Come on!" the wife yelled and dragged him out.

Their exit left Fanshawe alone.

He could've been standing on the edge of a cliff as he evaluated the figures. Beneath each, information plaques were mounted, citing data similar to what he'd read on Witches Hill. He felt foolish when he focused his glance on Evanore's bosom, but the man's comment had piqued him. I guess he's a pervert, like me. But it did appear that the life-like dummy had been fas.h.i.+oned with nipples; he thought he could see them jutting against the crude cloak fabric.

Suddenly, Fanshawe's hand itched. He wanted to reach out, pull the cloak's V at the neck, and peek down...

For G.o.d's sake, I'm not really going to...

PLEASE DON'T TOUCH THE REPLICAS, the sign blared at him.

But no one was in the chamber with him, and he didn't hear anyone behind him. What the h.e.l.l am I thinking? No cameras could be detected, either. I must be going off the deep end...

Was he really going to touch the mannequin and examine its breast? Was he really going to molest a wax dummy?

But he'd already raised his hand, had already begun to reach out...

No!

He squeezed his eyes closed, ground his teeth, but just as he would propel his hand forward to touch the replica's breast, he forced himself to freeze. Disgusted, he struggled through the drone, was about to turn and leave but- Now it was his heart that froze.