Blind Vigil

By John E. R awson

Following the untimely death of his parents when he is ten years old, Kenneth Mills is forced to live with his grandmother, Esther, in Osprey Cove, Maine. Esther is controlling and bitter, and she and Kenneth repulse each other. Whats more, Kenneth is unbalanced; as a teenager, he attacks a fellow student with a scalpel and then spends three years in the Crestwood Insane Asylum, where he is eventually diagnosed as a psychotic schizophrenic.

Following treatment, he returns to the home of his youth. As he grows to adulthood, the townspeople see him differently. They are now scared of Kenneth and fear what he might do to them. He has bizarre obsessions with younger girls and fantasizes about becoming a great surgeon, like Dr. Walters, the towns only physician.

Despite Kenneths delusions, however, his psychological state may have other causes. The people of Osprey Cove are, in fact, cruel and abnormalbut whos to say whats normal anyway? As he sinks further and further into fantasy, it is impossible for Kenneth to discern reality from dreams. In the end, the question remains: who is the real lunatic of Osprey Cove?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Nov 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781458211521

John E. R awson

John E. Rawson was born in Worcester, Massachusetts. In college, he majored in English literature and Psychology. He has also studied Latin, foreign languages, and the writings of authors such as Shakespeare, Hippocrates, Plato, Poe, Milton, and Stephen King. He currently lives in Florida.

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Copyright © 2013 John E. Rawson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Author’s cautionary note.

This novel is not intended or recommended for reading by minors. Strong parental guidance is highly recommended.

Interior Graphics/Art Credit to Randy Wright.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1154-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1153-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1152-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013916353

Abbott Press rev. date: 11/21/2013

Table of Contents

PART 1:    THE SHADOWS OF DEATH

1   View To The Bridge

2   Coffin Lid

3   The Phone Call

4   Prepare The Dead

5   Cold Memories

6   An Unwelcome Visitor

7   A Stranger On The Bridge

8   The Funeral

9   Parlor Games

10   Mirrors

11   Frog Eyes

PART 2:    THE INCARCERATION

12   Crestwood Asylum

13   Special Therapeutic Treatments

14   The Final Session

PART 3:    THE HOMECOMING

15   Kenneth’s Return

16   The Mission

17   The Last Parlor Game

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, I wish to acknowledge my three children: Mark, Rob and Heather for their undying love and support; as well as my two step-daughters, Michelle and Chris.

And, for my wife, Doria who has always and always will be my strength.

Also, a special thank you to four dear friends who never stopped supporting me: Brian Austin, John Bradshaw, Dave Bray, and Randy Wright.

A special thank you to Randy Wright of Raw ArtFarm who did an excellent job in crafting original artworks, cover and autobiography photo that are contained in my novel. Mr. Wright may be contacted at [e-mail].

PART 1

The Shadows of Death

In the dark and cobwebbed recesses of a man’s mind, lie strange evils. And the most brilliant light may not reveal what lies in the dark; except perhaps, the shadows of death.

November 1964

5:42 A.M.

Osprey Cove, ME.

CHAPTER 1

View To The Bridge

A path of brilliant light streaked the black morning sky, flickered and dropped to the dirt road in front of Kenneth Mills. It cast a shadow that towered twice his six foot frame. Moments before, in the darkness, he had stumbled on a rock not yet fully covered by last night’s snowfall. The pain ran from his big left toe up his back to his lower neck. His face twisted with the pain. He turned his face back to the house. The spotlight again flickered, zigzagging skyward and then back down. The light now steadied on his face. Pain was etched in the deep furrows of his forehead.

Esther briefly smiled at his grimace.

It was an icy, bone-chilling morning, as Kenneth made his way down the rock hardened path to the covered bridge. Through a light snow flurry, Kenneth could see the graying structure awaiting him like a giant dinosaur. He knew the old bridge presented no danger, as he prepared to cross the frozen river into Osprey Cove.

