Witch Water

front door.

I should’ve known…

Before he’d even gotten halfway to the pillory, he saw plainly that it was unoccupied. No spit, fruit, eggshells, or other debris was in evidence. The pillory and the street beneath it was clean.

— | — | —

CHAPTER SIX

(I)

In the blaze of noonday sun, Fanshawe looked both ways up and down Main Street, and when satisfied that no one stood within earshot, he sat down on a bench and hunted for the number on his cellphone. Out of the corner of one eye, however, he saw the town church. There was clean white steeple but—

No bell in it, he re-verified.

He’d thought he heard a church bell last night.

Hmm. He let the idea slide by, hoped it would leave his head.

But it didn’t.

Earlier, just after daybreak, he’d slept off and on in his room’s lounge chair, but awoke around ten feeling even less rested. His mind raced.

Then he showered, dressed, and let his daze take him out to the town square. Being in public made him feel safer from his own thoughts—

And his fears of what he might see.

His hand shook holding the phone. “I’d like to speak to Dr. Tilton, please. My name is Stewart Fanshawe; I’m a patient of hers—”

A receptionist told him in crisp monotone that Dr. Tilton was not available.

“I need an emergency phone consultation,” his voice rose, desperate. “You have my credit card number in my file—I’ll pay whatever you want, but, please, get me Dr. Tilton. I need help.”

“One moment, please,” and then music drifted over the line.

Fanshawe waited, hunched over on the bench with his foot tapping. Minutes seemed to tick by; his paranoia made him think they were doing it on purpose. Eventually the line clicked, and Dr. Tilton’s voice came on.

“Hello, Mr. Fanshawe—I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I was tending to a chronic patient in need—a unipolar depressive suffering from delusions of morbidity and suicidal ideations—”

Fanshawe ground his teeth. Was she trying to make him feel guilty for bothering her. I don’t care who you’re tending to—I’m paying more. Before he could speak, she added, “I’m very much hoping that you’ve successfully removed yourself from the—”

“—from the purveying environment, yes, I have. I’m in some out of the way town in New Hampshire, a tourist spot, and-and…”

Her voice sounded dry. “Yes?”

Fanshawe’s nervousness rose up in a sudden wave. “I…had a relapse, I— Shit!”

“That’s astonishing, Mr. Fanshawe, and quite disappointing especially considering how well your out-patient therapy has gone thus far. Don’t tell me you actually purchased a pair of binoculars…”

“No! I didn’t, but then—my God—I found a pair, here. It was in this display—”

“Display? What are you talking about?”

Fanshawe could only release what seemed a string of ordered babble. “This town, it’s…kind of odd. There’s this Colonial theme or something, and a bunch of witchcraft stuff, you know, for tourists like in Salem.”

Somehow the image of the woman’s stern expression slipped through with her words. “Mr. Fanshawe. What does witchcraft have to do with your problem? Not only were you supposed to remove yourself from the purveying environment, you were supposed to banish any implements—such as binoculars—from your proximity.”

A lump appeared in his throat. “I-I found them in this display full of old relics, and-and…I borrowed them…”

“You stole them?”

“I-I—” He winced and ran a hand through his hair. “I—yes, I guess I did, but, I swear, it wasn’t conscious, I don’t remember doing it. I felt like I was in some sort of trance, and next thing I knew it was in my pocket.”

Tilton’s voice sharpened. “It’s called an appositive fugue-state, Mr. Fanshawe, which is a result of undue stress factors as well as other more nebulous things. This led you to drop your conscious guard. Seeking out the implements of purveyance is no better than willingly putting yourself into a purveying environment. We’ve discussed this.”

He looked up, glimpsed some attractive women crossing the street, then grit his teeth. “I know, I know. I just…lost control. I couldn’t help it.”

“That’s a loser’s excuse. Addiction therapy only goes so far. There must come a time when the patient must harness his own free will if he truly wants to reclaim his life. You will return the binoculars immediately—”

“Actually, they’re not binoculars—it’s a looking-glass, like, er, a ship’s glass, I guess you’d call it. One lens, like a miniature telescope. It’s very old, and—”

“Don’t circumvent the subject, Mr. Fanshawe; it won’t lessen my extreme disappointment in any way. The exact nature of your object of purveyance means nothing. You will resist the impulse to solicit your paraphilic symptoms. You must make this effort, Mr. Fanshawe, and you must make it now.”

“I will, I swear.” He felt ludicrous, pathetic. “I just…needed someone to talk to. Christ, it’s not like I can talk to just anyone about-about…this.”

“I should think not. You’ve no one to blame but yourself for this mishap. It’s all up to you. If you fail, there’s only one suitable recourse left: chemical intervention.”

Fanshawe gulped.

“You’ve already been caught once,” the doctor reminded, “and I’m sure that was an experience you’d just as soon not repeat. You’re like a gambling addict, Mr. Fanshawe. Some irregular synapses in your brain have habituated you to whatever thrill it is you get from looking into innocent women’s windows…”

“You would put it that way.”

“At this point, the only thing besides drugs that can potentially correct this synaptic anomaly is the positive reinforcement of learned behavior. You must relearn your mental health by making a concerted commitment via your free will. I’d think it would be rather easy for someone like you.”

Suddenly he felt steaming in angst. “Someone like me? You mean a pervert, I guess, huh? A peeper?”

Tilton laughed, a rarity for her. “Goodness, no! Someone like you: a good man, an attractive man, not to mention a very successful man. Most patients with your problem have nothing going for them, but you? You have everything.”

“Gee, I guess that’s a compliment—”

“Not much of one, Mr. Fanshawe. The best way to relearn your normalcy is to do what normal people do. But if you’re unwilling to pursue this avenue, I think it would be in the best interest of both of us for you to find another therapist.”

“I’m filled to the brim with confidence, doctor.”

“You need to be, otherwise, you’ll probably wind up back in jail, and how much confidence can you expect to have there?” She paused, perhaps deliberately. “Is there anything else, Mr. Fanshawe?”

He cringed where he sat, struggling with a thought. “Well, yes, uh, a question. Do people with my problem —”