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Name: Bailey Kassem-Tittle Date: 2/28

Chapter 1: Stained Tiles

I had just turned fourteen years old, but I still knew well enough to wipe clean the

handle of a bloody kitchen knife. Mama sat in the corner of the kitchen, nestled between the

cabinets, her eyes glued to the stained ceramic tile floor, still quivering after everything that

had taken place. The air was heavy with the scent of fear and dread, but at that moment, the

shadows of our small lodge seemed to close in on us. The veil that once covered this home had

now been lifted, and me and Mama were free; even if she didn’t realize it yet.

As I continued to clean the knife, the very embodiment of what we were put through,

there was a quiet moment of forgiveness between my Mama and me. She forgave me for what I

had done, but after the forgiveness passed, all that remained was her trepidation. I tossed the

knife into the sink and basked in daylight as the sun began to rise through the window. Never

before did I feel so alive. I began to slowly clean up the mess that had been made, exactly how I

was taught. These stained tiles served as a testament to tonight’s events, a haunting reminder of

the life I had so rightfully freed us from.

I began to walk over to where she knelt in the corner, doing my best to avoid stepping

on the corpse in the center of the kitchen. As I reached to grab her hands, I reassured her that it

was over. The look of fear still lingered in her eyes, glassy pupils unable to blink or look

anywhere else. It was only when I met her face to face that she looked at me. There was no

changing what I had done. She and I both knew that; our only uncertainty was what would
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happen next. I let go of her hands and began pacing back and forth in the kitchen. So many

questions began to flood through my head, What would I do with the body? Would she defend me if the

police found it? What would happen now? It wasn’t until now that I acknowledged the consequences

I would be faced with once time resumed.

My Mama slowly began to raise herself, gripping the sides of cabinets or whatever

would support her up. Her eyes shimmered as tears fell down her face, reflected by the rising

light of day flooding through the window. She began to walk towards me, slowly raising her

arms until I was completely embraced in them. Little did I know at the time, but this would be

the last hug I ever received from her. She leaned down and whispered, “I love you mon petit

homme, never forget that.”

She walked herself to the door, no words of remark or turning back to look at me. All I

got was the sound of loose gravel as she walked towards the motor car. I quickly rushed to the

window to watch where she was going, and wondered, would she tell the police? Would she leave town

and leave me all alone? Where would Mama go? The desperation of wanting to chase after her and

apologize for what I had done tugged at my heartstrings, but the time for apologies and

forgiveness was over.

I closed the door behind me and sat on the front porch for what felt like an eternity,

waiting for her to return, if ever. I sat there for hours upon end, lost in thought and still

contemplating what I had done. Every time the wind blew through the open windows all I

could smell was death and blood. Part of me wanted to run through the woods and never look

back, and the other part of me wanted to stay and wait for Mama to come home.
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I didn’t know how much time had passed, for I remained rooted to the porch as long as I

could bear. I watched as birds flew across the sky, squirrels sprinting after one another in the

trees, and a deer trodden carefully through the forest. Despite what I had done, everything

stayed normal. The world continued to live on, meanwhile, I sat, waiting for time to resume.

It wasn’t until I heard the sound of tires on loose gravel that my trance was broken. A

single black motor car rolled its way towards the house until coming to a stop. As the door

opened, a Creole man, with a similar complexion to Mama, stepped out and started making his

way towards me. Before he reached me, another car pulled in, only this time adorned with a

bright red cross on either side, an ambulance. I thought to myself, They were here for me; my mother

had told the police what I had done and we're here to send me to jail. She’s abandoned me.

As the officer walked closer, he studied me and the house that I remained rooted to, and

as he approached, he asked, “I’m sorry to hear about your father, young man. Your mother told

us what she did and we’re here to collect the body.” I shuttered, what did he mean, what she did?

Had she told the police that she had been the one to kill him? What did he mean? Hearing those

words come out of his mouth had left me mute, I couldn’t manage to say anything to him, the

words wouldn’t form and I just stared at him blankly.

He continued to study me, now that he was up close and personal, until he asked, “Is the

body still in the kitchen?”, no words escaped from my mouth. I just gave him a slight nod and that

was all he needed. He brushed past me and entered through the front door, I caught a sly

remark about the smell as soon as he entered. Nevertheless, the body had been found.
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Chapter 2: The Institution

Even after all these years, I’m still plagued with nightmares and reminders of a past that

I cannot escape. Each night I’m visited by a lodge in utter disrepair, covered in a mass of kudzu

and vines, waiting for a strong enough gust of wind to blow it down. However, despite its

broken condition, it continues to haunt me as if I were still the same 14-year-old boy, rooted to

the stoop, waiting for his Mama to return.

