The Strange Case Of Allison Grey Jul 26, 2020 12:39:23 GMT -5
Post by Louis_Ellenwood_Barlowe on Jul 26, 2020 12:39:23 GMT -5
August 14, 1961
I have decided to begin keeping a journal to chronicle the progress of one of my most peculiar cases to date, that of a Mr. Allison Grey. Like most of my patients, he is quite advanced in years. His health is extremely poor, and I fear he may be near dying. The home in which he is located is state-run, and is rather poorly maintained. Were it not for the funds I receive from the government, I should not be able to continue my practice there.
As I said, Mr. Grey, (and, indeed, most of the residents of the home), is quite advanced in age, and in a constantly declining state of health. Most of them were placed with the facility and simply forgotten, as there seems to be no place in society for those of advanced years. It is a sorry state of affairs all round, but unavoidable, I suppose. Most of the families that have a member at the home are required to supplement what the state provides in means of financial support. There are the usual bills of medication and in some cases, prostheses, and of course, room and board. To these families, it is a small price to pay for the luxury of not having a dying parent underfoot.
The case of Mr. Grey, however, is different. He has been with the home for quite a numbers of years, his payments maintained by an anonymous donor. Some time ago, however, the payments stopped, and the facility finds itself hard-pressed to keep him month after month, as his prescriptions are numerous, and very expensive, and he needs medical attention every day.
I have taken it upon myself to try to contact other members of his family, of which I know there to be many, in an attempt to gain some type of additional financial support for the patient. I shall herewith enclose a copy of the letter I sent to a son of Mr. Allison Grey, and the reply that I received.
Dr. M. V. Warner
August 16th, 1961
Dr. Douglas Grey,
I am writing in regard to the failing health of your father, Allison Grey, currently in the care of this home. I know that you must be exceedingly busy, and I am loath to approach you on the subject of money. As you know, the family is partially responsible for the financial support of the patient. I regret to report that those monies so important to the proper care and treatment of your father have ceased in coming, and I must ask you to remedy this situation as soon and as best you can. I realize that these are hard times indeed, where money is concerned, but I am sure you can see the need of proper financial support for your father in the twilight of his years. I fervently await your reply.
Dr. M. V. Warner.
The response I received to this letter was brutal, to say the least. Read on:
Please refrain from writing to me in the future. It does not concern me in the least that you have my father under your care, and that his bills are not being paid fast enough. I do not know who put up the money before; it certainly was not I. He was never home when I needed him, and he was nothing but a source of pain and heartbreak to my mother when she lived. Do what you want with him, good doctor, and leave me to my immediate family. I disown him, and I claim no relationship to him.
Dr. D. Grey
This letter was typical of most of the responses that I got from various members of his clan, which, as I stated before, is quite numerous. I must confess to a previous knowledge of the philandering ways of Allison Grey in the years before the decline of his health. He left many children in his wake, and not all by his lawful wife of many years. As the letter stated, she died, but not before the escapades of her husband left her haggard and well worn. The truth is that he was a thoroughly debauched soul, and ravenously sated his lust for women. Even the domestic help was not safe from his clutches, and hence, many black children secretly call him father.
I continued the thankless task of writing to his offspring, receiving the same type of reply. For some reason yet unknown to me, I began to pay a small amount of his expenditures out of my own pocket. I was not prompted by pity or charity, as Allison Grey was not the sort of man to stir these feelings in a fellow human. No, it was a kind of morbid curiosity, of wanting to know what would be his ultimate fate. I was sure at least one of his many children would feel favorable toward him. I hoped someone would eventually step forward and do the decent thing, even if for so undeserving a sire.
August 23rd, 1961
It came quite unexpectedly, and from an unexpected quarter. As I said before, Allison Grey numbered several black children among his brood, most of which I became familiar with during the years of their childhood and growth. Although he never openly claimed them as his own, he was quite liberal in his affections with them, even more than with their white counterparts. They were allowed to call him uncle, and he was often seen giving them little gifts and trinkets. Some said that this rather lopsided attitude was due to his own mixed parentage. In any case, he was quite fond of them, in his way, and they responded in kind. One in particular got the most of his attention.
His name was Randall Scott, and despite his surname, he is a son of Allison Grey. As a child, he was small, frail lad who spent most of his time alone. Despite his mixed parentage, his skin was extremely dark, with the typical broad, sensual features of his mother’s race. He was very studious, spending most of his time with books and studying, and was the brightest pupil in all his classes, black or white. As he grew to young manhood, there became evident in him a great, facile mind, and it was decided that he would attend college. I myself was instrumental in helping him along this route, and he is now working toward a degree in anthropology.
