the secret

day one:

During this time of the day, if I was back in Mycroft University, I’d be having lunch with a co-teacher of mine named Laura Lindsey. We would probably be eating at McDonald’s; me, munching on a BigMac while she nibbles on her French fries. Then we’d start talking about things like love, marriage, that kind of stuff. And then Laura would smile the most wonderful smile I have ever seen making me feel so warm inside as if there’s no such word as “stress”. But that is not what’s happening today, this very hour of Monday. I’m nowhere near Mycroft, I’m not eating my favorite meal, and I don’t feel relieved of any stress. Instead, I’m in a place called the Psychopathological Research Center, or in simpler terms, a lunatic asylum. A nuthouse. A large building in an isolated part of the state where hundreds of crazy people live in.

The letter came to me about a week ago. I was in the middle of my lecture about the works of Sigmund Freud, when an FA handed me an envelope sent by a certain Professor Armand Ibanez, asking me to work for him. The message pointed out that I was “the most qualified individual” for the case he was working on and that it would be his honor to have me on his research team. Three days later, after several hours of meditation, I left the school and went to the outskirts of Dark Valley.

I arrived here yesterday evening, it was almost midnight, and I spent about 10-15 minutes waiting at the lobby before meeting Professor Ibanez. I was almost ready to doze off on my seat when a balding man with thick eyeglasses approached me and told me it was him who sent the letter. The conversation didn’t last long. He took me to my room, saying that I should get some rest first. I thought so myself. He also informed me that we would start the research—at this point, I still have no idea what he was talking about—immediately the next day, where I’ll meet my colleagues. When I asked him how long I was supposed to stay, he answered, “As long as you want, James.” I wasn’t sure how long that would be.

So here I am inside the professor’s office. I still couldn’t take my mind off Laura. And her bewitching smile.

Prof. Ibanez suddenly spoke up when he noticed me glancing at my watch. “Sorry to keep you waiting, James. A few more minutes and they’ll be here.”

Exactly one minute after he uttered the last word, a light knock came from behind the door and a mustachioed guy entered the room. The small office was now filled with three men in white lab gowns.

“Ah, Vernon,” Prof. Ibanez called. “Take a seat.”

Vernon looked at the empty chair next to mine, but took the one in front of me.

“James, this is Vernon Gaines. He’s been with PRC for four years. He is, should I say, one of our senior doctors.”

“Come on, professor,” he said in a husky voice. “I’m not that old.”

Prof. Ibanez gave a nod. “Vernon, this is James Everest, the newest in our team. He’s from Mycroft University and he teaches Psychology. He...”

“Skip the intros, professor,” Vernon interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Let’s get down to business.”

“I’ll tell you everything once the fourth member of our team has arrived.”

Fourth member? I thought.

“You mean there’s one more?” Vernon complained. I was beginning to wonder why the professor picked this guy, who seemed like he didn’t want to cooperate. He was about to say another word when the professor raised his index finger to his face.

“Here she is now,” Prof. Ibanez remarked.

Vernon and I turned our heads to the door the moment we heard “she”. There were footsteps coming from outside, high-heeled shoes hitting the marble floor. Then the door swung open.

“James, Vernon, I would like you to meet Dr. Anne Bryce.”

She was tremendously gorgeous, beautiful as an 18-year old. She had long brown hair, tied into a ponytail behind her, and dark green eyes that had quite a perceptive look. She was tall, five foot eight maybe, and the gown she wore was a bit shorter than ours, giving us a glimpse of her long tanned legs. And she spoke with a kind, 18-year old voice.

“Good morning,” she told us, after Prof. Ibanez introduced her to us. Good morning to you too, Anne.

Vernon abruptly got up and sat beside me. Anne smiled at him and sat on the vacant chair. Right then, I wanted to grab Vernon’s head and pound it hard on the professor’s table.

“Just like you, James, Anne is new here,” Prof. Ibanez said. “She came just last week. She is from Blackburn, and is a well-known psychiatrist there.”

Vernon opened his mouth to speak, but the professor just continued talking.

“Now that we are complete, let me relate to you the facts of the case.” He sounded like Sherlock Holmes, telling Watson how he solved the mystery. “Our subject is a 34-year old farmer from the nearby town of El Reno, named Patrick Orwell. He is married to Margaret Orwell, and they have a daughter named Sharon.”

