Doctor Howard Phillips conducts brutal experiments on a serial killer to uncover the origin of human immorality.
Story by Joe Morin
Narrated by Joe Morin
Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin
Edited by Joe Morin
Head to Head Created by Justin Church and Joe Morin.
THE PROMPT
A guy is afraid of his own shadow... for a good reason.
THE STORY
Please be warned: this story contains scenes of torture, gore, and assault.
SANITARIUM SHADOWS - By Joe Morin
Mr Morrison writhed as the midday sun exorcised his shadow to the walkway. The Policemen at Morrison’s sides held him steady– hands cuffed behind his back– while they led him to an immaculately dressed, moustachioed gentleman, in a physician’s coat. Doctor Phillips examined this new patient upon his approach: he was tall, muscular, carried himself with poise, and stared unwaveringly into Phillips’ eyes.
These magnificent emerald irises, with predatory focus, were all Phillips could see of Morrison– whose pin-striped uniform abnormally included a mask and gloves. Phillips met and matched Morrison’s gaze. The moment lingered until Morrison walked into the sanitarium’s shadow, wherein his writhing stopped abruptly. Phillips shuddered to witness Morrison’s demon return to its host. And the Doctor, in that moment, watched those emerald eyes alight.
A stern feminine voice addressed Phillips: “I should hope your hospital is in less a shambles than your front entrance. My son was promised to receive the best of care.”
Phillips suppressed a prideful outburst towards this slander, and forced a smile at this elegant yet sour-faced woman: “I can assure you, Mrs Morrison, that Cranston Sanitarium is the best institution of its kind in the state.”
Her eyes pierced through Phillips with the same hue and intensity as her son’s. “What will it take to ensure William is well-seen to?”
“He’ll be as well cared for as any of my other patients.”
Mrs Morrison somehow frowned more deeply, “Except he is not just any of your other patients, is he? He is a Morrison. What is more: this wrongful conviction will soon be over-turned. But in the mean-time–” Mrs M. brazenly pulled a pocket-book from her hand-bag. The stoney-faced police officers pretended not to notice. “How much of a donation to the institute can buy William adequate accommodations?”
Phillips bit his lip: “That will not be necessary.”
“Your false humility does you no credit, Doctor. I know how these things work.”
“All due respect, ma’am, they don’t work that way here.” The quizzical raising of this woman’s eyebrows, coupled with a grimace, sent a shiver down Phillips’ spine. These old money families could make trouble where they wished, and the Doctor feared to be on said trouble’s receiving end. “But know that Mr Morrison will be comfortable, and will receive my personal care and attention.”
The irate woman shoved her pocket-book back into her bag. Phillips turned to his massive orderly, who patiently awaited orders: “John, take Mr Morrison into my office and brew us some tea.” The orderly silently took Morrison’s arm from the police and led him inside the building.
“I will visit soon, William!” cried Mrs M.
The patient, for the first time, broke his gaze from Phillips and turned to his mother. He addressed her in a strong and articulate tone: “I shall earn my freedom before that is necessary.” He soon disappeared through the sanitarium’s threshold.
Phillips re-addressed the patient’s mother: “My recommendation, ma’am, is to allow William time to settle before you next see him. Your presence too soon may bring him false hope, and prolong his adjustment period.”
“I do not recall asking for your recommendation. You may practice medicine, but you are first and foremost a jailer who is holding my son against his will.”
“By the tight case of a District Attorney and the indictment of an unbiased jury.”
“The reputations of these sanitariums precede them. Should William be harmed here, I shall find you personally responsible. Are we clear?”
Phillips’ fake smile dropped. “If you’ll excuse me: I have a patient to whom I must attend. Good day Mrs. Morrison.” Phillips didn’t give her the chance to respond before he turned about-face to enter the building in which he answered to no-one.
Phillips found John and Mr Morrison in his dim, lamp-lit office. “Remove that face covering, and unlock those hand-cuffs.” John did as was ordered. Phillips examined Morrison’s face: he looked to be in his late 30s– the same as Phillips. The patient’s features were remarkably handsome, tempered by an unmaintained beard– surely grown in jail. And he smirked wryly while he rubbed his red wrists.