I still miss her… I miss her warm hugs and her welcoming smile that always brightened

a room, I miss having a mother. You’d think after 9 years I would’ve come to terms that she's

never coming back. I guess I haven’t forgiven myself for letting her take the blame as she did.

Even after fighting against the police and making countless claims that it was me who killed

my father; no one believed a word I said, brushing me off as a traumatized kid who didn't want

to accept the fact that my mother was a “murderer”. No matter how much I pleaded with them,

they wouldn’t let me see her. Wherever she was…

There was never a trial, at least not to my knowledge. No sign or indication of where or

what they did with her once she turned herself in. Hell, it wasn’t until after months of begging

that I was finally able to get Officer Reynard, one of the officers who questioned me, to tell me

that she was in some kind of institution. But that was all I got. No name or address; just that she

was tucked away in some hidden place all this time. At the very least I knew she was alive, it

still didn’t feel right to hear that she was locked up in some “institution”, whatever that meant.

Over the course of 4 years, I wrote what felt like hundreds of letters to institutions and

hospitals in Louisiana, I even wrote to some of the institutions in surrounding states. Each one
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a cry for help, desperately searching for where my mother had been tucked away. I asked for

any information regarding a Florence Reid or a widow who “killed” her husband, anything that

shared similarities to my mother’s situation. Thankfully, working closely with the police has its

perks, such as being able to request any file if I deem it “necessary”. Nevertheless, whatever

institution she had been placed in, remained hidden.

It wasn’t until I received a letter in the mail on this humid morning, that I was met with

a letter from the Brookhaven Psychiatric Institution, which stated:

Dear Mr. Elias Reid,

It is with our deepest condolences that we are writing to inform you that your late mother, Ms. Florence

Reid, has sadly passed away. She truly was a remarkable individual, and we are all grateful to have been

blessed with her presence. Her resilience and progress were evident during her time with us, and she was

regarded as one of our most successful patients. However, despite this, she passed away in her sleep on Tuesday,

June 4th, 1932 at 2:39 AM. Please know that Ms. Reid was surrounded by the highest level of care and comfort

available to her until her final moments.

Regarding her last will and testament, Ms. Reid has expressed her wishes for her body to be cremated,

as per her instructions. Her ashes will be shipped in the coming weeks to the address to which you abide.

Additionally, she has bestowed upon you the rights and ownership of “939 Avenue du Chêne, New Orleans,

Louisiana” to “Elias Reid”. The deed to the property will be transferred and shipped alongside your mother’s

ashes. It was her wish for the property to be passed down to her only child.
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As the new owner, you are now entitled to the rights and responsibilities associated with the property.

If you have any questions regarding the property itself, feel free to contact one of your local law offices who

handle property affairs.

With our sympathy and support,

Dr. Walter Cunningham

Brookhaven Psychiatric Facility

I didn’t know how to react to the letter, too many words for me to comprehend at the

time, and too many emotions to decide what to feel first. Should I be angry with how utterly

fake the letter sounded? Anyone who writes, “the highest level of care and comfort available to her until

her final moments.” is most blatantly trying to hide the truth of the situation. During my time

spent searching for the institution my mother had been placed in, I was exposed to some of the

most inhumane places on Earth. Torture devices masquerading as “treatment”, when in reality

all they did was inflict further suffering onto the patients. Thoughts of my mother being

strapped into one of those devices horrified me. She wasn’t sick. She wasn’t crazy. Even if they

believed she was.

Part of me wanted to drop everything to find where this Brookhaven Institution was

located, but I knew there was no point. She was already dead and what good would it do me?

Would it be easier to believe that she died peacefully as the letter said? She deserved to be

comfortable; after everything life handed her, she deserved to at least be content.
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My questioning was paused as the phone across the hall began to ring, I did my best to

ignore the deafeningly loud ringing that echoed throughout the house. Why couldn’t I just have

a single moment to grieve the death of my mother? The phone continued to ring, my attempts

at ignoring it failed and its noise echoed louder. At the very least they should send a telegram; I

realized only now that no one else knew about my mother’s fate, these feelings were mine and

mine alone. The phone continued to ring for another brief moment until it returned to

dormancy.

The silence only lasted for a few seconds before it began to ring again, and all of a

sudden, out of the corner of my distressed mind, curiosity began to gnaw at me. My grief was

washed away as the urge to pick up the phone grew stronger. Who knew what horrific crime

awaited me today? Sometimes it’s hard to turn off what you do for a living.