At first, I hesitated to write to him, as I believed the other members of the family should be the ones to bear the financial burden. In addition, there was the fact that a student really does not earn much money in school. Nevertheless, as it turned out, he is the only one to answer favorably to my letters, and in the end, I really had no choice. It seems that his schooling was nearing the end of its semester, and he will be able to come out to see his father and me in person. I anxiously await him.
August 26, 1961
During this intervening time that I awaited his arrival, I, of course, continued to make my daily rounds of the other patients of the home. I am usually of a mind to stop and see Allison Grey last. Of late, Mr. Grey has been detached and incoherent. In my judgment, he suffers from an extreme case of Alzheimer’s disease, but that in no way accounts for his intermittent periods of exceedingly odd behavior. He has periods where he lapses into a deep melancholy, or silence, seemingly staring into space at something only his bleary eyes can see. At times, he speaks of odd, queer things, and is always frightening the nurses with stories of strange visitors that come to his room at night. One nurse even claimed to have heard a voice other than his own raving in his room during the night.
He still has moments of lucidity, during which he speaks with a facile clarity that belies his true condition. He is a well-learned man, and can talk at length on any subject with great authority. Inevitably, though, the conversation always turns toward the macabre, or the preternatural, as he has an intense, even unhealthy fascination with it.
His small room is littered with books on these and like subjects. They included the Necronomicon, purportedly written in the eighth century A.D. by the mad Arab, Abdul Alharzred, to a mysterious tome credited to a suspiciously mysterious and obscure German author name von Junzst entitled Unaussprechlicten Kulten or ‘Nameless Cults’, and Robert W. Chambers hellish tome, The King in Yellow.
All three books have been suppressed at one time or another for the monstrous evil they contain. He is well versed in these volumes, and scores of others. He insists that Von Junszt, who died a raving maniac by his own hand soon after completing his grisly work, visits him nightly, never speaking but staring blankly at him from the other side of his partially shuttered window.
Aside from these oddities in his behavior, he has other peculiar habits and requests, which only heighten the uneasiness one is bound to feel in his presence. He insists that his covers be tucked in extremely tightly, even on the hottest of summer nights. When I asked him why, he said it was to keep all sorts of strange creatures from getting a 'laig up', and climbing into bed with him. He has a great fear of insects, indeed, anything that goes about the floor. He constantly has his nurses checking under his bed, and refuses to walk on the floor, hence the wheelchair. In addition, he will allow no one to turn their back on him, and is so vehement about this that all nervously complies. Many nurses refuse to go into his room, so peculiar at times is his behavior. In fact, there was at one time a real problem with getting a nurse to attend him, and see to his ministrations. All of them entertain a great fear and loathing of him, and none would willingly go near his room. However, just a few days ago, a new nurse was hired, and seemed only too happy to see to all of Mr. Grey's needs. Indeed, she insisted on being the only one to attend to his every whim, and there was really no one to nay say her.
August 28th, 1961
Randall Scott arrived today. He is just as I remembered him, small, skin very dark, with a very intense, piercing gaze. Oddly, at times he closely resembles his father as a younger man, especially when wearing the round, wire-framed glasses that are so much a part of his features. He carries a small briefcase, and I assume he came directly from the train station from the nature of his appearance. I invited him in.
We spent the greater part of the evening discussing old times, and his progress at school. Eventually, though, the real reason for our visit came to the fore, and he asked somewhat apprehensively after the present state of his father. Knowing him the way that I do, I went straight to the point. I told him his father was extremely ill, and that he did not have long. I sought to impress upon him that unfortunately, the responsibility fell to him alone to see that his father’s last days were made as bearable and comfortable as possible. Realizing that, as a college student his funds were somewhat limited, we agreed that I would help him as well as I could, and that he would repay me a little at a time until the account was settled. As the night grew on, we retired to our rooms, as I had offered him room and board during his stay. Tomorrow we will both go to the home to see Allison Grey.
August 29, 1961
I slept rather fitfully last night. As I stated before, I offered Randall Scott a room for the duration of his stay, and it happened to be the one directly adjacent to my own. I do not know whether it was my imagination, or just the wind in the willows, but there were strange rustlings and movements throughout the upper part of the house. They seemed to be emanating from his room. A large old house like this one always makes noises at night, the creaking and settling of the timbers and so forth. Yet...I know that I saw a light under his door, and I surmised that he was studying whatever book he carried with him from the university. He seemed to be moving around quite a bit, and I do not think he slept at all during the night. He came down to breakfast rather early. From his appearance, I could tell that he had indeed not slept at all, or had even gone to his bed. He carried an open book in his hand, and was totally engrossed in it. The phone rang, abruptly, snapping both of us out of our reveries. The caller, one of the nurses at the home, said it was an urgent matter, and we should come in straightaway, and as soon as we could manage. As it concerned Allison Grey, we rushed hastily to his bedside.