“Please, take a seat,” Phillips beckoned towards a chair at the opposite end of his desk. Morrison stood till Phillips himself sat. John set the tea between them, then slinked to the corner nearby a curtain. Phillips partook in the beverage; Morrison followed with hesitance. “I’m afraid that business outside was a rude and improper introduction to me. My name is Doctor Howard Phillips: Administrator for this institute, and your caretaker from here on.”
“Charmed.”
“You are aware why you’ve been brought here?”
“Because my mother finds this sanitarium less scandalous than prison– and had the wherewithal to get me here.”
“It’s because you killed five men.”
“Though I was only convicted for one, wasn’t I? A street rat. Why anyone should care to see a man like that go–”
“You admit to it?”
“Only to some empathy for the perpetrator.” His smile widened as he leaned inward. “Do I strike you as a dangerous man?”
Phillips stayed composed: “Your valor during The Great War suggests as much… though, at present, your mother seems more formidable than you do.”
“The freedom to speak is one of the few which I still possess. Fighting you over comfortable quarters is her battle, not mine.”
“Still: I’m afraid Cranston Sanitarium’s offerings aren’t so luxurious as those to which you’re accustomed.”
“Did you fight in the war, Doctor?”
Phillips stopped mid-sip, and uttered a defeated “No.”
“When you’ve lived through hell, even this old lunatic-asylum should seem like heaven.”
“Glad to hear it, Mr Morrison.” Phillips paused. “Tell me about your pathology with sunlight.”
“Little to tell there: My skin must be covered in direct sunlight, lest I receive violent convulsions. I’ve learned to live with it.”
“I have my theories on its cause.”
“I’ve met many medical professionals, of more renown than you. All had theories, none offered practical cures.”
“I have no cure to offer. But, perhaps, you may help me discover one through careful study– not merely to your ailment, but to… humanity’s worst impulses!”
The first hints of frustration crept through Morrison’s exterior, “I am no lab rat.” He took a short breath. “But go on.”
“I theorize that depraved thinking is rooted in the shadow– the dark reflections of every person– and that these shadows are demonic figures, housed inside their respective host’s bodies. But the demons have a weakness: light-wave-particles, which pass on and through these parasite’s hosts to force them out. Hence why we humans are most evil in the absence of light: it’s when we and our shadows are one.”
“It is well you already spend your days in an asylum, Doctor. But what has this to do with me?”
Phillips stood and turned to face the curtained window behind his desk “I will study your shadow; then I will learn how to destroy it.”
“Preposterous.”
“I’ll grant you this, Mr. Morrison: You're more gentlemanly than I anticipated. You play sane convincingly well. But Iet’s see if you’re so smug when detached from your demon. John, now!” Phillips and John speedily flung open the curtains and panes of their respective windows, to let sunlight’s full exposure bathe the room. Morrison’s pupils dilated as the wave-particles hit them. He abruptly flung back his chair to the ground, carried the momentum into a shoulder-roll which brought him to his feet, and rushed for the door. But John’s hulking form already blocked the entrance. Morrison cried in pain, scratched at his face, then dropped to his knees and wretched. His shadow loomed ahead.
Phillips handed Morrison his mask as he declared: “You’re the missing link which will validate my research. You– who is so symbiotic with his shadow that sunlight hurts the demon AND the host.”
Morrison panted in relief as he slipped on his mask “What do you propose to do with me?”
“Your sensitivity is so pronounced that extensive exposure to light may be counter-productive to my aims. So let us have an easy first day. Come, I’ll give you the tour.” Phillips helped a weary Morrison to his feet before exiting the room. Morrison followed whilst John trailed the newly nervous patient.
Cranston Sanitarium was a dour place– with narrow corridors, and dim lighting. Few souls roamed the eerily quiet institute.
Morrison inquired, “Where are your prisoners and guards?”
Phillips maintained his pace, and half-turned his head backwards to address the question, “I insist that our well-behaved patients, alongside their doctors and orderlies, spend pleasant days outdoors.”
“For the… ‘therapeutic’ benefits, you mean.”
“Precisely.”
“And would you torture me thus?”
Phillips thought for a moment: “Not until I’ve learned more of your condition.”
Morrison chose not to respond. They soon arrived in the kitchen: where a stocky man, and his lanky aide prepared a stew from the bare-bones ingredients which they had about. Morrison grimaced. Phillips declared, “Here at Cranston, we subscribe to the belief that good honest work makes for good honest people. This will be your station.”