Chapter 3: Macbeth

As I picked up the phone, I was met with the sound of a familiar voice. It was none other

than the renowned Sheriff Louis, who is sadly one of the most controversial men in the city

due to his complexion. People question whether a creole man should be Sheriff of the New

Orleans Police Department, but despite the controversy surrounding him, Sheriff Louis has

proven time and again his dedication to serving and protecting the city, regardless of his race.

I personally respected him greatly for what he managed to accomplish during his time

as Sheriff, never before had the city felt so clean. Despite this, the call I received today was a

mixture of distressed ramblings and graphic details trying their best to form a coherent
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sentence. I should note, Louis is one of the most calm and articulated men I’ve ever met, and it is

very rare for him to even raise his voice, let alone be scared.

Just by hearing his voice quiver with unease, I could already tell that he found

something beyond inhumane, something that awaited my arrival with a chilling anticipation.

Allowing him to collect himself, I waited in silence until he spoke again, “Elias, I… I don't know

how to put this into words. There's a body… you need to see it. It's… it's beyond anything I've

ever encountered. I can't even begin to describe it. Please, hurry over here. I need your help,

Elias. I don't know what to do…”, I gave him a chance to catch his breath before I asked for the

address. It sounded like he wanted to just run away and hide under the bed like a child would.

Maybe I underestimated the intensity of the situation… Maybe it’s much worse than I thought.

As I gathered my belongings, I also collected my thoughts, bracing myself for whatever had

gotten him so stirred up.

The address of the crime was located not far from my quant little townhouse, right off

the corner of Canal and Royal Street. I grabbed my gloves and my journal and began to brace

myself for whatever horror I’d be visiting tonight. The thoughts of my mother and her death

continued to occupy the walls of my mind. I asked myself, Would I be able to escape back to reality

once I’ve left the shadows? Or would I finally come to embrace them, accepting the hardest of truths… that I’m a

monster. Despite my conflicted mind, I continued onwards, doing my best to avoid dealing with

my emotions and the thoughts of my mother.

My freshly polished shoes crunched on the loose gravel scattered around. Aligned along

Canal Street were flickering gas lamps, barely lighting the thick shadows that clung to the
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many alleyways. As I walked by, the scent of alcohol and magnolias lingered through the air.

The distant sounds of jazz and blues came from the local bars, as was typical for a Friday night

here. I didn’t recognize where exactly I was going until I caught eye of the tall sign labeled,

“THÉATRE”

As I began to approach the officers and the dimly lit crime scene, memories of my

childhood flooded my head like a murky bayou. It was here, the very place where my mother

had taken me to see Don Juan, my first live performance. This place, a once vibrant and colorful

theater, filled with the aspirations of performers to someday reach the Broadway Stage, was

now reduced to a haunting relic. Broken bulbs, tangling vines, and dusty cobwebs covered

every nook and cranny of the exterior. A perfect place to die, I thought to myself. As I began to

walk through the once dramatic doors, reminiscent memories of my past began to fill my head.

Distant sounds of music that once filled this hall began to come back to me… I had forgotten

how long it had been since I last was here.

The once grandeur of the Théatre de la Rue Saint Pierre had long since passed, what

once brought me great joy was now tainted with death and ruin. The carpeted aisle way was

trailed by a long line of dried blood that led up to the stage; almost like an arrow to show us the

way. Aligned along the walls were faded pieces of art, some showing a story of love, while

others showed that of betrayal. Yet despite their ruined condition, they remained beautiful.

Continuing down, I did my best to avoid stepping on the blood trail, and began to stare

at the multitude of faded murals that decorated the walls. As a child, I would sneak in here all
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the time trying to see as many shows as I could. The arts always fascinated me, or maybe it was

just my only way of escaping reality at the time.

Despite my utter fascination with all things artistic, my father continuously reminded

me that “The arts made men weak.” Though, I’m not entirely sure what my father meant by

this remark, did he deem the jazz musicians as weak men? Or the swing musicians singing their

serenades over the radio? Were those all weak men? To be blunt, my father was a stupid man,

and I doubt he could tell the difference between art and entertainment. From what Mama told

me he couldn’t even graduate high school. Sometimes he couldn’t even understand basic words

in the newspapers and would make her read them out to him. He was a lost cause, pretending to

know how to be a father.

There’s a certain smell that fills the air when a corpse has been left untouched for too

long; I first smelt it when I was left alone with my father’s carcass, and it seems to follow me

everywhere I go nowadays. The smell in particular is a concoction of rotting meat and sewage

water, making a very unpleasant blend, to say the least. Thankfully, Louis had a pair of nose

plugs ready for me so I wouldn’t gag when inspecting the body.