Kenneth Mills, a thin, gawky, and pitiable man, had lived on the outskirts of Osprey Cove all his life. Now at thirty years old, he wondered if he would ever escape its cold grasp or that of his bitter grandmother, Esther.

Kenneth had been a sickly child whom his grandmother watched over with an iron-fisted control that became the gossip of Osprey Cove. He lived in mortal fear of Esther Mills and of the townsfolk, who were also critically savage.

Osprey Cove was fifty-one miles north of East Quaco, which in turn was another forty plus miles northeast of Bangor, Maine. The rocky coastline lay nearby. The small seaside cove had changed very little over the past century. At the onset of winter, November 1964, Kenneth felt it could just as easily have been 1864.

His face now flushed in anger. Kenneth recalled their earlier argument: Why can’t you let me go about business and try to be a man? Kenneth argued. Cause you don’t act like a businessman, like your Pa, and you never will! Esther yelled back.

Maybe that’s because you never give me a fair chance at it. You know, I never had the full benefit of knowing him like you did. Kenneth said.

Wouldn’t have mattered much. You will never replace him. Your Pa was as near perfect as they come; and, you’re as worthless as they come. Esther slashed back.

Suppose that’s why I never became a doctor like I always wanted…’cause of you and your putdowns on me? Kenneth half asked.

You couldn’t have been a surgeon anymore than old Sam Bronson, down at the funeral parlor; who by the way, takes advantage of you all the time. Why you waste your life working for him is beyond me! Esther exclaimed.

Kenneth didn’t answer. He thought of Sam Bronson and the small handful of other townsfolk…not many…who believed in him. There was Ms. Duboir, his biology teacher, who still believed in him even though he hadn’t gone on to become a doctor. And Kenneth remembered Dr. Joe Walters, the town’s general practitioner whom he so wanted to be like. Kenneth loved and worshiped Dr. Walters. Kenneth believed that the good doctor was earnest in his praises and support of him; that Dr. Walters truly believed in him.

Then there was Mack of Mack’s Pub, who Kenneth felt might possibly believe in him. Although, Mack had on more than one occasion played Kenneth for the fool that everyone else in Osprey Cove believed Kenneth to be.

Kenneth paused on the gray covered bridge where his parents had died when he was ten. Kenneth felt that his parents, if alive today, would certainly believe in him.

A shiver ran through him as he recalled their frozen bodies in the car. He grappled with other details of that wintry night, but to no avail. I feel so terribly alone; deserted, unwanted. Why did you have to go away and leave me with your mother? Kenneth whimpered.

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Esther’s view to the bridge was becoming clearer. She carefully wiped away the innermost frost from the glazed window. The frosty moisture soaked her yellowed handkerchief. The handkerchief began to form cold droplets that fell to the cobwebbed and dust covered windowsill. She reached above shoulder-level to readjust the spotlight. Its metallic hinge grated and with a shrill refused to give way to Esther’s wiry arm.

Damn piece of junk, she screeched, giving it a more determined tug. It shrilled and finally gave way. Esther, with trembling hand, grasped the stiff yellowed handkerchief and wiped away the new frost from the windowpane. Her withered arm, still hanging from the spotlight’s iron handle, tightened and twisted the lamp to cast a new path of light. The right quarter of the gray bridge came into full view. Aha, now I’ve got you good and clear, she laughed.

Kenneth stood motionless, partly hidden inside the bridge’s opening. There was the shadow of a much smaller man in a raincoat and a fisherman’s hat, just to one side of him. Who is that? Esther heard herself ask. Who are you talking to, Kenneth?

The shadow shrunk as the fisherman stooped in front of Kenneth. Rising up, the shadowed figure handed Kenneth a large knapsack. Lousy old eyes, can’t focus any good, Esther thought.

Straining, nose against the icy window, she screwed her eyebrows to force a sharper vision. Kenneth was opening the knapsack. The other man knelt next to Kenneth and pointed into the sack. Esther saw Kenneth stand and strain as he tried to lift the knapsack by its drawstrings. It refused to budge. Come on you weakling. Hell, if you can lift my eighty-five pounds of skin and bones, you sure as hell can lift that wet sack of who-knows-what. Esther shook her head in disgust.

