Returning to the safety of my office, grateful for the scant warmth within and the familiarity of my books, I was torn between my current case and the encounter with the professor. Why had she reacted so?
Shaking my head to clear it of the patient who was not mine, I turned to my notes of Josephine Ruggles. I peered at the copy I had made of the wounds and compared them with the handkerchief impression. The marks on Josephine’s back—they looked so near to writing. Perhaps a cross between Sanskrit and Arabic; something old. A forgotten dialect? Was it possible to have a case of stigmata that resulted in written words on the skin?
I had too many questions and no answers.
In the meantime, I had to consider my treatment of Josephine for her nightmares. Whether the wounds were self-inflicted or stigmata-like symptoms, it was possible, probable even, that she would respond to my hypnotic sessions. The root of her problem was within her mind. I was sure of this.
Ransacking my reference books, I found only one mention of non-Christian-based stigmata—bleeding from the scalp, palms, side, and/or wrists—in a much older, non-medical book from the early 1800s. It was obvious that I would not find such a book in the small asylum reference library; I would need to go to the university library for a chance to find it, or something comparable.
It had been a while since I visited the Orne Library. Perhaps it held the key to Josephine’s malady.
Chapter 3
I grew up moving about the United States. My father was a rail man and traveled from station to station, inspecting, improving, and managing them until they met Union Pacific standards. Then, we moved on. The longest we remained in a single location was two years.
This travel allowed me to discover and fall in love with the University of Chicago. One of the more progressive universities when it came to women, I completed my undergraduate work with distinction—and an open mind that many on the East Coast do not possess.
By the time I was ready for my graduate work, my family had settled down in Boston, Massachusetts. This allowed me to choose Pembroke College for my continued studies. I wanted to be close to my family. Throughout my university years, I had occasion to visit the Orne Library at Miskatonic University in search of research material for my thesis.
The University of Chicago has a wonderful library—as does Pembroke College—filled to the brim with books. But it does not have the sensibility, the atmosphere, or the reverence for books that the Orne Library possesses. It is the kind of library bibliotaphs dream of, with its dark woods, huge stacks, and quiet atmosphere.
Entering Miskatonic University’s Orne Library was like walking onto hallowed ground. A preternatural hush lay over the large, open room and the scent of old books permeated the air. Even my steps against the marbled floor were muted. I sighed a happy sigh. This library was home.
My feet knew the way to the card catalog. I slipped through the large wooden tables and nodded to the reference librarian, Ms. Mayer. If I could not find what I wanted, I would ask her. However, the librarian had taught me that I needed to search on my own first because it was likely I would come across something I had not considered before.
My first round of catalog searching did bear fruit, although I was uncertain if any of it would be useful. I had four books to begin with: Five Wounds: The First Case of Stigmata by Davidson, 1720; The Phenomena of Stigmata, Divine and Diabolic by Spring and Mayhew, 1895; Stigmata: An Investigation by Hunt and Mead, 1901; The Miracle of Stigmata by Harrington, 1910. Although none of them were medical in nature, they would begin to give me an idea of whether or not Josephine’s marks could be from stigmata.
While I was collecting the four books, I chanced upon one called Written in Blood by Sutherlin and Drury-Crusett, 1919. It was new and, at first glance, appeared to be far more analytical than the first four books. I added it to my pile. When I returned to the large wooden tables, I found myself choosing what had once been my usual seat—a table in the back corner that gave me a good view of the rest of the room. One that would limit the number of people walking behind me.
As progressive as both my universities were, that did not stop some of the less enlightened of my peers from “pranking” the women of my class. Twice I had water dumped on me from behind while I was in the library doing research, hours of work ruined. Twice I walked back to my room, soaked and flushed with classmates snickering behind my back. Twice was enough. I learned to sit where I could watch the room, the people, and my back.
Hours later, I had pages of notes on stigmata, but I was not sure if any of it would assist me with Josephine. There were no cases of stigmata appearing while the sufferer slept. There were no cases, or even stories, of the stigmata wounds spelling out words in any language. Not even stories of stigmata making a design within the flesh.
All of the research—if you could call it that—was steeped in religious mysticism and always led back to the Christ figure. Even the promising Written in Blood book came up empty with the exception of referencing another book, Anomalistic Thinking in Regards to Miracles by Avi Zunger, a Jewish scholar. There was no date given for the book and I could not find it in the card catalog.
It was time to see Ms. Mayer.
I approached the reference desk with the same quiet reverence one gives respected professors. A librarian is the caretaker of the books and knows their secrets. Treat both well, and you will be rewarded with knowledge. That was what I needed now.
Ms. Mayer was an older woman; her thick hair, held at the nape of her neck in a chignon, was more grey than black. She wore an impeccable polka-dotted dress and a sweater. She also had reading glasses on a long chain about her neck.
Ms. Mayer waited until I was at the reference desk to look up. Her eyes brightened with familiarity. “Miss Fern, I saw you come in. Is it ‘Doctor’ now?”
“Doctor,” I confirmed.
“Well done.”
“Thank you.”
“What may I do for you?”
“I am looking for this book.” I showed her the book’s name and author. “However, it does not seem to be in the card catalog. It was mentioned in another book as reference material for the psychology behind miracles and magical thinking in regards to stigmata.”
The librarian looked away for a long, silent moment, consulting her mental card catalog. She nodded to herself. “If we have it, there are a couple of places it could be. I won’t be long.”
With that, she left me at the reference desk. I knew better than to follow her around like a lost puppy. Instead, I returned the books I pulled to their rightful places within the stacks. I also gathered up my things. Either Ms. Mayer would find what I needed or I would be done here.
By the time I returned to the reference desk, the librarian was waiting for me. She was bent over a large tome of handwritten notes—a ledger, perhaps, or a manifest. I waited quietly until she straightened. “This is an interesting book you’ve requested. It’s in the Rare Book Room.”
“I see. Will I be allowed to look at it?” I was not certain. As one of the visiting staff from the asylum, I was permitted some access to the library, but I was not sure what privileges that afforded me.
Ms. Mayer nodded. “Yes, but you will be required to stay within the Rare Book Room and to use cotton gloves. I trust you have some?”