In 1955 I was a spritely 26 year old, I had just graduated in the field of psychology and landed a job in a hospital for the mentally afflicted. Terrible, awful places those hospitals were. Understaffed and over crowded. It wasn’t uncommon to walk into a room and find a patient sullied in their own filth left unattended for days.
Many of those patients had been placed into our care by their own kin. Forsaken on our doorstep no different to an animal discarded at the pound. Some knew not the day of the year nor even their own reflections. Others still seemed not to know that they were living at all. A few were men who had fought in wars and brought demons home with them, though most were confused elders abandoned by their families for the difficulties they caused.
Worse still was that as these people withered away, forgotten by all who knew them, the funding supporting their stay slowly dried up as well. Some families chose to forgo their payments, others simply denied ever making any at all and the monetary support provided by the state could only stretch so far.
Often we were left with little choice but to turn the afflicted out on the streets. Occasionally as I walked to the grocery store I would see some I knew, sleeping among cardboard shelters. Rarely one of these souls would recognise me and reach out a hand to me or try to speak with me.. I’m ashamed to say that I ignored them then. It was easier to pretend I had never known them at all, than to acknowledge their suffering.
However, among the great number of restless souls I treated one stood out. His name was Kenzou Hagihara, though we called him Ken for the sake of simplicity. Ken was in his mid 50’s by our best estimates. His paper work listed no birth date and no patient history. He was a state assigned ward and once a month a tall man in a suit would visit him.
They would sit together for hours without moving or speaking. This was especially unusual because Mr. Hagihara was ordinarily a restless man and very vocal. He would shout nonsense sentences, speaking in both perfect English and Japanese intermittently at all hours of the day. He never sat still, he twitched or jerked continually. That was of course, until the tall man arrived.
Then Ken sat motionless and silent until his departure. It was an unusual thing for certain, and it is my deepest suspicion that he may have at one time, been a prisoner of war. Or something worse. There were rumours of our government partaking in human experiments as part of the war time effort. I often wondered if Ken was one of those.
I was assigned to care for Kenzou after he bit his regular nurse and she refused to go near him again. For the most part he was easy to manage. He allowed me to change his bedding and clean his room. He ate the meals I provided for him without throwing them against the walls. Then one day without warning he grabbed my arm.
For a small older man his clasp was surprisingly strong, his long fingers wrapped around my arm in an iron grip. His eyes were wild as he looked into mine, “There were children! There were CHILDREN!” He hissed with an alarming urgency in his voice.
Taken aback I had absolutely no idea what the poor fellow was on about. There were no children at the hospital, nor had there ever been. I couldn’t think of any answer to give him and when I didn’t respond he shook me firmly, repeating, “There were children! They have the children!”
I won’t say a word of a lie. I was terrified. I winced when he shook me, I didn’t know how to safely deescalate the situation, I had never before been faced with a predicament quite as it was and I was quite certain he would hurt me if I said the wrong thing. It was at this time of personal crisis that I remembered the teachings of one of my professors. He had preached that through building an understanding relationship with a patient one might gain insight and resolve difficulties.
Of course I had never put that aspect of psychotherapy into practice before, however, with Ken in the state that he was, it seemed as good an opportunity as any, “I will listen to you, who has the children?” I asked him, speaking in a subdued tone.
Ken’s eyes widened and his grip loosened slightly. I had never expected such an effect from a single sentence, “The Dunkel Institute. They are… There is no word for it! Kyūketsuki. Kyūketsuki!” He told me urgently. Unfortunately repeating the word had little to no effect for I didn’t know what it meant.
“Tell me about the Qu-ket-ski?” I pronounced the word as best I could and to my relief Ken let go of my arm entirely. He moved about the room then, shutting the door and closing the curtains. He even went as far as to stuff blankets under the crack at the bottom of the door. I was in equal parts alarmed and intrigued. His actions were so deliberate. Done with such purpose, he was far less simple than we had thought he was.
Once he felt the room was secured he began, “My parents immigrated from Japan to this country, I was born here and my father fought in the war.” He paused a moment then added, “The first war, I mean. I learned two languages growing up and found work in journalism.”
I listened as he explained his career achievements and I got the impression that he was sound of mind. If not perhaps a little eccentric. I couldn’t help but wonder how he had ended up in a place like this, that was until his silence interrupted my thoughts and I realised he had stopped speaking.
He looked more nervous now, he twitched anxiously, as if what he was about to say next brought back great traumatic events. Ken seemed to try and soothe himself by clinging to repetitive patterns, eventually he began to pace as he continued his tale, “..After I became head journalist I received all manner of invites to press events. Celebrity occasions, invention unveilings.. Medical demonstrations..” He shuddered involuntarily.
“Then I was invited to the Dunkel Institute of Psychiatry. I had never heard of it before and would have to travel interstate to attend. However the invitation was all inclusive with both travel and accommodation accounted for.. It was an opportunity too good to pass up. Too good to even be true. But I fell for it.
The institute was quite some way out into the country. The boundary of the property was marked by a giant black iron fence. As far as I could tell it stretched the entire length of the grounds and was adorned with sharp points a top every post. I should have known then that something was wrong. Instead I assumed the establishment was one privately owned by an eccentric who valued security. Or at least that was what I had intended to write in my article.
Passing through the gates of the perimeter fence the air seemed to shimmer around us and from then it took a further five or so minutes to reach the building. It was a magnificent structure. Nothing short of a castle made from flag stone, supported by timber braces and garnished with slate tiles. I couldn’t imagine how old it was.