Anne moved on her seat and placed her left leg on top of her right. Vernon’s eyes stared. I couldn’t see what he was seeing, but I was sure it was quite a view because he was drooling.

“Patrick had a friend, George Smith. Margaret knew little about Mr. Smith, and had only seen him twice, during his visits to their farm. One day, about two weeks ago, Mr. Smith came and asked Mrs. Orwell if he could speak to Patrick. Patrick was in the barn so she took him there. The two friends began talking, Margaret left to get them some snack. When she came back with milk and cookies, she heard her husband shouting madly. When she got into the barn, she saw Patrick beating Mr. Smith on the head with a thick piece of wood. Mr. Smith was lying on the ground, soaked in blood. Margaret tried all her best to stop him, but Patrick just kept hitting Mr. Smith. She returned to the house and called the police.” Prof. Ibanez took a brown envelope from his desk and pulled out some Polaroids. He handed them to us. “Here are some pictures you might want to look at.”

I got a photograph of a man in a plaid shirt being dragged by two cops out of a barn. It was labeled “Orwell”.

“Good Lord,” Vernon said. In his hand was a picture of the corpse of a black man. It was George Smith, flat on his back, with blood all over. Near it was the piece of wood Patrick Orwell had used to kill him, beat him to death.

The others were snapshots of Patrick Orwell in different angles. One showed him sitting in the backseat of a police car, handcuffed, glaring at his blood-stained fingers. The blood reached up to his elbows.

“The Dark Valley PD couldn’t find anything on him, any reason why he would kill Mr. Smith, who was an out-of-towner and had no known relatives. Patrick wouldn’t speak a word no matter how they tried to talk to him. So last week, they brought him here.” He paused, and sighed. “And that is why I have asked for your help.”

Anne leaned her arm on the table. “Can we see the patient?” she asked in that teenager voice of hers.

Prof. Ibanez nodded, and stood up. “Come with me.”

We left the office, taking with us our clipboards, and walked a series of long hallways lined with patients’ rooms. I was walking abreast Prof. Ibanez, the snake called Vernon had quickly slithered its way to Anne. Moments later, we all arrived in front of a steel door with a glass window. The professor looked inside, and then motioned me to do the same.

Inside the room were a bunk bed, a sink, and a toilet. There was an air vent high above the left wall. But I could see no sign of Patrick Orwell.

I rolled my eyes all over the room. “Where is he?” Prof. Ibanez did not respond. The head of a man suddenly appeared behind the glass window. “Jesus!” I said, startled like I just saw the ghost of my great grandfather. I backed up a bit to let Anne see him.

Patrick pressed his nose against the glass, gazing at me with big bloodshot eyes, as if deciding whether to eat me or not. He seemed like he hadn’t had enough sleep since he got there. Anne raised her hand to touch the glass window. Patrick grinned at her and hopped away from the door. I saw him sit on one corner, and start biting his fingernails, keeping his eyes on Anne.

“Doesn’t look like he’s violent,” Vernon observed, peering through the window.

“That’s the problem,” Prof. Ibanez told him and flipped a sheet of paper on his clipboard. “He hasn’t shown any violent behavior ever since he was taken here. He eats regularly, he’s vegetarian, by the way, and he likes to play chess. I’ve played with him, and I tell you, he’s really good at it. I haven’t won yet.” He adjusted his glasses that were slipping down his nose. “The only problem is he doesn’t sleep well.”

“Have you asked him why he killed George Smith?” I queried.

“Yes, always, in fact, but he never answers.”

Then an idea struck me. “What if he just doesn’t want to say it? How about giving him a pen and some paper and let him write what he has in mind.”

“Hmm,” the professor said, nodding several times. “Interesting, James. We’ll try it.”

Vernon cut in. “Wait, professor. I don’t think we should do it. It’s dangerous. What if he stabs himself with the pen?”

Shut up, Mr. Sour-grapes. “We’ll give him crayons instead,” I said, shrugging.

“What if he eats them?”

“He won’t. He has normal eating habits. Plus he’s vegetarian.”

“He’s right,” Anne said. She had been eyeing me curiously the instant I came up with the idea. “We’ll have to do it tonight. Mr. Everest’s idea is an option we ought to try. We might even get the answers we want.” Thank you, Dr. Bryce. That was very nice of you. So, can I buy you a drink?

