The February Special Guest Writer is Elizabeth Massie

Please feel free to visit Elizabeth at: http://www.elizabethmassie.com/

JOURNAL OF A HEADHUNTER
by Elizabeth Massie

I’ve got to find that head.

There can’t be that many places to hide it; besides, I thought I already knew where those places were as I’ve taken active part in this hiding and-seeking for a good three days now. I must admit, my places were the best, the most clever, and though Jones and Sipple have me stumped at this point, when it’s all over they’ll have to agree that my hiding places had the edge over their clumsy attempts.

But for now, let me just get this down. I’ll write it and perhaps when the head’s found and things are back to normal this little journal entry can become part of my thesis. If things turn out as I’m daring to hope, my discovery might very well blow away some of the old beliefs here at the Institute. Imagine that! A first-year student with information never before acknowledged! But then, this entry could also very well become part of my defense plea. Ah, well. I can’t be rambling on there. This is a scientist’s record of events. I’ll refrain from joking around, as I fear it may detract from the seriousness of this case.

Head, head, who’s got the head?

I am Branford Wells. It is the fourteenth of June. Mrs. Caron’s head has been missing since I last saw it in the toilet yesterday afternoon. One of Sipple’s simple-minded hiding places. I mean, what did he think? I would see it bobby there, those ghastly green eyes popping out at me in the shriveled orange sockets? Did he think I sat down to piss? Sipple won’t last another month around here. Stupid ass. Instead of removing the head and hiding it somewhere else, as had become the tactic for whichever of the three of us had found it, I left the head in the pot, as a clear statement to Sipple that he had no class and in hopes he would try something a bit more challenging.

And no, he didn’t. Or rather, Jones did. Perhaps the two of them working together came up with the place in which the head now hides. Not fair, really, do you think? Two against one?

But it’s gone. And I have to find it. Jones and Sipple won’t tell me, they just stand there giggling in those stupid white student gowns and say I’m pulling their legs. But no, Dr. Stillman wasn’t pulling my leg when only an hour ago he called me and asked me if I had seen Mrs. Carson. I told Jones and Sipple what Stillman said. They laughed and stuck their noses back into their coffee mugs. Hey, I like a joke as much as the next guy, but can’t they tell when I’m serious? When my damned career is on the line?

The Norwich Institute of Psychic Research is looking for a few good heads.

HAHAHAHAHA

Benny Pool is the moron who runs the anatomy lab. I shouldn’t say he runs it; actually the lab is part of the studies here and all my instructions come from Dr. VanArdenson. Other institutes don’t have labs as we do, but Dr. VanArdenson says to understand the mind we must also understand the body. I’ll go for that. But the lab isn’t licensed, as Sipple, Jones, and I were told discreetly during our student orientation, and Dr. VanArdenson is frequently out on his out bouts of psychic experience (most likely accentuated by snoot-toots by the look on his face when he does bother to show up.) And so the lab is freeman’s territory. Benn finds dead drunks around town before the cops find them, and he brings them back to the lab for our study. He helps cut them up; he may be a tad slow but I’ll give him due credit for his ability with a scalpel. He seems to like his job. Suits me fine. Peeling skin isn’t my most favorite sport.

Mrs. Carson’s body was on a stretch in the cubicle next to the lab, and it was seeing all that hair that gave me the great idea of hiding her head. I mean, she had all this long, silver hair coiling around on the mat and draped across her shoulders and hanging halfway down to the floor. I had a marvelous mental image of tucking that head into Sipple’s locker and threading the hair out through the little vent holes to attract Sipple’s attention. But then I though I could braid it and hang it up in the locker by rubber bands. Or put in a cute fifties ponytail with a big red bow. The possibilities were endless. And so I wheeled Mrs. Carson’s stretcher into the lab and put an order in with Benny to have her head to me by four o’clock. Benny had said he wished Dr. VanArdenson would quite finding bodies for the lad. Benny said finding bodies was his job and if Dr. VanArdenson wanted to do it, fine, Benny would just quit right then and there. I calmed Benny down and promised him a six-pack of his choice if he’d do the head for me. Benny agreed.

Sipple about shit when he found the head in his locker, but after a moment, the three of us had come up with the idea of hide-and-seek. It would be fun. It would help pass some of the long hours between ESP lectures by Dr. Stilman and waiting around down by the lab for Dr. VanArdenson to show up.

A point here. I do know where Mrs. Carson’s body is. It’s in the boiler room, behind the water heater. I just checked on it and it is still warm and flexible. That’s encouraging.

Dr. Stillman called me in today at six-fifteen. His office is upstairs where the live research goes on, where mediums and psychics and other individuals who feel they have certain unexplainable powers come to spend time and be tested by our institute’s modern parapsychological equipment. It’s a zoo up there sometimes, but that’s really what I’m here for. The live research gets my blood flowing. I have a dream of someday opening an institute even larger than Dr. Stillman’s. I’ll even license the lab. It’ll be an above-board, respected school of study. Dr. Stillman pulled out a chair for me and asked me to have a seat. I did. He asked if I had seen Mrs. Carson. I said, “Who is Mrs. Carson?” He said, “An elderly lady, a good friend of mine, who came to our institute several days ago to experiment with out-of-body activity.”

“Where did you last see her?” I asked.

“I gave her a stretcher and a private cubicle down by the lab so she wouldn’t be disturbed. I’m sure she would not have just left without saying anything.”

I told Dr. Stillman that Jones and Sipple and I would keep and eye out for her.

And Sipple and Jones had laughed over their coffee mugs and said if I didn’t know the difference between a dead body and a live one I was going to be one hell of a great scientist.

So I’ve got to find that head. With no help from those giggling idiots. When I find it, I’ll get Benny to help stitch it back in place; at least I know that much about anatomy. I’ll put Mrs. Carson back into her cubicle and wait to see if she comes around. From what I’ve read about out-of-body experiences, the body itself senses no pain whatsoever during the ordeal. And so here is the possibility that I may, in terms of psychic research, come out ahead on this.

HAHAHAHA

If my attempts do not work out, Dr. Stillman’s rage is inevitable. And I know what that will mean.

But, what’s been bothering me the most, as I sit here entering these notes and feel the air in my room become suddenly frigid and I watch the blinds on my closed windows begin to shudder and rattle like angry bones, is that Mrs. Carson’s rage will be just as inevitable. And Heaven help me, I have no idea what that will mean.

Elizabeth Massie, a ninth generation Virginian, is an award-winning author of novels, short fiction, media-tie ins, poetry, and specialized features for textbooks and nation-wide educational programs. Her more recent works include the novels Hell Gate, Desper Hollow, the novelization of Versailles (based on the 2015 French mini-series of the same name), and Night Benedictions, a collection of gentle thoughts, poems, and meditations on the goodness of the night. Elizabeth has won the Bram Stoker Award twice – for her novel Sineater and her novella “Stephen” – and the Scribe Award for her novelization of the third season of Showtime’s original television show, The Tudors. Active in Amnesty International for more than 30 years, Elizabeth also writes letters on behalf of victims of human rights abuses worldwide. She lives in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia with her husband, illustrator Cortney Skinner.