The ARC Chronicles Collection

Chapter 1

The ABC logo flashed up on the television set, white letters on a blue circle. The logo glinted for a moment and disappeared.

“Welcome back to ABC news with Jeanette Gibson,” blared the strong male voiceover. The screen showed an elegant woman approaching her middle years with the confidence of a consummate professional, along with the knowledge she was fronting one of the biggest media outlets in the world.

It never failed to impress Eva Ross, who had wished for a career in media as a child, but through happenstance and a natural aptitude for the human mind, had studied hard to become a psychotherapist. She tried to work out the depths of the human psyche, specifically in those who lacked morals. Her career path had led far from her home of Sioux City, Iowa. She had studied at several universities, gaining accreditation that had eventually led her to the Worcester State Hospital in Massachusetts, a post she had held for two years now.

“In other news,” Jeanette Gibson announced with a look of mock severity on her face, “there has been a wave of amnesia attacks in Marblehead, a small town in Essex County, Massachusetts. The coastal community has been plagued by sailors who, dressed as eighteenth-century smugglers, seem unable to remember their names or how, in fact, they even arrived at the town.”

The screen cut to footage of a group of men with wide trousers, flared sleeves, all bearing the three-pointed Tricorn hats of the era in brown and black.

“Those affected are undergoing treatment in a local hospital, but lacking any credible proof, police suspect it to be either a local hoax, or as one officer put it: ‘Something in the water’”.

Eva let her mind wander, no longer paying any attention to the police officer the reporter was interviewing, trying to sound grave and sincere about such a light-hearted topic.

On her break between counselling sessions, she relaxed by watching the world outside, wishing she was there. It was late autumn, a hazy afternoon that showed yellow leaves clinging stubbornly, in an all too common attempt to deny the onset of winter, to the grove of American Linden that grew around the hospital. It was a lovely time of year, and for a moment, Eva could forget exactly where she was and why.

“And finally, the strange case of a convenience store clerk who was held hostage while the kidnappers ate everything in sight.”

Eva flicked the television off, and tied her shoulder-length brown hair back with one of several hair bands she habitually kept on her right wrist. Donning her red sweater, Eva set off for her office. Tradition held they should all wear the white coats so typical of their profession, but only her boss stuck to it, and despite his apparent officiousness, never insisted on anybody else doing the same. It reminded the convicted criminals with which they dealt too much of where they were.

On her way through the corridors of the rotting clock tower that was basically all that remained of the old hospital, Eva mulled over the questions she was going to ask her current patient. A clever man, highly intelligent and, in no small way, devious, Harold Fronhouse presented a challenge. Unlocking his mind was a gradual process. She was so preoccupied with her plan of attack she jumped when a hand touched her shoulder.

She turned to see the grinning young face of Jenny Slater, all blonde curly locks and movie star visage. “I’m sorry, Jenny, I didn’t hear you.”

“I shouted loud enough, four or five times,” the grad student replied in a husky voice that belied her relative youth. “I’m joining you today. I was told you are interviewing.”

“Oh, you are?” Eva gave her a sly look and began to walk on, amused by Jenny’s attempt to include herself. “What you mean is you were nosing over my schedule trying to see whether what I was doing today would help advance your studies.”

Jenny had the credit to look embarrassed, a slow flush creeping into her cheeks. “Well yes, there is that. But Doctor Homes has given me permission to sit in today.”

Eva stopped and turned, putting her hand on the wall, the whitewash chalky under her hand.

“He doesn’t have the right.”

“Well that’s what he told me. He said I had to find you and sit in on the Fronhouse interview. He said it would be a good case to study an extreme case of borderline personality disorder.”

“There is more to it than the Wikipedia definition of borderline personality disorder you know,” Eva warned. “We used to call them ‘psychopaths’ and this one is as bad as they come.”

They passed through secure doors to the interview rooms. Fading light bulbs gave the corridor a sinister feel.

“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Eva asked, placing her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. There was an eagerness in Jenny’s eyes that screamed innocence and a lack of caution.

“Yes. I started this, and now I need to be responsible for my decisions. Even if I don’t like what I am getting into.”

“You get immune to it after a while.”

“If you look at them as animals, I am sure you do.”

“Save the psychoanalysis for the patient, Jenny. You can tell me later just how you convinced Gideon to approve this.”

Outside the room, a guard waited. “Dr Ross,” he said by way of a perfunctory greeting, “our boy is acting up today. You sure you want her in there with you?”

Eva turned to observe Jenny, who still didn’t look right, and could feel the guard’s eyes on her. She dismissed the puerile male stirrings. “You are fine, aren’t you, Jenny?”

“Yes… yes. I am fine.”

The guard shrugged meaty shoulders as if he didn’t care either way. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He led them into a white room, bare of all furnishings except two seats and a small table. Sterile luminous light gave the room a pale eerie glow, but it was the other occupant of the room that drew the eye.

Harold Fronhouse was a short man, not far over five feet in height. He sat secured in a straightjacket, and strapped to a wheelchair. He wore no mask. As Eva and Jenny entered the room, he watched, unblinking. As Jenny sat down, he gazed at her with the eyes of a predator. “Nice.”

Eva glanced at Jenny, who watched Harold the way a small child watched a stranger, not taking her eyes off him. She was uncomfortable.

“Harold. How are you today?”

“Hungry,” came the reply, although Fronhouse still had not taken his eyes off Jenny. This was going bad quickly.

“Well I see from your records you don’t appear to have had much problem with your meals.”