“Okay,” the professor agreed, putting his hand in his pocket. “We will present our subject with sheets of paper and crayons tonight, after supper. We shall wait for answers tomorrow.” He turned to me and shook my hand. “Good work, James. Now let us all have our lunch.” He snapped at Vernon. “A word with you, please.”

They headed to the next hall, leaving me with Anne, who was jotting down some notes. Vernon frowned at me as they got to the right turn. I just gave him a smart-ass smile.

“So, Dr. Bryce,” I told Anne, thinking of a really good one-liner, as we began walking down the hallway. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” Uh, I don’t think that’s a really good one-liner, James. Everyone’s been saying that ever since sound was introduced to movies.

Anne made a face. “And what exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Everest?”

“Well, uh… you know. You look so young, and I think you shouldn’t be hanging around in a place full of...mentally-disturbed people.” Like Vernon.

She smiled. She had nice teeth. “Tell me, Mr. Everest, how “young” do you think I am”

17? 18? “Twenty-one?”

That made her giggle. “Come on, James, let’s eat our lunch.” She walked faster, intentionally leaving me behind.

day two:

I woke up with a bolt. Someone was knocking on my door. Loud and rapid knocks. It was 7:30 a.m. I put on my pants and I heard Anne shouting from outside.

“Wait a sec,” I said and dashed to the door. I opened it and saw her standing there in her robe. “What is it?”

“You have to see it for yourself,” she stated and led me down the hall.

This better be good, I thought. I was having a great dream about this beautiful nymph, bathing near the falls, and I would have gotten her in my arms if I wasn’t awakened so suddenly.

At first I thought that Vernon had done something stupid but when I recognized the hallway we were running on, I automatically knew that she wanted me to see Patrick Orwell.

There was a bunch of persons peeking through the door when we came. One of them was Vernon.

“Look at what you’ve done, Jimbo,” he mockingly said, putting too much emphasis on my name. Jimbo?

I fixed my hair and looked into the glass window. I gulped.

Patrick Orwell was sitting in his favorite corner and had himself covered by a blanket. Surrounding him were tiny crumpled pieces of paper arranged in a semi-circle on the floor. On the walls were colored drawings of circles with X’s around them, intersecting lines and shapes, and headless stick figures. But the one thing that made me gasp was the large block letters scrawled on one entire wall that read: I KNOW THE SECRET.

“What secret could it be?” Anne whispered.

“Ask him,” Vernon replied, pointing at me. “It was his idea.”

Anne glanced at me worriedly.

Patrick Orwell was transferred to another room in order to have his former room cleaned. Vernon, Anne and I had lunch together, and all Vernon did was insult me, saying how much he refused my idea in the first place. Anne changed the topic—I was so relieved to know she was tired of the hot air coming from him—and we talked a lot about Patrick’s secret. I said it might be a government conspiracy, Anne believed it was about the end of the world. To Vernon, it was simply “a secret sex position” that only Patrick and his wife knew. George Smith accidentally mentioned it, so Patrick killed him, thinking there was something going on between George and his wife. Ha-ha, very funny. Vernon was the only one who laughed at his lame joke.

After lunch, Prof. Ibanez called me to his office. For a while I thought he was going to fire me.

“This is...strange. Very strange.” He kept pacing back and forth on one side of the room, his head bowed down, his hands in his pockets. “This is a very complicated case, nothing like I’ve ever encountered for the past ten years of my stay here.”

“My apolo...”

“Never mind that, James. What matters now is this new problem we have before us.” He stopped and sat on his chair. “What secret is Patrick talking about? The secret why he killed George Smith?”

“Possibly, professor,” I said, knowing I had to do something about the trouble I caused. “Professor, didn’t Mrs. Orwell know anything about what Patrick and George were discussing in the barn? Maybe she knows what Smith might have told her husband.”

Prof. Ibanez nodded, but with a little uncertainty in his face.

“Let me pay her a visit tomorrow morning. Maybe she can tell me something that would shed some light on this case.”

“Good, you do that. I just wish she cooperates this time. Last time I went there, I couldn’t make her speak. She just cried and cried.”

After that, I thanked him and left.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I’ve never felt that way before. My mind was flooding with questions. I was so confused by everything that has happened that thinking about it made me puzzled even more. It was beginning to make my head hurt when I realized that I had forgotten about Laura! I had been so busy and all, not to mention captivated by Anne Bryce, that Laura didn’t even cross my mind for one whole day!

I know the secret.

It doesn’t sound right. Shouldn’t it be “I know a secret”?

