"It was kind of a surprise decision." I shrugged. Some of the patients were playing Ping-Pong. One of them had scars that made my own look miniscule.
"Well, I'm glad that Julie is finally speaking with her father. I just hope that she has prepared herself for this. It could be potentially traumatic." He chuckled softly. "That is why my wife went with her instead of me. She is the loving one."
He pointed at other patients as we continued walking. "Part of the problem we face here is the whole government-mandated secrecy about monsters. Many of our patients were put into regular mental health facilities after their encounters, before we were able to find out about them and bring them here. Unfortunately, when a severely traumatized individual is taken in for treatment, and they are already struggling with the reality of what they have experienced, regular doctors are not much help. Can you imagine going to a normal psychologist and explaining that your boss turned into a werewolf and tried to eat you?" He did not wait for me to answer. "They would think that you were delusional and they would pump you full of drugs. You know what you saw. They don't think that is possible, so after a while the sane and healthy patient begins to doubt their own memories, that leads to insecurity and that snowballs into all sorts of mental problems. If you can't trust your own memory, what can you trust?"
"I got security camera video," I replied.
"Ha. Like most of these poor people get to see anything like that. Damn quacks can ignore piles of evidence, because they are sure that monsters are only figments of our subconscious. I've read huge textbooks explaining how the werewolf and vampire legends, that date back to the dawn of recorded civilization and span every single culture on the planet, are neatly explained by mass hysteria, religious fervor, vain attempts at understanding natural pathological psychoses, or even hallucinations caused by ergot in bad rye bread. Ha. Joan and I were staking vampires while we were still in medschool, so our methods are a little unorthodox in the scientific community. Learn this, Mr. Pitt, there are three kinds of people in the world: people who can't believe in anything, suckers who believe in everything, and a few of us who can face the truth."
We stopped in front of a large security door. A hulking orderly nodded at us, and Doctor Nelson scanned his badge to get us through. We entered a long corridor, lined with steel doors with small window slits. Screaming, crying and gibbering nonsense echoed through the hall. It gave me shivers.
"This ward is for people who have had serious monster trauma and are not coping with it well. They are suicidal, violent, or unable to distinguish reality from fantasy." We stopped before a door. I peered through the slit. A man was sitting cross-legged in the corner. He was wearing a straitjacket, and he was softly beating his head against the padded wall. He was humming "Mary Had a Little Lamb" over and over again. Drool was running down his chin, and forming a puddle on the floor.
"Believe it or not, Carlos here was a Monster Hunter. He worked for MHI up until about fifteen years ago. He was one of our team leads in New England. Brilliant man, great Hunter, good leader."
"What happened?" I asked softly. Carlos cocked his head to the side as if listening to something very far away. After a few seconds he went back to humming.
"Have you ever read any H.P. Lovecraft, Mr. Pitt?"
"Please, just call me Owen. I read a little bit when I was a kid, why?" I did not say that his stories had given me nightmares.
"Lovecraft was no Hunter, but he heard the stories, and he did his research. He had a pretty good idea of what was out there. If you remember, a common theme in his work was the protagonist's gradual descent into madness over a period of being exposed to the darkness of the other side. There are things out there which man is not meant to ever see or understand. Poor Carlos here is a perfect example."
"What did he see?"
"Nobody knows. His whole team went missing, and he was found wandering in the countryside, naked and confused. Just keep that in mind as you continue your career, Owen. There are some things that are best just left alone."
We exited the ward, leaving Carlos and the others to their songs.
Lunch was filling, and the meatloaf was surprisingly edible, considering it was mass-produced in an insane asylum's cafeteria. Doctor Joan called at one point to tell us that Ray was finally speaking a little bit to his daughter. I overheard part of the conversation. He was coherent, but the Shackleford family reunion was not exactly a joyous occasion.
After we ate, the tour continued, terminating on the back lawns of the Appleton Asylum overlooking the sluggish Alabama River. A high fence ensured that none of the patients decided to take a swim. It had rained briefly, and this time it was enough to break the humidity and lower the temperature to an almost comfortable degree.
As we walked along the lawns, many other patients came up to speak with me. Some wanted to touch my hands, or give me hugs. Many of them thanked me for what I did with heartfelt emotion. I was not used to such attentions.
"They are trying to give their thanks. Of course, I find out about many of my patients from your organization. Many of them would not be alive if it weren't for MHI or your competitors," the good doctor explained. "They see people like you as saviors, as heroes, as champions."
"I'm no hero," I replied. "I'm not even particularly brave."
"It doesn't matter. Everybody needs something to believe in. So for those who have been hurt by evil, they need to have champions of good to offset that in their minds. For the victims, they see people like you as Batman or the Lone Ranger. It keeps their worlds in balance. Mankind needs our heroes."
"I'm not sure exactly what I am, but I'm nobody's champion."
"Don't be so sure. I've been around Hunters longer than you have been alive. It is a job that requires bravery to the point of insanity. Everyone has their own reasons. Some of us are just in this for the money, others are in it for the thrill, others because they need a place to vent their violence in a manner that is not only legal but encouraged. Some do it out of a thirst for revenge. Some, like Julie I'm afraid, do it because it is the only world they know or really fit into. And then there are the few, the very, very few, who do it because they really are heroes, and they don't have it in them to be anything else."
I thought of Trip when he said that. My friend was in this for the right reasons. He just wanted to do good and help people. Guys like him were the heroes. I was just an accountant with a gun.
"So why are you doing this, Owen?"
"You going to psychoanalyze me now, Doc?"
He laughed. "I'm just a curious man by nature."
"Honestly, I don't know. I'm still not sure this is right for me."
"Why?"
I scratched my head. "Well…" He was a shrink after all. "Growing up, my father had this weird apocalyptic idea about the future, and he wanted me to be ready for it. So he pushed me into being something that I didn't really think I wanted to be. Then when I got older, I felt like I let him down, so I did something really stupid, lost my temper, and almost killed somebody who probably deserved it, but that's beside the point. So when I tried to distance myself from that kind of thing, and tried to be normal, I find myself involved in something even worse than before. Monsters are real, and it looks like maybe my father was right all along, and the future really is bleak, and I'm supposed to be a violent brute, and it's good that I'm good at killing things. But I still lost my temper and almost killed another Hunter, who once again, probably deserved it, but at least the sharks didn't eat him, so I'm still managing to screw stuff up. Now I'm having visions and hearing voices."