Fronhouse eyed Jenny up and down once more, and then turned his head to Eva. “Unsatisfied.” His eyes widened slightly and he fidgeted.

“Nothing changes then,” agreed Eva, motioning Jenny to take notes, more to give her something to do than for the need. “Harold likes to play games,” Eva lectured. “One-word answers can go on for days if he feels like it. It’s a shame. He is such a conversationalist. But I know what you love to talk about, don’t I?” Eva spoke as she would to a pet.

In response, Fronhouse grinned, the vacuous smile of one not in possession of all their mental faculties. “The bomb.”

Eva leaned forward, a conspirator to his cause. “Yes the bomb. Why don’t you tell us the story of the bomb?”

Fronhouse trembled with excitement, and looked at Eva as if seeking to please a master. “I was young, not more than a child. We lived in a farmhouse in the hills. My parents used to have parties. The sorts of parties where you put your car keys in a jar and the wife left with whoever owned the keys she pulled out. They loved that sort of thing. It gave them excitement.

Over time, my mother pulled the same keys repeatedly. My father grew suspicious.” Fronhouse cackled to himself at some perceived vision.

“He took me with him once and showed me my mother and her lover through a window in the house. He was behind her. They were naked. She was moaning.” Fronhouse again watched Jenny as he said this, evidently gauging the impact of his words. Jenny had dropped her pad and pen in her lap, just staring.

Fronhouse, restless now, fidgeted more. “My father took me home and told me he was going to make my mother pay for this, and he wanted my help. We built a bomb, and fitted it under her car.” He turned his head to one side and growled: “Yes, I can feel it, too.”

“What can you feel, Harold?”

Fronhouse smiled, a cold, calculating mask. “When she shifted into fourth gear, the bomb blew, and the car was incinerated. There was nothing left. As for the man, my father cut his throat. We cooked him and I ate his face. GET THESE SHACKLES OFF ME. HE IS CLOSE!”

“Who? Harold, who is close?”

“I can’t tell you. The mere thought of it would send you into madness, a despair of such black depths you would end yourself in moments.” Fronhouse shook his head, and his eyes focussed once more. “I have shared myself, with you. Now you can share yourself with me. An eye for an eye, Dr Ross.”

Jenny was clearly shaken. The experience was nearly too much for her. “No, I don’t think so. That is enough for today.” Eva went to pick up her notes and leave the room.

“No. It is not.” Fronhouse’s voice was commanding. “Your brat wants to taste a little more, to see into my brain. Am I not right?”

Despite everything, Jenny answered. “That is correct. I want to know what makes you tick.”

“You want to know why I do the things I do. Pain. I am in pain.”

Eva put her hand to her forehead, rubbing her eyebrows. “Aren’t we all?”

“I will share my pain with you, little bird, when you tell me about how your father abused you as a child. I can see it in your eyes, read it in every fiber of your being. You are broken, and you seek redemption through understanding, knowing there was something that drove him to it, and not just his own small-minded cruelty.”

Eva had warned her, and despite everything, Fronhouse had her. Jenny had put her hand to her mouth, and wordless sounds came out. Pain beyond description welled from every pore. He had hit right on the mark.

“This ends now.”

“No!” Jenny contradicted her. “He is right. There is always a reason.”

“Jenny, you do not have to do this.”

“Oh but she needs to, to find out who she really is.” Fronhouse continued, and his face grew angry. “My skin, it tingles. I can end this all now. Let me out!” In an instant, his demeanour changed back to the intelligent, cold mask of a killer. “How to describe what I am? Bound but not gagged. Never gagged. How to describe you? Slut. You drove him to it. You encouraged him, and you loved it.”

needsJenny fled, throwing the door open, her feet echoing off the stone of the hallway as she ran.

Fronhouse grinned, satisfied. “Well wasn’t that fun?”

Ignoring him, Eva looked to the guard. “What is his medical condition?”

“Fine, last time we checked.” He implied that next time, Harold Fronhouse might not be in such a good condition.

“See he stays that way.”

It was meant to be comforting to the patient, since Eva was a firm believer that while many patients needed a strict regimen, those not in authority far too often took it upon themselves to impose revenge.

Fronhouse screamed at her, a wordless expression of rage and anguish; the impotent struggle against his bonds not deterring him at all. “I need to get free! He is near!”

“Who, Harold? Who is near?” Eva stepped closer.

“One weaker than I am. I can prey on him. The pain. It is everywhere. I can feast and then I am free.” He howled at the walls once more. “Master, I can do it. Unbind me!”

“Who is your master, Harold? Tell me. Who are you seeking?”

Fronhouse twisted yet more, wriggling beneath the straightjacket, his legs taut against the straps. His narrow eyes focussed on her.

“You think anything you do matters? You think this matters? Release me, and it will be over quickly. Leave me here, and another will do my job. But others will make it last forever.”

“What others?”

“To describe what they do would drive the sanity from your being. We flee. You would do best to run and hide, though they will find you. They find everyone.” With that, the fight in him evaporated, and Harold Fronhouse sat motionless, looking through her.

Eva recognised this particular state of catatonia. “We won’t get anything more from him, now. Take him back to his room.”

The guard wheeled Fronhouse out, and Eva stared at the walls without noticing, her heart thudding in her chest. She screwed her hands into fists, her nails digging painfully into her palms. She had almost reached him. The words of Harold Fronhouse still echoed from the walls. “Others will make it last forever… I can feast and then I am free… He is near…” The phrases left her uncomfortable and nervous.