I pushed it out of my brain and looked at my watch. It was already midnight, I’ve been lying on the bed for almost three hours, and I was still wide-awake. I put on a shirt and went out of my room. I decided to check on the patient. Patrick’s room was nearer than the first one, and when I got there, I was surprised to see Anne standing in front of the door.

“Dr. Bryce?” I called her as I got closer.

She was turned to me. “Oh, it’s you, James. You couldn’t sleep, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said. “How’s Patrick.”

She pointed into the small window on the door. Patrick Orwell was on the bed, asleep. The weird thing about it was that he was lying so straight, arms on his sides, legs parallel, almost like the way dead people lie inside their coffins. I took a deep breath and switched my attention to Anne. I stared at her and observed how beautiful she was. She was one of those women who were especially created by God to be the object of every man’s fantasies. Her figure was astounding, enough to make even the saintliest guy feel horny. We were all alone in the hall, and I wasn’t sure if I could still control myself from embracing her, and then...“James?”

“Huh?” The trance I was in had been broken off. “Yes, you were saying?”

“No, I won’t repeat what I said,” she remarked. “I hate it when people don’t pay attention.” How could I pay attention when you’re hypnotizing me?

“Well, I was...uh, thinking. Thinking of...a way to m-make Patrick Orwell talk. That’s why I didn’t hear what you said.” What kind of an excuse is that? “So what was it?”

She shook her head. “No, forget it. It wasn’t important.”

I shrugged. “Whatever you say, Anne.”

“Anne?” she said, her nose wrinkling. She was still cute, though. “What happened to ‘Dr. Bryce’?”

“Hey, you called me ‘James’, right? So why can’t I call you ‘Anne’ ?”

She smiled at me, or at my face. I must have looked stupid. “I was just kidding, James.”

I smiled back. I had to, I couldn’t help it. Her amazing smile was contagious. “You know, you have the most amazing smile I’ve ever seen.” Now, haven’t I said that before?

“Oh, please!”

“No, I mean it. Your smile...uh, takes my breath away.”

“Really?” she asked, blushing,

I nodded, still smiling.

She shrugged. “Wow. No one’s ever told me that before. Thanks.”

PING! Score one for James Everest! I felt so much better, hearing her say that. It meant that she liked me.

I peered into the window and saw Patrick suddenly get up from the bed. He looked at us and then ran to one corner. He sat there and got into a position that I don’t think I could ever do. He had his arms tucked under his legs, which were crossed, and he was biting his fingernails like a rat gnawing on a piece of cheese.

day three:

A stout guy named Hudson drove me to the outskirts of Dark Valley to the farmlands called El Reno. We rode in a white van that was used to bring patients into the PRC building. We left at around nine in the morning, and we arrived at Patrick Orwell’s address by ten. It was a long trip, but Hudson was rather talkative and I enjoyed talking to him on the way.

The Orwells’ house was a fairly large one, with a wide porch, dwarfed by the huge barn on its left. Hudson parked the van beside a small pigpen. There was a girl playing with a dog, a young Collie, in front of the barn. As I stepped down the vehicle, the dog paused, turned to my direction and barked. Then it ran towards me. The girl followed.

“Dolly!” the child yelled, going after her pet. She had freckles on her cheeks, and her short blonde hair was tied into pigtails.

Dolly halted some feet away from me, still barking. The girl came and held the puppy, preventing it from jumping at me.

“That’s a cute dog you have there,” I told her, in the friendliest tone I could manage.

She looked up to me, rubbing the dog’s neck. “Thanks, mister,” she said. She sounded polite. “Her name’s Dolly. She’s a nice dog really. She just hates strangers, that’s why she barked at you. Sorry.” The collie had stopped barking.

I moved nearer and bent one knee to sit beside her. “It’s okay, all dogs hate strangers.” I reached over and patted Dolly’s head. “You must be Sharon.”

“Yes.”

“I’m James Everest, I’m a psychology teacher,” I told her. “May I speak with your mom?” Dolly licked my hand.

“Are you from the hospital where my dad is?”

“Yup. The PRC.” I pulled my hand away and wiped it on my slacks.

“When can I see him?”

I’m afraid you can’t, Sharon . “Well, I don’t know for sure. Maybe next month.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Really? Great!” She stood up. “Wait here, I’ll call my mom.” She rushed to the porch. “Mom! Mom! Someone’s here to see you!” She went inside the door, skipping happily.