As I began to approach the stage, which was barely lit by portable lamps the officers

brought along, that same rotten smell came back to me. Even through the nose plugs I was

given, the smell still manages to creep into anywhere it can find, it’s very persistent. Atop the

stage was a sprawled-out corpse, surrounded by a large pool of dried blood. It wasn’t until I was

staring down at it that I realized the true nature of the crime, and what had made Louis so

perplexed earlier. The corpse had only one thing missing… it’s head.
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Chapter 4: The Iris

As I stepped closer to the body, the overwhelming stench of decay filled every hole in

my body. It was difficult trying not to gag at first but just like any bad smell, the longer it lingers

the easier it is to bare. Now that I’m up close and personal with this decapitated corpse, I began

to notice a multitude of different details. To start, the victim was male, caucasian, roughly

middle aged based on the wrinkles in his hands, and was dressed in a well tailored brown suit. If

you chose to ignore the missing head then one might’ve considered this man well dressed.

Most notably, however, it seems that the head had been removed while he was alive,

which is proven by the mass amount of blood stains pretty much everywhere near and on the

body. Not even including the trail of dried blood that adorned the path up to the stage, this man

was put through hell, to say the least. "There's no art to find the mind's construction in the

face," I muttered to myself.

Due to some of the inconsistencies in the forensic reports given to me at times, I’ve

gotten in the habit of writing things down on my own accord. So I grabbed my journal and

labeled a new entry:

Friday, June 7th, 1932

Théatre de la Rue Saint Pierre

● Victim is male, caucasian, roughly middle aged, possibly wealthy.

● Victim was carried or dragged down the aisle way, already injured.

● Decapitation occurred antemortem

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As I kept looking back at the body trying to find any more details to record, something

green suddenly caught my eye. Sticking out at the very end of the neck was what appeared to be

a leaf? I knelt down at the very back of the body, staring directly above where the head would

be. That same putrid smell of death came right back, only stronger than before, assaulting my

senses with its nauseating stench. With a steady hand, thankfully still gloved, I reached out to

grab the leaf that didn’t belong to a corpse. To my surprise, it wasn't a leaf at all, but rather an

iris, delicately nestled amidst the grisly remains. My heart skipped a beat as I was suddenly

reminded of my mother yet again.

Everywhere she went she carried an iris with her, whether it be in her hair or in a shirt

pocket, sometimes she would even wear iris themed dresses! The question remains, however,

why today, of all days is there an iris… let alone on the body but inside?

I quickly stood up and began stumbling backwards, dropping the flower and doing my

best to get away from it. Why am I scared of a flower? I asked myself, but as I continued to spiral, a

sudden anger began to grow inside of me, an anger I hadn’t felt in nearly a decade. What if this

was meant for me to find? How did no one else notice this? I was hot, and growing warmer. It was too

much for me to contemplate. The death of my mother. The decapitated corpse. The iris.

It was times like now when Mama would hold me and make everything better. Simple

times when all I had to worry about were nasty bug bites and her soothing touch. Even to this

day I still hear her voice in my head, forever repeating her lessons and comforting remarks.

"Remember, mon petit homme, a smile is your greatest weapon against the storms of life. In the
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face of challenges and doubters, let your smile shine bright like the sun, for it is in those

moments that you find your true strength."

I ran my fingers through my hair and took a deep breath. I thought to myself, everything

is okay, I’m okay, just smile. Even if my Mama is dead, I still hear her voice echoing throughout the

walls of my mind. After all, memories of her are all I have left to remember her by.

Louis began to stare towards me and finally acknowledged the flower lying on the

ground. His thick brows furrowed in concern as he took in my distressed state. "Elias, are you

alright?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

I forced a weak smile, attempting to mask the anger raging inside me. "I'm fine, Louis," I

replied, my voice barely above a whisper. But as the words left my lips, I knew they rang

hollow. How could I be fine when I stood right above such a grotesque display of violence,

coupled with the haunting discovery of my mother's favorite flower inside the victim's neck?

Louis stepped closer, his gaze unwavering as he studied me intently. The same look he

gave me when he asked where the body of my father was. That was before he became sheriff

and was just a mere foot soldier for the New Orleans Police Department. "You don't seem fine,"

he remarked, "Is there something you're not telling me?"