Morrison seethed through gritted teeth “I am meant to cook food… like a servant?”
“No,” Phillips smirked. He led Morrison to a small closet filled with potatoes, a stool and bucket on the ground, and a single flickering light-bulb on the ceiling. Morrison glanced to the closet’s door, with a bolt latch affixed to it. Phillips relished the sobering features of realization which contorted Morrison’s face. The doctor grabbed a peeling tool from the counter-top and passed it to the crestfallen savage killer. “Take up your position. I will reconvene with you later, for our first proper therapy session.” He beckoned towards the closet.
The dull kitchen lighting exposed the men’s faint shadows to the ground. Phillips’ eyes darted between the floor and Morrison’s harshly-lit face. The patient’s striking green eyes stared at the potato peeler. This moment held, with even the cooks pausing for curiosity.
Finally Morrison smiled, “If this is some ploy to bait my rage, Doctor, it shall not work.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“These insulting aspersions of menial labor, the sparsely populated halls, and all this dim lighting– so counter-intuitive to your own theories. You’re looking to cause a scene which you can somehow exploit. And I will not fall into your trap.”
“I mean you no offense, Mr Morrison. I was merely showing you–”
“You cannot even look me in the eyes.” Morrison shook his head. “I will perform your pedestrian job. Though you may wish to partake in some ‘good honest work’ yourself.” Morrison marched into the closet, which prompted John to shut and bolt the door behind. Phillips cleared his throat and loosened his tie.
Later, John led Morrison through the Sanitarium– but along an unfamiliar path: down a flight of concrete stairs, and through a hallway of iron-barred cells. Haggard men raucously greeted them with shouts, curses, and projected bodily fluids.
“The Doctor wishes to conduct my ‘therapy session’ in a dungeon?” Morrison asked of John as he glanced about, outwardly unphased. The gigantic orderly said nothing as he showed Morrison into a spacious room.
Doctor Phillips stood by a tray of various medical implements, and a reclined chair replete with leather straps. “You performed well with those potatoes, Mr Morrison. Dinner was lovely.”
“What is this?”
Phillips ignored his patient, “John? Show our guest to his seat, will you?” So John pushed Morrison ahead. The killer’s muscles tightened and resisted.
“Do not speak around me, Doctor. I demand to know what you’re doing!”
“You’re in no position to demand. Now sit!”
Morrison was visibly perturbed by this authoritativeness. He debated his chances of escape– perhaps of stealing one of those medical tools. But, before he could make a move, John clamped his meaty hands over Morrison’s shoulders and shoved him into the seat. Morrison launched towards one of the sharp tools, but John clamped onto his forearms and mounted the body so that Morrison could not flail his legs. Phillips approached from behind and injected some solution into Morrison’s neck. The patient’s face slumped, and his extremities grew pliable enough to strap onto the chair. His fearful green eyes looked to Phillips as the doctor administered anesthetic to steal his consciousness.
With John’s assistance– the Doctor sterilized his equipment, removed Morrison’s under-garments, repositioned the limp body to an appropriate position, and surgically incised the convict’s scrotums to reveal small tubes for severance and cauterization.
Morrison awoke in a small room, on a straw mattress. His eyes adjusted to find Phillips in a chair at his bedside.
“Good. You’re awake. Now we might have that therapy session.”
Morrison slurred his speech through the groginess “Whadidyoudodome?”
“A simple surgery.”
“My… groin… is… cold?”
“Yes. Ice for the soreness. I’m afraid that’ll persist for a few days.”
“You… You…” Morrison found the strength to lunge at the Doctor. But his reach was impeded by the hand-cuffs between his wrists and his metal bed-frame.
“Tsk tsk,” admonished the Doctor with a condescending wave of his finger. “Don’t blame me. You’re the one who killed five people.”
“Allegedly,” said Morrison as he slunk back into bed, defeated.
“You effectively called me a liar this afternoon. Aren’t you being hypocritical?”
Morrison shut his eyes “I haven’t lied to you yet, Doctor.”
“No, I suppose you haven’t… But tell me, hypothetically: why would a respectable gentleman, such as yourself, kill homeless men? Earlier you expressed a distinct lack of empathy: street rats, you called them.”
“They contribute nothing to our society. Just take.”