I turned back to Hudson, who was sitting in the van, reading a comic book. “This won’t take long.” He waved a hand and continued reading.

As I approached the house, a plump late-thirties woman appeared at the door. “Yes?” Sharon was on her side.

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m James Everest, from the Psychopathological Research Center, and...”

“Psycho-what?” Sharon whispered to her mother.

She ignored her daughter. “I’ve already told you what you need to know. There’s nothing more I can say.”

“But, Mrs. Orwell, there’s a really important thing we need to know which concerns your husband’s condition, and there’s no one else to talk to but you. Now, I apologize for disturbing you, but...”

“Come in,” she suddenly said. They went in.

“Psycho-what?” I heard Sharon say.

Margaret Orwell offered me a seat, which I gladly took. The place was practically simple, a typical country home for a not-so-big family. It was clean, and everything was in order. I couldn’t see anything that could have caused Patrick’s mental illness.

Mrs. Orwell asked if I wanted some hot cocoa. When I said I did, she walked into the kitchen and came back seconds later with a mug. She then told her daughter to leave us adults alone and play outside with Dolly. After that, she sat on the couch next to me.

“What did you want to talk about, Dr. Everest?” she asked as I sipped some of the cocoa. It was very hot.

“First, I want to know who George Smith really is.” I placed the mug on the coffee table in front of me, feeling my slightly burnt tongue.

“I barely know him,” she began sounding worried. “I’ve only seen him twice, once on the first time he got here—that was more than two weeks ago—and the other on that day Patrick...” she paused to sigh, “killed him.”

“How did your husband meet him?”

“It was about a month ago. Patrick was on his way home from the city when the truck broke down. Then this George Smith comes, in an old Buick, and helped him out. Being the kind-hearted man that he is, my husband invited him for dinner. George Smith refused and said he’ll come over some other time. Patrick cheerfully told me about it when he got home. Two days later, George Smith comes here and has dinner with us. We don’t know how he knew where we lived.”

“How did he look like?” I was writing everything she said on a small notebook.

“George Smith was an African-American. He’s tall. He had black hair, in a style, which I think they call “crew-cut”. He had a long beard. He was plainly dressed in a red turtleneck sweater, and brown twill pants. I think he’s fifty-plus.”

“Was there anything peculiar about Mr. Smith’s behavior?”

She thought first. “He didn’t talk much. Sharon would ask him a question and he’d just nod or shake his head. But he did eat a lot.”

I was about to ask another question when she added: “And he kept biting his fingernails.”

“Did he say where he came from?”

“Patrick said he’s from Scarsdale, and that he had recently traveled to Egypt.”

I sketched a picture of George Smith on my notebook. “Has Patrick told you about a secret or something?”

“Oh, yes, he did. That night after dinner, he and George had their first talk in the barn. When George left, Patrick comes to bed and tells me that George said something about a secret, but he wouldn’t tell what it was, no matter how Patrick insisted. All that George said was that it would answer all our questions.”

“Well, apparently, Mrs. Orwell, he did tell it to Patrick.” Then I narrated to her the events that occurred the other day.

I drank some of the hot cocoa, which was starting to get cold. “Do you know where George Smith lived?”

“Yes. He gave us his address in Scarsdale.” She handed me a strip of paper, which he took from her coin purse. “It’s very far from here. One day we visited we place, but he wasn’t home.” I scribbled the address on a page of the notebook, then returned the paper to her. 34C Bachman Drive.

I finished the hot cocoa and rose from my seat. “I think that will be all for now, Mrs. Orwell.” She stood up as I went for the door. “Thank you so much. You’ve been a great help.”

She held the door open for me. “Will Patrick be...normal again?” she asked wearily.

“I can’t say, Mrs. Orwell. But I’m sure we can do something.” I stepped down the porch. “We’ll do our best.” I bid her good-bye.

Prof. Ibanez had just finished interrogating Patrick Orwell when Hudson and I got back to the PRC. Just like before, he wasn’t able to obtain any helpful information from the patient. Patrick still wouldn’t talk.

I told him everything Mrs. Orwell and I talked about. He instructed me to have some rest and then check George Smith’s address the following day. He said that I should take Vernon and Anne with me this time. Anne instantaneously agreed to come with me when I asked her. As I had anticipated, Vernon declined. I didn’t tell him that Anne will join the trip.