I hesitated, unsure of how to articulate the storm of thoughts and emotions that raged

within me. "It's just...", I began, but my voice was trailing off as I struggled to find the right

words. How would he ever understand? How could anyone understand? “Whatever it is, Elias, you can

tell me," he said gently. I think he sees me as a fragile little teacup. The finest china, used only

for special occasions. Despite this, however, I’m starting to feel like an old mug.
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Before I could begin to respond to his shows of courtesy, a sudden commotion erupted

from the other side of the theater, drawing our attention away from the recently beheaded that

lay before us. Voices echoed throughout the dimly lit hall, mingling with the faint sound of

footsteps approaching. It appears that the press had caught wind of this recent tragedy, likely tipped off by

one of the officers seeking some extra cash.

Louis's expression hardened, his gaze finally left my face and shifted towards all the

commotion. "Stay here," he commanded, his voice ringing with authority as he moved to

investigate the disturbance. He’s a kind man but he sure as hell knows that he’s the boss around

these parts.

As Louis strode off to address the commotion, leaving me alone with my thoughts and

this moment of anagnorisis before me, I took a deep breath, trying to regain my composure.

Turning my attention back to the body, I gazed at the iris that lay still on the stage and

motioned for one of the nearby officers to bag it as evidence. I focused now on the more intact

parts of the victim’s body, looking for as much information about this man as I could find.

I inspected his shoulders and arms, only to find an expensive-looking watch adorning

his right wrist, its surface engraved with the initials "WC." He didn’t seem to have much on

him, until I noticed a thin bulge near the bottom of his coat. I spread open his jacket and

discovered a small interior pocket that was sewn shut, preventing me from reaching inside.

I motioned again for one of the nearby officers to find me a knife, and while I waited I

continued to look further down the body. Inspecting his pants and lower half was rather

disappointing, nothing in his pockets besides some stray lint balls and loose change. His feet
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were covered by yet another, expensive-looking pair of brown shoes, the man was definitely

wealthy.

I scratched out possibly in my journal, just to confirm my suspicions. One of the officers

had finally managed to find a knife and slowly handed it to me. I spread open the victim’s coat

yet again and started to slowly cut away at the seams that had sewn his pocket shut. Once open

enough, I managed to pry out a crumpled piece of paper.

As I unfolded the blood-stained parchment, my eyes fell upon a striking letterhead

embossed at the top of the page. In bold letters, it read "Brookhaven Psychiatric Facility,"

sending a shiver down my spine as I recognized the name of the same institution where my

mother had died. Beneath the ominous header, there was but one key detail: a poem, elegantly

written in cursive script.

Amidst the whispers of the darkened glade,

Where echoes of betrayal never fade,

Beneath the boughs where shadows weave,

Lies the truth that you must retrieve.

Seek where the swamp waters churn,

Where the willows weep and bridges burn,

In the heart of the forest, where secrets dwell,

There, beneath the silent knell.

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For in the place where the old oak stands tall,

And moonlight casts its eerie pall,

There lies the answer you must find,

To unravel the mysteries of the mind.

As I stood there, with the parchment tightly clutched in my hand. Words etched in

blood which mocked me through it’s elegant beauty, and a chilling realization began to dawn

upon me. This wasn't just any murder. This was a carefully orchestrated act, a macabre

performance staged with meticulous detail.

My mind raced as I remembered the initials on the watch, “WC… Walter Cunningham."

The name hung heavy in the air, each syllable a weight upon my tongue. Dr. Cunningham—the

very man who wrote the letter informing me of my mother's passing—now lay lifeless and

decapitated before us, a grotesque centerpiece on this macabre stage.

As the weight of this revelation crashed down upon me, I felt the ground shift beneath

my feet. Walter Cunningham, the man who had shattered my world with a simple letter, now

laid before me, drowning in a pool of his own dried blood. This can’t have been a coincidence… The

murderer is taunting me. They knew about my mother, the institution, the letter. Everything. This was meant

for me to find. This was a gift.

As the pieces fell into place, I couldn't shake the feeling that this murder was no random

act of violence. Someone had gone to great lengths to send me a message, to draw me into their
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twisted game. It was as if this murderer knew me, knew my history, and sought to unravel the

past I had buried deep. Flashes of memories from my childhood and my mother flooded back to

me with an overwhelming sense of helplessness and vengeance. I could feel the edges of my

sanity beginning to fray as fear coiled around my heart like a watersnake.

Whoever did this found Dr. Cunningham as distasteful as I did. I realized that this

murder was just the beginning; a prelude to a dark play orchestrated by a shadowy figure

lurking backstage. And as I stood in a pool of dried blood, with the decapitated corpse of Dr.

Cunningham. I knew that the path ahead would test not only my resolve but also my sanity.

This was only the beginning of a dark journey into the depths of human depravity, a journey

that I was determined to see through to its bitter end.

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