“Would many not say the same about the idle rich?”
“The rich aren’t idle: my family invests in its community, provides jobs. We’re pillars of respectable society.”
“Except there are too few jobs to go around since The Great Crash, is that not so?”
“That’s not our fault.”
“Even families with wealth such as yours were affected, yes? You had to downsize operations, scale back those community investments… to maintain your lifestyles?”
“We still provide!”
“And more homeless and jobless people roam the streets in spite of it. Do you truly believe it is ALL their fault, Mr Morrison?”
“... They drain our resources.”
“Let’s say I subscribed to your line of reasoning– that I concurred these killings were in society’s best interest. What am I supposed to make of a killer who takes such delight in slaughter–- who relishes his work, and makes his victims suffer dearly in retribution?”
“Sounds to me as if you have him figured out already,” Morrison answered with a hard glare. “Now tell me: why have you removed my manhood?”
“You will find your life much the same as it was before… though you, and by extension your shadow, will never propagate.”
“I thought you meant to ‘cure’ me.”
“I do. But I needed certain assurances...”
“In case you fail?”
“I will not! But I can’t make headway until you show me your demon, Mr Morrison!”
The patient considered these words, then replied: “What demon you expect to see is not meant for you, Doctor.”
“It is there then, just beneath the surface. It’s your conscious pathology which keeps it contained, targeted. Once we crack that, we might begin to make some progress.”
“You are not my enemy, despite what you’ve done to me today: though you are an idealistic, delusional fool.”
Phillips looked down and frowned, evidently hurt by the assertion. He then stood and exited the room. “Till tomorrow, Mr Morrison.”
The killer turned his nose to the ceiling and held his tongue, as Phillips sneered and flicked off the light.
William Morrison’s second day at Cranston Sanitarium began with John hauling him out of bed, and slapping hand-cuffs to his wrists (he lost his free-handed privileges on account of trying to grab the medical equipment before his “surgery”-- but was allowed to have them removed for work). John led Morrison to the closet, wherein the gentleman peeled carrots all morning. After lunch, the orderly replaced Morrison’s bracelets and led him outside to enjoy a lovely over-cast day. No other prisoners were in the yard; there were few guards. A barbed wire fence, separating the sanitarium yard from a wooded landscape, was all which stood in Morrison’s way of freedom.
Phillips exited the building, as Morrison examined his surroundings. “Good afternoon. How is the ailment?”
Morrison looked off to the woods as he addressed his Doctor: “Your butchery pains me. But I experienced worse in the war.” He then made eye-contact with Phillips, “I am beginning to think you favour me. You monopolize my social time.”
“Is there anyone else with whom you’d care to speak?”
Morrison thought for a moment, “... No. I am sure that you are the only half-interesting person in this place.”
Phillips’ breath fell short before he replied, “There’s also John, though he’s not much of a conversationalist.” John rolled his eyes. “Let’s walk. You require some exercise after being cooped in that closet.” The Doctor and Patient roamed the grounds, nearby the fence, with John and the guards waiting across the yard at Phillips’ bequest. Phillips opened his mouth multiple times, as if he wished to speak, but did not. Morrison appeared lost in thought. Then Phillips looked away for one moment, heard a sharp CRACK and a groan from Morrison– then turned to find Morrison devoid of hand-cuffs, with a broken thumb, and making way for the fence.
Phillips appeared shocked, but not more than Morrison– who suffered the paralyzing current of an electric shock the moment he grabbed the fence. Phillips ripped the absconding prisoner off the fence, and they fell to the ground together.
Phillips remarked: “New technology– used to herd livestock. I decided that it would work as well on prisoners.” Morrison’s jaw stood agape as he took in his near-death experience. John helped Phillips to his feet, and almost ripped Morrison’s arm from its socket to do the same. “This behaviour simply will not do! After I treat your thumbs, I’m confining you indoors indefinitely and revoking all privileges for the foreseeable future.”
Morrison stood dumbfounded, in front of Phillips, John, and the guards. He took a sharp breath and declared at Phillips, in almost a murmur: “You planned this. With witnesses and all to make your story believable.”
Doctor Phillips feigned confusion as guards dragged Morrison to the infirmary.