Upon our arrival, we found the place in an uproar. Unfortunately, cases of the abuse of the elderly in these types of homes are not unusual, and this time the target of that mistreatment was our patient, Allison Grey. The new nurse, Bess James, was the culprit. It seemed odd to me that she would so vociferously request being his sole attendant, then attempt something of this nature. She was caught trying to suffocate the patient with his own pillow. Were it not for the noise caused by the tray he upset with his struggles, she should have succeeded. What could have possibly led to this sudden outbreak of violence, and drove her to this action, I cannot say. Perhaps there is some past connection between the two as yet unknown to me. In any case, the girl is in a terrible state now, sobbing and shaking uncontrollably. She has been confined to an empty room until the authorities arrive. Strangely, there was a slight tension between her and Randall Scott when we arrived, and I thought I sensed a hint of recognition in their eyes when they met. He has requested time alone with her, and is speaking to her even now in the room in which she is being held. I must now see to the patient.
I expected to find Allison Grey in a terrible state of agitation after his ordeal. Oddly, he was rather stoic about the whole affair, and seemed to shrug it off, as if such occurrences were an everyday thing. I guess when one has led a life such as his; one grows accustomed to the risks involved when dealing with others, especially after having dealt with them none too kindly in the past. Still, I fail to see the relationship between the two of them, or, indeed, the three of them, if one were to also count Randall Scott. The actions that occurred today, and the subsequent confrontation between Randall Scott and the nurse most undoubtedly point to one.
As I said, Allison Grey was none the worse for wear after the episode with the nurse Bess James, but his demeanor changed drastically when I told him of Randall Scott. In the end, he had to be heavily sedated, so violent was his reaction. Eyes staring wildly, he pleaded with me not to let his son near him. A great fear seemed to lay hold of him, and his breath became labored, nearly choking him. He perspired heavily, and insisted that I close the windows and the door. In addition, upon his insistence, I checked under his bed. I had no recourse but to tranquilize him. Later, I explained his strange reaction to Randall Scott, who seemed to understand. He decided not to see the old man after all, to spare him another such attack. He was at a loss to explain Allison Grey's strange reaction, as I felt he would be, and attributed it to the attack upon him earlier. After having talked some length of the time to the nurse, Randall Scott graciously took his leave, leaving me to my days work. We agreed to meet at the end of the day to discuss our plans for the future of his father.
September 3, 1961
It happened almost three days ago, and I still find it hard to believe. Were I to confide the following tale to anyone who had not present when the fantastic events that took place actually occurred, my credibility as a doctor, and my sanity, would be in serious doubt. At times, I myself find it hard to believe. Yet I now submit to my log what actually occurred, and I hope no other eyes but mine own ever read what follows.
After speaking with Randall Scott about his father, and that patients queer reaction to the news of his sons visit, I went about my usual days work, mainly seeing to my other patients. Randall Scott took his leave, and I did not bother to ask him where he was going. I also did not ask him what was said between him and the nurse, the one who, moments before, had tried to kill his father.
Despite the morning’s unsettling events, the day that followed was rather dull and uneventful, and ended without further incident. Wearily, I made my way home, and as I approached the house, I noticed that Randall was in his room. His light was on, and I could see him pacing back and forth in front of the curtained window. Being extremely tired, I made immediately for my room, after alerting Randall to the fact that I was home. The fatigue of the previous night finally caught up with me, and I was soon fast asleep.
I awoke abruptly. At first, I thought it was a sound that had brought me out of my sleep, so suddenly had I bolted up. Nevertheless, it was not. There was a cold breeze blowing through the house, and all the windows, even those in my room, were open. In addition, I sensed that there was something terribly wrong, there was a feeling, an alien presence in the air, as if there were strangers in the house. For the first time in my life, I was dreaded walking through my own dwelling! I forced myself to get up, however, and I made my way to Randall Scott’s room. As I stepped out into the hall, I thought I heard scurrying, like the patter of tiny feet. This bothered me to no small degree, as I had never been troubled by rodents before.
Upon reaching his door, I found it tightly bolted from the other side. No amount of knocking and yelling could get him to open it, and I began to fear that something had befallen him. Finally, I forced the door down, and cautiously entered. He was gone. A cold fear laid hold of me. There were no signs of Randall ever having left his room, at least not by the door. Yet his window was open, as mine, and the irrational thought came to me that he had gone out of it. This was truly absurd, for the window was three stories up, and there were no trees in close enough proximity to be used for such an escape or exit. As I pondered this, the phone jangled noisily off its hook. It was the night nurse at the home. Hysterical with fright, she mewled something incoherently into the mouthpiece, and apparently left the phone unattended on her desk. There was an incredible din in the background, and I could hardly make out what had been said. I dressed hurriedly and left for the facility. What follows was related to me by that same nurse, whom I found running down the road away from the home, the doors swinging wildly behind her.