I played chess with Patrick that night before going to sleep. As the professor had said, he was really good. We played five times and I didn’t beat him. He happily kissed his palms whenever he won. Still, I couldn’t make him talk.

day four:

We left early; it was Thursday, a little past eight. Hudson, who was behind the wheel again, said that Scarsdale was really far. It took us more than two hours to get there. And if Hudson had been chatty yesterday, then to call him talkative today was an understatement. He was like the doll that talks back when you speak to it, and he had his batteries fully recharged. Anne was incredibly delighted by his liveliness. She laughed at all his jokes. I did to, but not like I really thought it was funny.

Hudson parked the van in front of a small wooden house encircled by a wire mesh fence. The house looked as if it was going to collapse the moment the wind blows a bit stronger.

We scurried out of the van and made our way to the rusty, broken gate. It had a large padlock. Anne and I had no other choice but to climb over the gate. It was about four feet high, and it was easy enough to go over it.

With me up front, we advanced towards the old screen door that flapped to and fro as the wind breezed through it. Behind it was a wooden door, which I found out to be locked when I twisted the knob. I backed up and gave it one strong kick. It burst open, dropping to the floor, casting a cloud of dust inside.

“Afraid?” I questioned Anne as we set foot into a homely, well-kept living room.

She coughed, brushing the dirt on her sleeve. “Of course, not.” But she touched my arm and allowed me to proceed first.

It was awfully quiet, the only thing I could hear was the creaking of the floor. There was a dank atmosphere hanging in the air within. As the two of us moved further into the center of the room where chairs and sofas were neatly arranged, I started thinking like this was an episode of The X-files, and we were Agents Mulder and Scully. I shook it out of my mind, wondering how much self-control this Mulder character has despite spending most of his time with the ravishing and sexy Agent Scully.

Anne suggested that we part ways.

I went upstairs while she went into the kitchen at the back of the house. At the second floor, there were only two rooms. The first one was completely empty, except of the cobwebs at the corners of the ceiling, and the one-inch thick dust covering the floor.

The second room was definitely George Smith’s room. The door was bolted from the inside. Again I had to use force to break it open. Inside, it was big and spacious. It was the tidiest room I have laid my eyes on. On one side was a closet, full of turtleneck sweaters in different dark colors. On the other side were bookshelves, with hundreds of books mainly about Martin Luther King Jr., anti-Christ cults, and Egyptian culture. Beside it was a writing table, with two lamps. Etched on its surface was a perfect circle with X’s around it. There was bed near the window, and there were no pillows, or blankets.

I walked over to the bathroom. It was squeaky clean. That was the weirdest thing about this place. Except for the other room, it was perfectly clean, top to bottom. George Smith could have given my mom a lesson in Housecleaning 101.

I was skimming some of the books when I heard a scream from below. It was Anne.

I hurried out of the room, the sound of falling wood piercing my ears. I scrambled down the stairs, my heart was pounding like a 32-beat drumroll.

The floor on a corner of the kitchen had crashed down, forming a big hole. I carefully crept towards its edge and peeked down. There was a hidden room under the kitchen. Anne was getting up on her feet.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

She looked up. “I’m alright.” Then her head turned away, staring at something that was beneath me. “Oh, my God,” she said. “James...”

I took one deep breath and jumped down, landing on the broken planks a few feet from her. Footsteps came from above. Hudson poked his head from the hole. I disregarded whatever it was he mumbled, for my eyes were focused on the horrible sight before me.

Holy shit.

Dangling upside down from the crossbeams were decapitated corpses of naked women. There were thirteen of them—I wasn’t sure, the immense stench had made me dizzy—and each had bruises and scars all over them. The heads were half-submerged in dried, rotten blood inside buckets right below every body. As the bodies swayed, I saw the wall behind them and that there was something written on it. I moved closer, through the hanging cadavers, pinching my nose. I could already feel my stomach turning over.

It had been written in blood, huge letters that spelled out a familiar message: I KNOW THE SECRET.

A mere second after seeing it, I vomitted.

day five:

I watched as Patrick Orwell sat in the usual corner, in his weird sitting position, nipping on his fingernails as if they were pistachios. His eyes stayed concentrated on the floor, and he wasn’t blinking. I watched him and asked myself: What the hell was going on? Why was this happening? What was this secret that these men got so insane about?

I had no idea how long I stood there by the door, observing him like a chimp in a cage.