Morrison was returned to the dungeon without incident, as it appeared he lacked the will to fight further today. Phillips would attempt to remedy that. John strapped Morrison back to the reclined chair. And Phillips wheeled over his cart– the tray of surgical equipment replaced by a large, dial-laden box.
“What will you do to me now?” Morrison frightfully inquired.
“Something akin to what you brought upon yourself this morning.” Phillips smiled, in jest, but received a blank reaction. He continued as he grabbed a headset, wired to the box, and fastened it to Morrison’s temples: “An experimental new procedure from Italy. The goal is to fire your neurons, such that the box in which your demon lives will be forcibly unlocked.”
Morrison’s handsome green eyes pleaded for mercy.
“Full disclosure: I’ve only heard of its effects in theory… but I have faith it will produce worthwhile results.”
Morrison sucked in a sharp breath, and resolutely stared at the ceiling. “On with your torture then,”
“Treatment,” corrected Phillips as he placed a wooden bite-block into Morrison’s mouth, set the dials, and sent the current coursing into Morrison’s head. The patient’s muscles stiffened, his eyes widened, and his whole body convulsed. Phillips counted the seconds on his pocket watch, till he saw fit to flick off the machine. During this procedure, John wheeled over what appeared to be a spotlight, and pointed it directly at Morrison. He passed Phillips a welding helmet, then donned one himself.
“How do you feel, Mr Morrison?” asked Phillips while he pried and pinned open the patient’s eyes.
Morrison spit out the bite-block, and declared through gritted teeth: “I… am… going… to kill you.”
“Exactly what I hoped you’d say. John?” Phillips closed his visor as John activated the carbon arc lamp. A beacon of light and sparks erupted forth from the machine– coating each uncovered nook of this underground room, ahead of the lens, in manufactured daylight and heat. Morrison screamed as the wave-particles bounced off and through his skin. His pitch-black shadow hit the back of the chair. Phillips spoke up over the lamp’s buzzing and Morrison’s cries of pain: “The eyes are the window to the soul! Let in the light and be cleansed!”
Morrison’s exposed skin turned red and broke into blisters. And vomit fell to his shirt between his deadened shouts. John powered down the lamp while Phillips examined Morrison.
“Well his shadow is still present– as I expected. Although it may be weakened.”
When John unstrapped Morrison, the patient slipped through the orderly’s grasp to tackle his doctor. He landed two solid blows to Phillips’ face, then drew back his bloodied fist for a third, before John wretched him away. Phillips stood, smiled, and dabbed the liquid-red from his nose with a white handkerchief.
The Doctor mumbled to himself: “Note: the subject’s fury constitutes a desperate response on the shadow’s behalf. Treatment should be attempted thus for the week’s remainder.” He raised his voice to address his prisoner: “You’ll be receiving more scarce meals from here in– to reduce that vigor. Also: I’m pleased to finally make your true acquaintance, Mr Morrison.” Phillips left the room while John led his charge to its opposite end. There hung iron manacles and a chain collar bolted to the stone walls, which John soon fastened to Morrison’s wrists and neck.
“Doctor! I will kill you!” Morrison yelled, hoping that Phillips could still hear him. He could. And Phillips, despite his dominance, felt a pang of fear.
So the treatments continued once per day, with an added step: following one dose of light therapy through the eyes, Morrison’s head would be dunked into a barrel of water and held til he almost drowned– with the spotlight shining behind Morrison, to emanate his shadow into the barrel. Doctor Phillips recalled some Biblical line about demons thriving in “waterless places”, so he saw fit to incorporate an element of that ancient wisdom to his care.
And these treatments showed promising results! Morrison’s desire for violence lessened by the session, as did his curses– his shadow’s strength of will for depravity slowly eroding. Phillips knew, however, that these tests were inconclusive. The change in Morrison’s character might just as well derive from poor physical stamina as it did from a change in spirit.
But a control test proved impossible, once Morrison slipped into a coma from a layered list of traumas: there was the pneumonia which attacked his lungs from his water treatments and living conditions– in addition to his skin, so rash-spotted and inflamed that each movement was surely an agony. Some of his ECT sessions resulted in minor bone fractures from the convulsions. And there was the unfortunate case of his burgeoning cataracts from the light therapy. Yes, Morrison suffered– but he bore it with dignity, for the good of human-kind.