My transport pulled up to the front gate of the building and I stumbled out awestruck. I thought I wouldn’t even have to write about the conference, I would only have to write about the exterior of the castle and the papers would fly off the press. I wasn’t sure where I was meant to go from there, was I supposed to knock on the gates or speak to the guards out front? It hardly mattered for as I stood transfixed a shiny black vehicle came down the drive behind us.
It very nearly hit me as it skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust. The driver stepped out in a hurry, he was a very handsome man. Younger than I by perhaps a couple years, or blessed by the gods, sporting ash blonde hair and dressed in fine clothes. My mother always said a man’s worth is in his wardrobe and I’m sure she wished I was as handsome as this man was.
I watched as he moved to the back passenger door and pulled a child from the back seat. The child was no more than 9-years-old I was sure, with dark hair and clothes that seemed damaged though he made not a fuss at all as the man carried him. They walked past me to the gates and I noticed the smell of smoke, as if there had been a fire. I realised later that it was the pair of them who smelt like smoke and that the child wasn’t merely covered in dirt, but in ashes, soot and what looked like blood.
‘Wash my car, then put it away. And say not a word to my brother about this.’ The man hissed at the guards as he passed, then he seemed to notice me for the first time. He seemed almost startled to see me, he glared at me for a moment, his eyes were an unusual shade of green, then he turned abruptly on his heels and disappeared into the castle.
I had the distinct feeling that I had just been threatened though not a word had been spoken to me. My presence was displeasing, or maybe I had just seen something that I wasn’t supposed to see. I was still recovering from the brief exchange when a lady approached, ’Mr. Hagihara?’ she asked catching me off guard.
‘Yes.’ I answered giving a bow impulsively. The women as just as beautiful as the man was. She was shorter than I, with long straight honey brown hair and deep brown eyes. She wore a long simple dress and smiled at me as if it amused her that I had bowed.
‘My name is Molly. Please come with me, you have arrived later than we intended and the demonstration is about to begin. I will arrange for all your belongings to be brought to your room.’
I didn’t know what I could say so I followed her as I was told. The interior the castle was just as magnificent as the exterior and far larger than I could have ever imagined. Pathways made of cobblestone wide enough for a car to pass through made up the entire outer inner layer and mounted torches lined the walls.
Molly walked with purpose and knowledge until we came to a stop outside a set of wooden double doors.
‘Your seat will be in the second row, on the left.’ She instructed opening one side of the door and gesturing for me to go in.
I did as I was instructed and hurried into the room. Inside it was dim and the air smelt of freshly cut roses, though I could see no flowers. I found my seat easily for it had a small silver tray with a ‘reserved’ sign sitting on it with my name printed in Japanese. This was surprising to me, as never before had any event used my native language written or otherwise.
The seats themselves were plush covered in red velvet and arranged in a semi-circle not unlike that of a theatre. Ahead, at the centre of the room, was a stage set with a medical table that had heavy leather straps. There were others seated in the room for I could hear the low murmurs of a crowd, though with the low lighting I couldn’t see them.
I took my seat and set up my typewriter as a waiter came with a tray of glasses and food to offer me refreshment. I declined the drink but took a small pastry. Then the lighting in the room changed. The stage lit up well and the crowd quietened. A man stepped onto the platform, he walked with authority and his boots clacked on the wood with assurance.
He too was a handsome gentleman. He looked astoundingly similar to the man I had seen at the gates except, his hair was long and tied back with a black ribbon so that only the shorter parts fell forward at the front. His attire was olden, quite out of fashion for the time with a high collar and ruffles down the neckline to the breast of his coat. An excited murmur passed through the crowd and I could tell I wasn’t the only one to notice his unusual choice of clothing.
Nonetheless he spoke with confidence, ‘My friends, thank you all for coming to this exciting occasion. Today I intend to present to you the very latest of treatment options for patients placed in our care. I would like to assure you that all of our methods work exceptionally well. Whether you have a family member afflicted by voices of the mind or are yourself troubled by the darkest of thoughts we are here to offer you hope for a bright future.’ He began, his voice carrying across the room like a ringmaster at the circus.
I typed feverishly on my writer trying to print out all the important details as fast as I could. I didn’t want to miss a thing. This was exactly the kind of story that people would gossip about in the streets for days, a rich eccentric doctor dressed in fashion from the 1700’s curing impossible mental diseases. I thought myself fortunate to catch this story before anyone else-..” Mr. Hagihara stopped abruptly, jumping violently as someone knocked on the door.
He crouched down covering his ears and starting to shout in Japanese that I couldn’t understand as the knocking intensified, “Howard? Howard! Are you aright in there? The door won’t open.” I recognised the voice it was Tracy, Ken’s former nurse.
“It’s okay, everything is fine.” I called back, “I’m just talking with Ken. It’s all okay.” I spoke trying to calm the both of them down.
There was a pause before Tracy spoke again, “Are you sure?” She clarified. No doubt she was thinking Kenzou had somehow trapped me in the room. Which was of course, exactly the case. But I didn’t feel threatened. I wanted to understand, to hear more of Ken’s story.
“Yes I’m sure, it’s okay. I will call out if I need help.” I assured, grateful that she had at least stopped banging on the door.
“Alright..” She said skeptically and I heard her move away. Unfortunately I was unable to get Ken to recover. He seemed to slip back into a state of hysteria. Whenever I would try to speak with him to calm him he only shouted louder.
I resolved with myself that I would try again the following day. Allowing Ken some time to calm down.
[Part 2]()