Obsessive Rage: The Sycamore File

By Ryan Stevenson

Throughout human history, man has always been fascinated with the workings of the human mind. In Obsessive Rage, authors Ryan Stevenson and Richard Brandeis bring into focus one man’s psychotic obsession, which ultimately leads the reader into a world of the clinically insane.
Doctor David Morrissey, an eminent New York psychiatrist, uses past life regression sessions to understand why his patient, Laura, can’t bring herself to sing. In the ensuing sessions with Dr. Morrissey, they unravel a mystery that brings both of them to the edge of insanity.
The reader will travel through time, beginning with the depression era in Georgia, and then find himself transported into the present time to examine a murder mystery that took place eighty years prior, only to be confronted with a modern day psychopath.
Medical science may never truly understand the human mind and how our emotions can take hold while turning the common man into an individual whose darker side should never have seen the light of day. OBSESSIVE RAGE no doubt will keep the reader on the edge of his seat until the very last page is turned

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ryan Stevenson
• Release date: Jun 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310087783

Ryan Stevenson

Ryan Stevenson is the Grammy-nominated recording artist and songwriter behind hit Christian music songs such as “Eye of the Storm” and “Speak Life.” Raised in rural southern Oregon, he worked as a paramedic before his music career took off. He now lives in Nashville with his wife and children.

Book preview

This book is dedicated to the thousands of men and women in the medical profession that have given their time and knowledge in the pursuit of understanding the human mind.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1. The Great Depression

Chapter 2. The Southern Way

Chapter 3. That Feeling Of Loss

Chapter 4. A Chance Meeting

Chapter 5. I’ll Make You Proud, Momma

Chapter 6. What Did I Get Myself Into?

Chapter 7. Momma’s Surprise

Chapter 8. Little Pleasures

Chapter 9. Remarkable

Chapter 10. Lord Knows I Tried

Chapter 11. Finally Some Good News

Chapter 12. Nothing but Blue Skies

Chapter 13. One Sweet Song

Chapter 14. The Big Day

Chapter 15. Better Get to Bed Early

Chapter 16. Lord, Am I Tired!

Chapter 17. So Many Troubled Souls

Chapter 18. Another Day and the Sun Sets

Chapter 19. Now I Was Getting Worried

Chapter 20. What Just Happened?

Chapter 21. Not A Care in the World

Chapter 22. A Sight for Sore Eyes

Chapter 23. Everything Seems So Right

Chapter 24. Do People Really Live Like This?

Chapter 25. My World Turned Upside Down

Chapter 26. My World Came to an End

Chapter 27. The Long Night

Chapter 28. How Do I Continue?

Chapter 29. Time to Pick up the Pieces

Chapter 30. This Can’t Be Happening

Chapter 31. You’re Going to Wake up in 5,4,3,2,1

Chapter 32. Another Martini

Chapter 33. Once More into the Breach

Chapter 34. I’m Not Sure I Can Do This

Chapter 35. More Digging

Chapter 36. Lord, Let Me Make It through the Day

Chapter 37. Worlds Apart

Chapter 38. Back to the Grind

Chapter 39. One More Day

Chapter 40. It’s All Coming Together

Chapter 41. Oh, What A Night!

Chapter 42. A New Day

Chapter 43. This Can’t Be

Chapter 44. You’re in Safe Hands, Susan

Chapter 45. I Knew You Would Come

Chapter 46. No One Understands

Chapter 47. As Day Turns to Darkness

Chapter 48. Alone

Chapter 49. The Days Seem So Long

Chapter 50. This Is Impossible

Chapter 51. The Long Trip Back

Chapter 52. I Could Use a Stiff Drink

Chapter 53. A Day I Never Will Forget

Chapter 54. This Isn’t Possible

Chapter 55. The Hardest Part of My Job

Chapter 56. I Question his Sanity

Chapter 57. Epilogue

PREFACE

Although the exact cause of most mental illnesses is not known, it is becoming clear through research that many of these conditions are caused by a combination of genetic, biological, psychological, and environmental factors—not personal weakness or a character defect; therefore, recovery from a mental illness is not simply a matter of will and self-discipline.

It is to the thousands of professional men and women in the fields of Psychotherapy and Psychiatry, as well as those in Law Enforcement, who work tirelessly to treat and protect those suffering from mental illness, that this fictional account is dedicated.

PROLOGUE

I had just finished reading my latest issue of JAMA Psychiatry, and a particular article brought back memories of one of the most bizarre cases I ever had to handle while I was a first year psychiatric resident. Bellevue Hospital in New York saw its fair share of cases, but I’ll never forget that early fall evening as long as I live.

There isn’t any question that the human brain, from a structural perspective, is very much understood. It’s the exquisite balance of our brain’s chemistry coupled with human emotion that we still have to understand, and after dealing with this one noteworthy patient, I wondered if medical science ever would.

This particular patient, in laymen’s terms, simply snapped. It was a complete and total psychotic break with reality, yet it is what happened after the patient literally lost his mind. It is events like this that keep professionals like me up at night, along with law enforcement personnel.

Chapter 1

Summers in the south were always incredibly hot. Momma had always said if I wanted baked apples, I could just set them out on the sidewalk and let the sun do the rest. It's August of 1933, and I know the depression has taken its toll on everyone, from the richest of the rich to the poorest of the poor. Here in Atlanta, life seemed to be even more bitter, as people wandered the streets looking for handouts. Those brave men that came back and prospered after World War I were now barely able to make a living. Travelers in cars from the northern states, heading south to look for work, would run out of gas as well as money. They would leave their cars on the side of the road only to allow time and the weather to turn their dreams of a new future into rust and heartbreak.

