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"Mr. Hendric... do all of the Society's members run their studies by you? Is it possible that someone might be studying the asylum and simply didn't mention it? Do you have any members you think would be interested specifically in that sort of thing?"
Horton remains quiet during the conversation between Gene and Mr. Hendric, observing the two men and taking mental notes.
Same, more or less. :)
Horton will also clean, eat up, etc. while waiting for Gene to come back so they can go to the Paranormal Society. For this trip, he will bring his .38 along.
Horton frowns, looking thoughtful, then shakes his head. "No, Gene. I am sorry, but that doesn't ring a bell. I am happy to go with you to the Paranormal Society, however." He turns to Stevie. "It is hard to say conclusively, but what you've said about the description of Andy's behavior and predicament sounds like a psychotic break. Those are quite rare in adults, and are usually caused by combinations of extreme stress and trauma."
Horton shakes his head at Dorothy. "Nothing about the asylum, no." He pauses for a moment. "I am happy to try to... bluff my way in, as a doctor, if it is the preferred option. But since I am not listed as the physician of record for any of their patients, it might not work."
Horton gestures for a refill. He thinks for a moment before answering Stevie. "So... the answer is, it depends. If you were to voluntarily check yourself in, and you are a model of good behavior while there, there would normally be no issue with you checking yourself back out. Think of it as a hotel stay, but with medical supervision available, for which you are paying a fair bit of money." He pauses for a moment, taking a sip of coffee before he continues. "However, if the staff determine during the course of your visit, that you might be a danger to yourself and or others, they can petition a judge to have your stay extended, involuntarily. Much as I dislike saying this... I've heard a few rumors here and there about doctors who have done this in order to keep money coming in. Checking one's self in for rest is not something to be done lightly."
Horton smiles at Dorothy, the burned skin of his face gleaming as it stretches. "I have, but not since the war. Some soldiers would keep journals and diaries. Sometimes they were not recovered until after the author's death. I noticed that men who spent excessive amounts of time in the trenches would, over time, begin to seem angrier and less lucid at first, then cold and disaffected later, and would often begin to write about hallucinations. Imagining seeing dancing girls performing in no man's land, or visions of parents and siblings or spouses speaking to one as if they were there. There was one fellow who seemed convinced that the Bible contained coded messages telling the Germans how to win the war." He pauses for a moment, then says, "But I've never, ever seen anything with such detail before. He writes of these places not as if he wants to convince anyone that they are real, but in a matter-of-fact way, the way you or I might write about, say, New York or Boston, the existence of which is indisputable."
Horton nods at Stevie. "I agree. I think that the writings in this journal could only serve to cloud your thoughts, Gene. Perhaps after we've spoken with Mr. Crosswell would be better."
Horton pales a bit at the mention of the journal. "Mm. Yes. I read it. And I think I now have a better understanding of why he... sought refuge." He paces a bit, hands behind his back. "If the things he wrote about are real... we should all be terrifed. If they are not, then they would seem to be the ravings of a madman. Either way... it is dark, and has left me feeling a bit out of sorts." He fills them in on the details of what he read, but tries to frame it all in a way that makes it a bit less horrifying.
Horton finishes the book, and sets it down. He is unable to suppress a shudder of revulsion, and his mind whirls as he considers what he just read. "Could it be real? Even if not... to live as though you believe it is, would be enough to drive anyone mad."
Being that he is unskilled in either of those, he'll hold off for now. If nothing comes to pass from giving them to Gene, then I'll try for the English test.
Horton idly thumbs through the book. "I understand. I was there, too. It's where I got the burns. France, specifically. The Battle of Château-Thierry, in '18. I was an Army doctor. The burns came from trying to help pull a pilot from a downed RAF S.E.5, when the leftover oil caught. Poor lad didn't make it through the night. Anyway... yes, easy enough to understand why one might flee "normal" life."
Horton will look through the journal to see if anything catches his eye or gives him any insight. "Your observation is an astute one, Stevie. I assume you were in the war? It is very common for men under the pressure of battle to develop not only an extreme sense of camaraderie with their fellows, but also to become convinced that getting through each hour, each day, is all that matters. So much so, that when they come home, they are unable to readjust to not only long-term thinking, but also to the idea of spending time alone, after being surrounded by their fellows at all hours of the day and night for so long."