Later, two men in white overalls came to take Patrick back to the interrogation room, where the professor was waiting. These men were tall and bulky, and it was easy for them to put the straitjacket on him. Then they carried him out of the room. I followed them.

I went into the room right next to the interrogation chamber. Vernon Gaines and Anne Bryce were already inside, sitting behind a desk that had a microphone mounted on top of it. I sat on the chair beside Anne.

Through a one-way mirror, we could see Professor Ibanez in the interrogation room, on a swivel chair near the square table. Opposite, Patrick was being strapped onto a chair that would hold him tightly, preventing him from moving. Hidden under the table on Prof. Ibanez’s side was a tiny microphone that would let us hear whatever each of them would say. There was a micro-receiver inside the professor’s left ear which would enable us to privately communicate with him.

Patrick Orwell sat motionless on the chair, ogling at the professor. He seemed relaxed, not showing any hint of tenseness. The men in white overalls remained at his sides.

“What is your name,” Prof. Ibanez said, reading the clipboard.

Patrick didn’t answer, as if he didn’t hear anything.

The question was repeated, louder this time. “What is your name?”

“It’s just like before, Everest,” Vernon told me, muffling the mic with his hand. “I’m telling you, he’ll never speak.” Thanks for your optimism, Vernon.

I snapped my fingers. “It’s those guards,” I uttered, gesturing to the two brawny guys. “I think he just doesn’t want them around to hear what he has to say.”

Both Anne and Vernon gave me a quizzical look. I bet Vernon was wondering “Why didn’t I think of that before?”, while Anne was thinking “He’s so amazing. He should be the father of my children.”

Vernon spoke on the mic. “Professor, I think you might try asking the guards to step out. They might be intimidating Patrick.” Wasn’t that ‘my’ idea?

Prof. Ibanez received the message clear. He nodded at us inconspicuously and commanded the guards to leave. They hesitated at first, but the professor insisted, and got the last word. The door was locked.

“Now, what is your name?”

Our eyes widened when Patrick’s mouth opened. “Patrick Orwell,” he replied. It was the first time everyone of us heard his voice.

Anne gripped my hand tightly. “Oh, James!” Oh, James, will you marry me?

“Holy Mother...,” Vernon tried to say.

The professor took his glasses off. “Good, Patrick. Now, what is your wife’s name?”

And for the first time again, he blinked. “Margaret.”

“And your daughter? What’s her...”

“Sharon. Sharon Orwell.”

“Good,” Prof. Ibanez said. “Very good. Now, do you know a man named George Smith?”

There was a moment of silence. Patrick didn’t respond. The professor stirred on his seat. “Patrick...”

“He’s a friend,” came the sudden reply.

“If he’s your friend, Patrick, then why did you kill him?”

Vernon leaned over to the mic. “Professor, I don’t think you should...”

“I had to,” Patrick said. “I had to kill him.”

“Why?”

“He had to die.”

“Why did he have to die?”

Patrick gulped. He didn’t answer.

“Why?” Prof. Ibanez was getting furious.

“Because...”

“Because what?”

“Don’t pressure him, professor,” I said on the microphone.

But the professor ignored me. “Because of what?”

“A secret,” Patrick answered. “The secret.” His eyes were still in a frozen glare at Prof. Ibanez.

“What is this secret all about?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why?”

Again, a moment’s hesitation. Patrick bit his lower lip. “Because you’ll kill me.”

“No, Patrick. I won’t do that.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Listen, Patrick,” Prof. Ibanez said. “Just tell me why you killed George Smith.”

“No.”

“Tell it to me, and I promise I’ll let you go.”

“No, I can’t tell you. And I don’t want to go. It’s safe here.”

“Safe from what?”

“I already said. I cannot tell you.”

“Tell it to me, goddamit!” The professor struck the table with his fist.

“Calm down, professor,” Vernon said.

Patrick sneered. “God?” His smile grew wider. “No, I won’t tell you.”

“Tell me what the damn secret is!” Prof. Ibanez yelled.

“Professor...”

“The secret is not for everyone to know,” Patrick declared.

“Tell it to me!” shouted Prof. Ibanez, standing up.

“It concerns both you and me...”

“Professor,” Vernon called. “Let him talk, please.”

“And all human beings.”

Prof. Ibanez settled down on his seat.

“Good human beings, and bad human beings. Alive or dead. Those in the light, and those in the dark. All human beings, I tell you. Men, women, children. All of us.”