Kenneth held the knapsack closer to its neck to gain better leverage and with a second effort, raised it. Esther could see the small fisherman, now hunched over, slyly moving away from Kenneth. Kenneth looked back to the house and to the window where Esther’s nose and eyebrows traced the only clear glass on the iced windowpanes. His eyes squinted at her window, through the brilliant path of the spotlight.

He turned back to speak to the fisherman who was steadying himself at the bridge’s corner pillar, before the fisherman began to descend down the steep riverbank.

Esther wrapped at the window with her knotted knuckles. What’s going on down there, Kenneth? What are you up to now?

Kenneth knelt, as the fisherman had done moments before. He tied the knapsack’s drawstrings to his right ankle and began to drag it to the bridge’s corner pillar. He crawled on his belly like a wounded soldier with desperate troops clinging to his ankles. He crawled, belly-down, to the bridge’s opening and peered over the edge, transfixed in his stare, impaled to the bridge’s floorboards like a pinned frog in a tray of formaldehyde. He lay motionless in a state of vertigo as he peered down into the ebony ice of the frozen river. His mind wandered. God, I hope none of the townsfolk happen by. No, it’s much too early. I know what they would think of me, especially if they see me like this again… He could see their anger and hatred, their total disgust.

The light flickered, nervously seeking out Kenneth. It shot skyward over the bridge to the shabby rooftop of Bronson’s funeral parlor, then finally back down to the gravel path where it slowly crept back to the bridge. The spotlight found Kenneth’s knapsack, and then Kenneth. It steadied there with a very slight quivering.

He knew she was watching him again. He also knew it was time to go.

FuneralParlor.jpg

CHAPTER 2

Coffin Lid

U p at five-thirty every morning had become routine. For twenty-one years since graduating from high school—Kenneth lost three years while institutionalized—he had made his way down the hill from his grandmother’s house, across the Osprey bridge to Sam Bronson’s Funeral Parlor. The funeral parlor rested precariously on the Osprey Cove river’s edge. The backroom, where Kenneth eagerly watched Sam embalm the dead, leaned down towards the river. In Kenneth’s tenth year of apprenticeship, Sam had allowed him to assist with the embalming of young Joey Stewart, a drowning victim.

It’s now time for you Kenneth to take over the reins of my business. My hands are trembling more and more, likely ’cause of all the years of drinking, Sam offered.

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Esther knew where to focus her rusty spotlight. After nearly ten minutes of river gazing, she knew he would begin to crawl to the edge of the bridge’s opening, dragging the knapsack as he did every morning, and begin his snowy snail crawl down the steep riverbank. You’re as crazy as they come; most likely even crazier, Esther muttered.

The trail in the snow was ruffled, but distinct. It appeared as if a crazed and out-of-control toboggan had slid down and across the frozen river to alight halfway up the opposite bank. There, with loss of momentum, he would brace himself on his backside and drag the knapsack up the bank to the funeral parlor, which unfortunately for Esther, was beyond her spotlight’s reach.

Kenneth reached down and untied the sack’s drawstrings at the funeral parlor’s door. He quickly brushed off the sticky snow and flaky mud and stomped inside. With much effort, the knapsack followed.

He looked at the mantle clock, which kept precise time. The clock read 6:27 A.M. A searching spotlight caressed the parlor’s rooftop, but could reach no lower because of the bridge.

I must rush now, ’cause Sam will be here in twenty minutes. He runs as efficiently as that damned clock. Wiping his face and arms off with a dead man’s winding sheet, Kenneth dried off as well as he could before standing in front of the potbelly stove which he always fired up, immediately upon arrival. Standing in the shadow of the ironcast stove wrapped in the sheet and as thin and pale as death itself, he looked like a dead man standing.

Kenneth was often taken to daydreaming, especially after his forty-five minute morning trek, which for anyone else would have taken only twenty minutes.

"I must hide this knapsack before old Sam Bronson