She said that she had been sitting quietly at her desk, having made her rounds, and whiling away the hours of the night with a book. Suddenly, Randall Scott appeared in front of her, startling her considerably. She was at a loss to explain how he had gotten in, as she was sure all the doors were locked. He was very polite, and asked to see his father. She told him that the patient was probably asleep, and she was hesitant to awaken him, considering the day he had had. Randall, however, explained that he was leaving in the morning, and that this was the last chance he would have to see his father, whom he could tell, was probably not long for this earth. In the end, she gave in, for Randall was very courteous and kind and she could see no harm in it. She led him to his room.
Randall Scott approached the edge of his father’s bed and sat down. Seeing that the blankets were tucked in extremely tightly, he undid them, letting them fall to the floor. By this time, Allison Grey was awake, something like intense fear immediately apparent in his eyes. They spoke in hushed tones, and the old man seemed to be asking his son to leave. Randall walked to the window and opened it. Instantly a piercing, elongated beam of rectangular moonlight stabbed the darkness, blatantly outlining the aging patient on his bed. With horror, Allison noticed that his bed had been undone, and was fairly overwrought with terror. The nurse, seeing that Mr. Grey was becoming more and more upset essayed to step in and remedy the situation. Events, however, took so rapid a turn, that in the end, she eventually found herself fleeing for her life. Randall stayed at the window, his back turned to his father. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the room began to fill with a strange chatter. There was a sound like the rustling of a great many papers, and a steady drumming noise, like thousands of tiny feet on a wooden floor. An earsplitting scream escaped Allison Grey as some force began rending and tearing at the blankets of his bed, which had been allowed to touch the floor. Soon, the blankets were ripped into shreds, and swarms of dark tiny, things covered the bed, and its occupant in another grisly, living coverlet. Randall Scott remained at the window, his back turned on the awful scene. The nurse fled in unreasoning terror. She did not recall phoning me before leaving the premises.
The nurse was in a state of total hysteria. I forced her to sit in my car and await my return. Vaguely, I wondered how the other patients were reacting to all the excitement. With no small sense of fear and dread, I made my way to the wildly swinging door, and Allison Grey’s room. I found the window open, as the nurse had said. However, there was no sign of Randall Scott. The room was in a shambles, and the moonlight froze in my memory a sight I shall never forget. For there, still on his bed, was the upper part of Allison Grey, still clinging frantically to his bedpost. His face, or what was left of it, was drawn into a horrid death mask, his eyes glazed over in raw, unreasoning terror. Removing the tattered blanket, I blanched to see that the lower part of his body was gone, as if ripped, or eaten, away.
I retched violently and long.
Strangely, none of the other patients was disturbed out their sleep. Morning found the place almost normal, the grisly scene in the room of Allison Grey the only reminder of what had taken place. It was, however, not the last chapter in the strange case of Allison Grey.
September 4th, 1961
Today, I received a post-dated letter addressed to me by the late Allison Grey. It came with instructions that I should be the sole recipient of it, and that it was for my eyes alone, if he were to suffer an ‘unusual’ death. It follows:
March 23, 1959
‘In the event of my sudden death (at this stage of my life, I have no doubts what that death will be), I hereby leave instructions that the enclosed letter is sent to Dr. Warner, and that his eyes alone read it...’
The enclosed letter, sealed and addressed to me, read:
If, at any time in the future my life seems to be threatened, I would like all formal charges to be dropped against the perpetrator, as more likely than not, the attempt will be most likely a vain one, but ultimately for my own good. Undoubtedly, I should, at this lucid moment in my life, explain further, before old age and infirmity overtake me.
I have several children, of which I am sure even you, good doctor, know nothing of. Eventually, one of these will attempt to kill me, knowing the darker aspects of my past, to save me from a fate much worst that death. Further, should Randall Scott ever come for me, then my end is truly at hand. He will bring 'others' with him, and they will not be denied.
Do not be shocked, good friend. I am afraid that my various debaucheries and unsavory lusts have led me into liaisons that are, (at best, and for your sake, and your sanity), only hinted at. However, in the end, the truth must be known, if only in the dire consequences they bring for me. For those others, those that must, in the end, eventually come for me, ravenous, horrid, clicking brood that they are...those ‘others’ are my children, too.