Just FYI, I will be out of pocket for just over 24 hours, at a Cub Scout campout. Feel free to use me for whatever nefarious purposes come to mind. I'll be back to posting tomorrow.
Horton returns to the first floor and sets about helping Stevie search.
Horton replies, "No, just what one might expect to find in bedrooms." and heads back downstairs.
Horton moves to the first door, easing it open as he looks inside.
"Of course, I'll gladly take a look. Usually, though, I can tell you that one would seek treatment at an asylum for one of two primary reasons; either they need continuous medical assistance, or they find that their residence is not restful enough for some reason. That could be... family members, neighbors, proximity of things like trains or other loud disturbances... but could also be things like memories linked to a place, or an association in the mind between the location and some traumatic event. I suppose what I am saying is... the answer might not be immediately apparent to us." Having said this, Horton heads upstairs to look around.
Depending on the game, CoC is often short-lived. :D By design, really.
"Yes, the paper is from the 28th, as well. An interesting looking Antarctic expedition. Hm. Madness, I think, to want to go to such an inhospitable place." He steps over to join Stevie at the sliding door.
Horton steps over to the curtains, sliding them open to let in the natural light. He walks over to the table and picks up the newspaper, looking at the date.
Horton will move up right behind Stevie, not crowding him, but close enough to help if something should go wrong. He has his medical bag in hand.
Horton flips through the magazine, chuckling once or twice. "I think we are all guilty of that, to some degree. If someone hears that I helped a few dozen soldiers during the war with their shell-shock, got them back on their feet, it doesn't seem that interesting. But when they hear that I did it in a tent, not far removed from the trenches, and that we were all in mortal danger the entire time, well, then they can't hear enough." He gazes out the window for a long moment, then speaks again. "Yes... people have romanticized views of danger and excitement."
Horton settles up front, next to the driver. He remains quiet, but listens intently as Stevie speaks with Ted, trying to judge the man's reactions.
Horton takes his bags and offers to help Dorothy with hers, as they wait to check in. "I do hope there's a good spot nearby for some coffee. I am fairly useless without it.", he says, chuckling.
Horton listens carefully as the others talk amongst themselves. He leans against a wall, setting his bags down for the moment, and takes out a pipe. Filling it from a tobacco pouch, he lights up and takes a few puffs, his expression thoughtful.
Horton pulls his coat close around him against the chill, adjusting his hat with one hand. "Well, that wasn't the worst train ride I've ever taken. So, what is our next step?"
Otherwise, unless he is needed, the Doc's plan is to get a good meal, some wine, and a good night's sleep.
"I don't know that I've ever heard much about it, specifically. The general public perception of asylums is poor, obviously, and I will not deny that I know of some that deserve to be viewed that way. But many do not. As for which this is, I am afraid I could not say."
Horton scratches at his beard a bit. "I don't profess to fully understand the situation, but as a general rule I prefer not to break the law unless it's absolutely necessary. I will, however, help if I can. Taking a trip Salem seems a fine idea."
Horton smiles. "Of course. I can be reached through Bellevue, through Columbia University, and my home line, Murrayhill 5–9975. And I am happy to assist however I can, especially if it is in aid of a sick person."
Horton sits down in the offered seat with a smile, and a nod of thanks. Stroking his beard for a moment as he thinks, he says, "In my experience, no, it is not. Usually, if the patient presents no immediate danger to themselves or others, they are allowed to use pencils and paper to write letters by hand. I would consider receiving a typed letter on official letterhead to be very, very unusual. The only possible exception I see is if the person were unable to write... say if they had broken arms or the like. But even then, I'd still expect it to be hand-written, just by someone else."
He smiles again. "I can see that, and I am happy to leave you to it, as I did not mean to intrude. I had a patient or two transfer there over the years, but most of them left my care soon after, due to the distance. It simply wasn't practical to continue on with me as their therapist. But if you have specific questions, ask, and I'll tell you anything I know."
A slight man, with scars on his face and hands, some of which are partially covered by a patchy beard, is paying undue attention to your conversation. Finally, he stands up from his table and walks over. "Pardon me. I don't mean to intrude. I am Dr. Bellwether, and I have some history with the Asylum you're speaking of, as I've a few patients there. Perhaps I can be of some assistance?" he asks, a smile stretching some of his scarred skin in uncomfortable looking ways.
Checking in. I will be statted up and such shortly. Looking forward to it! |