Life went on at Cranston Sanitarium, much as it did before Mr Morrison. Phillips attended to his swath of other patients, with his generally coddling approach. Most of those folks were a greater harm to themselves than to others. They would just fail to co-exist in society. Though there were other sadists, none were quite so good for company as Mr Morrison had been. Their conversations were mundanely grotesque, and their eyes lacked the same spark.
Meanwhile, Morrison’s body recovered in the infirmary– chained to a bed with a privacy curtain surrounding him. Phillips sat by his bedside daily. He yearned to rescue this Little Briar Rose. Though that was impossible, he occasionally held the prisoner’s hand, as if some warmth might jolt the killer from his slumber.
Morrison stayed in his coma for so long that his surface wounds largely healed, and Phillips finally allowed his mother permission to visit. She’d fought to be admitted for the length of Morrison’s incarceration– always barred by Phillips with some excuse or other. Yet, now that she was allowed entry, she was absent from the region: on some mission against Phillips’ institute, no doubt. Though she was set to arrive within a few days. And, as if in advance warning of her visit, came a mighty rain-storm which battered the Sanitarium with merciless fury.
Phillips was by Morrison’s bedside when the lights blinked out. Aides entered the room with flashlights, to give the administrator a report. He issued orders on his way out with them: “Our first order of business is to minimize the prisoners’ panic– return them to their cells if possible. Then we need to get our back-up power running. I authorize you to cut the electric fence’s draw. Our backup can’t maintain that alongside our more necessary functions.” Phillips thought he heard a CRACK from behind him, on his way out, but he dismissed it as he moved to contain the already spreading chaos.
Mr Morrison escaped from Cranston before the power returned. Phillips realized that his patient must have, at some point, awoken from his coma and begun to fake his condition. He awaited an opportunity, and fled in the night. But he couldn’t have gone far. Phillips informed the local police that a dangerous convict was on the loose– then retired to his office for the day, in conspicuous absence.
The Doctor could do little but wait and worry. Top of mind was the matter of Morrison’s mother– who was set to visit any time within the following days. And he dared not cancel the meeting. His other concern: the sky was overcast.
Phillips’ heart sank when, a day later, police returned a captured Morrison to the Sanitarium with a troubling report: multiple homeless men were killed, in the vicinity, since Morrison escaped. The MO didn’t match Morrison’s, but the murders were as vicious. So he was the chief suspect, though he could not officially be charged.
Morrison’s conniving smile grated upon the Doctor’s patience as John led him to Phillips’ office. Phillips took the bait: “Would you mind explaining that grin, Mr Morrison? You’re in quite serious trouble.”
“But perhaps not so much as you will be, Doctor.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“The police might return for follow-up questions; and my mother will arrive at any time, no doubt with questions of her own.”
“Spell out your threats for me.” Phillips tensed.
“Not a threat… yet. Just a suggestion that I ought to be treated like a human being– lest all these questioning parties happen to inquire about any new physical ailments since my return.”
“Your point is well-taken. And what will you tell them, if they ask about the… side-effects of your previous treatment?”
“Only that my Doctor had the best of intentions, and that my own poor constitution failed me.”
“In exchange?”
“For now: a decent meal, and a request that you answer some questions… honestly.”
“Done.” Phillips slumped in his chair.
“Firstly: how does a doctor, who vows to “do no harm”, reconcile their oath with their cruel and unusual torture of a patient?”
Phillips stared blankly, for a moment, before he addressed the question: “Because you are a monster, and because I can help others through your pain.”
“Hmm. You speak with conviction, yet you do not strike me as an altruist. What is your real gain by studying me?”
Phillips broke eye contact. He turned to John, “Leave us. But stay close.” John was confused, but followed his orders and exited the room. Phillips still avoided Morrison’s eyes as he declared: “I… might help myself.”
“I wondered if that was the case. You call me ‘monster’ to avoid looking in the mirror.”
The Doctor’s attention snapped back to his prisoner with barely concealed rage. “I know what I am, Mr Morrison! I know it well!”
“Then why deny yourself?”
“Depraved thoughts need not become depraved deeds! Unlike you, I can exercise my self-control.”
“To what end?”
“To live a respectable life.”
“But, Doctor, do you not already live your life AND quench your desires?”
Phillips’ features softened. “No.”
“No?” Morrison inquired with surprise.