Dad passed away years ago from the Spanish influenza, and living with my mother in a rundown wood frame house with railroad tracks in the rear allowed me to watch hobos jump from a train if they felt this was their stop. As I sat in my room on one of our famously hot, steamy nights, the 9:35-train from up north was slowing down, and men of all colors, shapes and sizes began to disembark.

One man looked up to my window and asked if I had any food for an old soldier. All I could suggest was to try the local Baptist Mission on South Street. They may still have some soup and bread available, I said. He thanked me and went on his way.

With so many strangers around, there really wasn't much one could do other than stay close to home. Several young girls had been murdered over in another county, and Momma told me never to stray far from home.

Momma was our church organist, but she had learned to play the piano first. She always said I had the voice of an angel, and every night after dinner we both would retire to the parlor, where Momma would play Christian hymns while I sang along.

One evening after the dinner dishes were washed and placed back in the cupboard, Momma said, Lila, it's time to warm up that angelic voice of yours.

Sure, Momma, I said. Just let me open the window so we get some air in this place.

Momma would always start our singing session with Be Thou My Vision. It was one of her favorites. As I sang, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a young man who couldn't have been more than thirty-five, standing across the street. I had never seen this man before. He was dressed in what appeared to be a rumpled old suit, just standing there, listening to the music waft through the heavy steam-laden air. Maybe it was my voice that gave the man pause to stop and listen.

Pay attention, Lila, Momma cautioned, and I turned away for the briefest of moments, but when I looked back out the window, the young man had moved on.

Chapter 2

It was going to be another scorcher of a day. Momma had errands to run and told me to stay close to home. We had a small wooden porch that had seen better days, but at least the chair swing that my father had built years ago still served its purpose. I would glide back and forth, just trying to catch even the faintest of breezes to cool off. At the age of twenty-three, there wasn't much for a young southern woman to do other than to get married off, but there wasn't anyone special in my life. So I stayed with Momma, never really knowing what the next day might bring. It was kind of accepted as the southern way of doing things.

I was reading a month-old newspaper, The Times Courier, just wondering if the police had caught whoever had strangled those poor girls Momma had told me about. Other than listening to what I could hear from a neighbor’s radio, there wasn't much in the way of news on that terrible tragedy over in Bucks County.

The heat of the day was getting oppressive, so I decided to make some lemonade in the hope of cooling off. Then the strangest feeling came over me as I stood over the sink filling Momma's favorite pitcher with water. It was almost as if I could feel a pair of eyes staring at me, yet to the best of my knowledge, there wasn't a soul around. I had never experienced that sudden chill before, along with goose bumps on my arms in the Georgia heat, but there they were.

I noticed Momma had forgotten to dump the drip pan under the icebox, so I took care of that, and no sooner had I finished, than there was a knock on the front door. Mr. Gibbons ran the local ice house, and right on time he had arrived to deliver a block of ice that would last us a week. Momma must have known he was going to deliver, as she had left me a shiny quarter on the kitchen table to pay Mr. Gibbons, just in case he showed up.

Sam Gibbons was truly a southern gentleman, inasmuch as he brought the block of ice in the house and then took it down stairs to the cellar, where he broke it up into smaller pieces that were used during the week. I paid Sam, and with a tip of his hat, he was on his way to the next house up the street. It wasn't long after Sam had left that Momma returned from her errands.

To make a few dollars here and there, Momma and I would take in sewing, or do laundry for a few folks in the neighborhood. It wasn't much, but just enough so that we could eat. I would ask Momma when I could get out of the house and maybe help out making some money at anything I could find.

Until those murders are solved, Young Lady, you’re not going anywhere, she said.

Chapter 3

Momma had stopped at the local butcher and brought home a ham shank that barely had any meat left on the bone. But I swear, Momma could create a five-star meal with what little we had in the pantry, and a full stomach never gives a person these days anything to complain about.

Momma got that ham shank in exchange for washing the butcher’s white aprons that were usually covered with blood stains, sweat, and Lord knows what else. She handed me the bundle and said, Lila, you start washing these, and I'll get dinner going for us.

I grabbed the bundle of dirty aprons and went out back where we had an old pump well and a large wooden tub. As I was filling the tub getting ready to wash the aprons, that very strange feeling came over me again and sent a chill down my spine. All I could sense was that there was someone from a distance staring at me, and yet I didn't see a soul around. Then again, anyone would have to be half crazy to be out in this summer heat. I couldn't explain the feeling I was having, and when it happened the second time, I still brushed it off. I must have been just letting my imagination run away with me.

After I finished the wash, I dumped the water out of the tub and set it up on its side against the rear of the house. There must have been at least a dozen aprons that I hung out to dry on the clothesline, securing each one with two clothespins. Then, as I began walking back toward the house, I spotted that man in the rumpled suit walking slowly down the street, looking in my direction.

I tried not to make eye contact and walked pretty fast back into the house, locking the back door behind me. I thought this was the same man that had stood across the street the evening before while Momma played and I sang. Was it just coincidence that this stranger was still in the neighborhood? It just seemed so odd to me, since I knew everyone on our street, so I wondered who this stranger might be.

I never mentioned any of this to Momma, as I didn't want to upset her. I just figured I would wait another day or two to talk to her, rather than let my imagination play tricks on me.

So many displaced people traveling in every which direction just amazed me. You couldn't mistake the downtrodden men who once could have been the head of their own companies, now out of work and panhandling for food, barely surviving with just the clothes they had on their backs. Every time I saw these men jump from the train, probably thinking this time they would find work, I couldn't help but sense that feeling of loss. Lost lives, lost loves, and broken families. The Great Depression was taking its toll on everyone in the country.

Chapter 4

After the laundry was