“What are you talking about?”

Patrick smiled again. “You insist on knowing what it is you should not know, old man. I admire your courage. I will tell you the secret, but you’ll regret it. You will regret it.”

“Tell it to me!”

“I will tell you, but only to you. Nobody else must hear us.” I gulped. He knew we were watching.

The professor yanked the receiver out of his ear.

“Professor, don’t...” Vernon said.

Then he disconnected the microphone under the table.

“Professor!”

But he wasn’t listening to us, like we didn’t exist anymore. He couldn’t hear us, we couldn’t hear him. He sat back on his chair and spoke. I couldn’t hear it, but I read his lips. “Now, tell me the secret, Patrick.”

Patrick’s lips moved, but it was so fast. I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

When I looked at the professor, I noticed he was trembling. Sweat poured down his forehead, as his fists shook like he was about to roll the dice. His eyes were enlarged, and his teeth were clenched. What was he so frightened of? No, it wasn’t fear he was feeling. It was anger, an extreme rage developing from within him, and I could clearly see that it was on its way out.

“No!” Prof. Ibanez hollered at the top of his lungs. It was so loud that I heard it echo in the hallway.

The professor sprang from the chair and lunged at Patrick, who had not yet finished speaking at high speed. He threw himself above the table and fell over the patient. His hands reached for Patrick’s neck. The chair toppled over and they both dropped on the floor.

The three of us ran as fast as we could out of the room. The guards were nowhere in sight. Vernon and I combined our strength and broke the locked door. Prof. Ibanez was screaming wildly.

“Professor!” Anne cried.

“Nooo!” He was crouched on top of Patrick who was still strapped on the chair. His left hand had a firm grip on the patient’s neck, hitting him repeatedly on his head with the other. His blows were hard and powerful, I could almost hear Patrick’s skull crack.

“Professor!” Vernon bear-hugged the professor with his mighty arms and pulled him away. Prof. Ibanez kept struggling, trying to wriggle free.

“Noooo! He must die!” He wanted another shot at Patrick as if he hadn’t inflicted enough damage. “I must kill him!” His determination to end the life of the patient was terrifying.

Embracing Anne, I studied the dead body of Patrick Orwell, bound to the chair. There was a large ugly wound on his left temple, and blood gushed out from it like an oil slick. As I turned to the professor, I felt my brain dehydrate as more questions squeezed inside, the secret still unknown...

day shit:

That was the worst supper I’ve ever eaten.

It is 10:00 p.m., I’ve forgotten what day it is. I couldn’t sleep. The memory of Laura lingers in my head. Anne has left me alone. Vernon has gone away too.

Well, I think this is where the story ends. I believe I have told you enough of what you need to know. Uh, not exactly. I haven’t told you the best part yet. I haven’t told you what the secret is. I know it already. The professor told me everything this morning. He’s dead now. That stupid old man had to die.

Patrick was right. The secret does concern everyone. And it answers all questions. Because it’s the truth, the truth. Once you know what the secret is, there will be no need to ask any questions.

I finally learned how to do that awkward position that Patrick did. I’m doing it right now, as I’m biting my fingernails. There’s this Beatles song I’ve been singing all day. I’m not sure what it is, but I know I’ll be singing it again later.

So, do you want to know the secret? I know you do. But I won’t tell you what it is. No way.

You’d kill me if I did...

ROOTS: “The Secret” was one of the first stories that jumped into my brain. I actually wanted to write about a guy who could predict the future and the secret behind his gift. I never got to start on the story until my college years when I had this brief course in Psychology and was assigned to do research on psychopaths. Anyways, inspired by the engrossing research, I reconstructed my story idea, and did both almost at the same time. When I was done, I submitted my paper which included a copy of my story. My Psychology teacher was seductively beautiful and the character of Anne Bryce was patterned after her although using my girlfriend’s the initials. I’ve forgotten her exact words but I’m sure she liked it in a crazy sort of way.

+I actually had no idea what the secret was. It was only later on, after being bugged by people who had read the story, that I thought of the answer to the mystery. My idea was that the secret was an alien invasion, by sound-based aliens. When the secret-bearer tells the secret, those are the aliens coming out and transferring to a new host. I never had any plan to write a sequel but if I had to, it would begin with in a confession booth, a man telling the secret to the priest and the priest telling the secret in his homily...