“My conscience cannot allow me to enjoy myself, Mr. Morrison. And, if it did, I should end up in your position.”
“But we are so alike already: monsters who act badly for a greater good.”
Phillips abruptly stood– his chair falling to the ground behind him. “Do you finally admit that you are a killer?!”
Morrison stood to match his foe: “I admit that I wished to kill you Doctor, and barring that to ruin you. But that would be a waste– as, in you, I have a kindred spirit. You are the only person to whom I have shown my… shadow– and I would guess few have seen yours as I. We seem to understand one another. And, so long as you treat me well, I believe I would enjoy your captivity above that of others– if it must be so.
But you must understand your miscalculations: our shadows cannot be killed, because they are not some foreign demon which resides within us: they are you; they are I; they are us all!”
“You will not be content here. You will try to escape again; and you will kill. Your shadow will never be sated.”
“Neither will yours. That is the fun of it: a lifetime of mutual misery for us both. But we might still find contentment. What say you?”
“I say…” Phillips looked from Morrison to a trail of noonday sunlight beading through his blinds. “I say… let us be cleansed. Together. John!” The orderly returned to the office. Morrison’s confidence drained. “Take Mr Morrison outside.” And, with that, Morrison’s facade cracked.
“I gave you a chance, Phillips! I will ruin you!”
“You already have.”
Morrison grabbed a fountain pen off Phillips’ desk and jammed it into John’s neck. His spurting blood stained Morrison’s pin-striped uniform, and Phillips’ white coat. The giant man collapsed as Phillips grappled Morrison from behind. The patient was unable to shake his doctor. He stabbed Phillips in the leg, causing the Administrator to let go. Morrison brandished the fountain pen and slowly examined the scene: John was on the floor, hand cupped to his spraying neck; Phillips now guarded the path to the door. Morrison debated whether he could find an opening past Phillips, along one of the side walls, to make his escape. This moment of indecision allowed Phillips to make a running tackle at Morrison, and careen them both through a nearby window-pane.
They landed together in a bed of roses, one storey down, with Morrison taking the brunt of the fall. But Phillips landed abdomen first onto the outstretched fountain pen in Morrison’s hand. Adrenaline spurred The Doctor on, while the killer regained his bearings from a probable concussion.
Phillips tore into Morrison’s clothes– ripping them apart till the convict was naked– pale skin painted with Phillips’ blood. The doctor stripped his own garments before he dragged a half-conscious Morrison into direct sunlight and spread himself on the ground next to his patient– their eyes and bodies absorbing the natural light; their shadows converged.
Morrison’s body swelled with hives, as he gasped for breath, and writhed in pain. This was his fastest ever observed-physical-reaction. All they needed was the un-replicable power of the sun– to throw “controlled tests” aside and let the demon’s natural enemy do its job. This time the exorcism would work! Except that Morrison’s shallow breaths soon quieted. Then he lay still.
Phillips gazed upon those fierce green eyes one last time before he shut the lids. They’d seen the light, yet were forever stuck in darkness. Phillips at last realized his folly. But he still had time to find peace. So the doctor crawled himself back to his prison. And there, in the shade of Cranston Sanitarium, Phillips and I became one.
EPILOGUE
The Doctor survived his bout with Morrison, but underestimated his prisoner’s foresight. In those fugitive days of Morrison’s, he’d leveraged his few worldly friends to create a contingency plan for his potential death or disappearance (afterall, his conviction didn’t entirely erase his influence). First there was the written and signed testimony of his experiences at the Sanitarium– sent with haste to someone whom he trusted could keep it confidential, till the time was right to reveal its contents. Second: there was the domino effect which launched within hours of his death, and spread to the furthest reaches of influence by that day’s end.
The news, in fact, spread with such haste that Mrs. Morrison was permitted to arrive at Cranston on schedule– alongside a troop of State Police– wherein they uncovered the dungeon, and the torture devices, and logged staff testimonies: all of which corroborated Morrison’s own. The investigation into Phillips’ tenure as Administrator proved him beyond reproach, except where Morrison was concerned. But Phillips had further scandalized a powerful and merciless family– and Mrs. Morrison was a chief proponent of retribution for her son. She received her wish, as Doctor Howard Phillips was tried, convicted, and ultimately admitted to his own Sanitarium.
END
