I thought of Frankenstein, of the monster throwing the doctor off the top of the windmill, of the villagers with their torches.
Up I climbed, holding tight to the gun in my right hand, the rusted metal rail in my left. Bits of flaking metal stuck to my hand, jagged edges bit at my skin, but I did not let go.
Ready or not, here I come.
I saw the opening just above me, blue moonlight shining down. I took the last steps as quickly as I could. The element of surprise was gone: If there was anyone up there, they’d heard me. Knew I was coming.
Halfway through the opening, swiveling my head around, pointing the gun in an arching circle, I scanned the shadows for movement, for a figure crouching, lying in wait.
But there was nothing. No one.
I ascended the final steps, walked out onto the wood floor, which gave a little beneath me. The walls were worse up here, the stones coming loose as the mortar failed, the battlements crumbling: eighty years of rain and wind and snow taking their toll.
I searched frantically, walking in a slow and careful circle around the perimeter, testing the boards with each step. They felt spongy, rotten, but they held my weight.
The top floor was empty.
There must be something here, I told myself. Some sign. Some clue.
Another chalk drawing, perhaps?
A message telling me where to go next, like a game, a scavenger hunt.
I was nearly all the way around the circle when I spotted a rectangular object in a nest of leaves. A package? I moved closer, squinting in the darkness, trying to make out the details, wishing for my flashlight.
My breath caught in my throat. My whole body vibrated, ringing like the bell on top of the strongman carnival game. Even my teeth ached.
I knelt on the splintered, rotten wood, reached toward the gift—for surely it was a gift—left just for me.
I picked it up, this old familiar friend—more worn now, cracked and battered—but still, holding it in my hands felt like a homecoming, a reunion.
I ran my fingers over the cover, the title, struggling to make out the details in the dark.
THE BOOK OF MONSTERS
By Violet Hildreth and Iris Whose Last Name We Don’t Know
Illustrations by Eric Hildreth
1978
There was Eric’s chimera, the bright marker colors faded.
A tear fell from my cheek onto the book, and I quickly wiped it away.
I couldn’t bring myself to open it. Instead, I set down the gun, hugged the book, pulling it tight to my chest.
Then I saw something else in the pile of leaves.
A little figure. A doll.
I reached for it, picked it up, trying to make out the details in the moonlight.
The doll was made from white cloth, like the fabric of a T-shirt. It had a stitched face, frowning, with crosses for eyes like a dead character in a cartoon. It was dressed in blue denim shorts, a black hooded sweatshirt. Black sneakers stitched together with pieces of worn canvas made from actual sneakers (I could spot part of the star of the Converse logo). And sewn into the top of the doll’s head was a wild spray of blond hair with purple tips. Real hair, I realized as I touched it.
Lauren’s hair.
The doll’s clothes must be made of Lauren’s actual clothes.
Then I heard footsteps. Not the wind or the scuttling of a small animal. The metal stairs shifted and groaned, bits of loose concrete falling down as someone started to climb toward me.
THE BOOK OF MONSTERS
By Violet Hildreth and Iris Whose Last Name We Don’t Know
Illustrations by Eric Hildreth
1978
Some monsters are born that way.
Some are made.
The Helping Hand of God: The True Story of the Hillside Inn By Julia Tetreault, Dark Passages Press, 1980
From the files of Dr. Helen Hildreth
B West, Mayflower Project
PATIENT S
Background and family history:
D.P. was a 38-year-old white male with a history of alcohol abuse and a criminal record. He had been arrested for assault and battery and drunk and disorderly conduct. He worked as a day laborer. His IQ was 84. He had a long, sloping forehead, small close-set eyes, and poor dentition. He had unmanaged high blood pressure.
D.P. was referred to Project Hope, the state-run clinic where I do volunteer work. The underlying mission of Project Hope is to help individuals with psychiatric issues (including drug and alcohol abuse) reintegrate successfully with society after being released from prison.
D.P.’s weekly visits to Project Hope for counseling were part of the requirement of his probation, and he was to continue them for twelve months.
When I began working with D.P., I did background research into his family and was stunned to discover that he was the great-grandson of none other than William “Templeton,” the patriarch of the family Dr. Hicks and I followed for years for our study.
Coincidence?
More like a moment of synchronicity, which Jung defined as a “meaningful coincidence.”
I am by no means a sentimental person. I do not allow myself to waste time with magical thinking. We cannot change the past. All we can control is this moment. Wishing, longing, and bargaining do no good. I do, however, find myself imagining that Wilson Hicks was alive now so that I could tell him all of this. I imagine him lighting a cigarette, listening carefully, his head cocked to the side in that thoughtful way he had, as I describe the adrenaline rush that came over me when I learned who my new client was, that he happened to come from that same poor family Dr. Hicks and I spent months, years, gathering information on. And I do believe that Wilson Hicks is the only one who could truly understand the significance of all that has transpired since that first meeting with D.P.
I had the opportunity to question D.P. about his family during my intake meeting with him. He never met his maternal great-grandfather, William, who died five years before D.P. was born. The cause was a self-inflicted gunshot wound, shortly after his diagnosis with metastatic liver cancer.
D.P. lived with his wife and two daughters in a two-bedroom trailer on rented land. When I did my home visit, I discovered the conditions were truly squalid. No running water. An outhouse. Windows layered in plastic wrap to keep the cold wind out. D.P.’s wife was an unattractive woman who had not passed seventh grade. She too was an alcoholic and used drugs, primarily amphetamines.
Their older daughter, 14, was a juvenile delinquent. She rarely attended school, sniffed glue and gasoline, drank alcohol, was sexually active, and frequently ran away from home.
The second child was a girl of 8. And somehow, in this child, this girl, I sensed possibility. She was small for her age, quite pale, with filthy hands and face, tangled hair. But in her eyes, I saw something—a spark. A hint of intelligence; of promise.
I instantly knew she was the perfect candidate for the next phase of the Mayflower Project.
There are moments in research, breakthrough moments, where an answer seems to suddenly appear after years of toil. Meeting this child was one of those moments.
I asked D.P. to bring his wife and daughters to our sessions, telling him that family therapy was part of his treatment. After the initial group session, I explained that I felt the younger of the two girls was in need of one-on-one therapy. D.P. complained, said he didn’t see the need and that he couldn’t take time off from work to shuttle the girl to any appointments. I offered to pick her up on my own and warned that I didn’t want to have to take my concerns for the girl’s well-being to the state authorities. “An intervention now could make all the difference,” I assured him. “And I’d be able to report to your probation officer that you are compliant with all areas of suggested treatment.”
At last he agreed. And so I began to pick her up from school weekly, taking her out to get doughnuts—what child can resist a sweet?—building trust.
As I got to know this child, I became certain that she was the one I’d been looking for.
What if I could take her, this poor unfortunate creature, and give her a new self, a new life?