“…Also Anders Bjornsen was there; but he
was dead. And I tell you this about Anders Bjornsen, that he was once a
beautiful man, but now his face was not there, because the flesh of it was
sucked away off the bones. You understand that? My grandfather did not forget
that. And they laid him on the bier which they brought, and they put a cloth
over his head, and the priest walked before; and they began to sing the psalm
for the dead as well as they could. So, as they were singing the end of the
first verse, one fell down, who was carrying the head of the bier, and the
others looked back, and they saw that the cloth had fallen off, and the eyes of
Anders Bjornsen were looking up, because there was nothing to close over them.
And this they could not bear. Therefore the priest laid the cloth upon him, and
sent for a spade, and they buried him in that place.”
 |
| Photo source: Pxhere |
Everyone who has worked in libraries for any time, knows
that libraries are often havens of the lost, lonely seniors, the unwashed
(quite literally) and the unemployed, people filling in – or wasting time.
But they also know about library geeks: solitary young
people who haunt the library when they have no homework to do.
Jim was a library geek – he spent every night in the main
branch downtown, reading Colin Wilson books on murder or the occult or
listening with earphones to Ravel’s “Bolero” at the listening station in the
Fine Arts room – there was even a rumour he’d listened to the library’s entire
Opera collection
.
This was a geek indeed!
None of the staff, not even the High School girls who worked
as pages (and they were all girls in the 70s) knew anything about him. He lived
in an apartment, with his mother, who was apparently a shift worker and didn’t
seem to have any friends. Tall, skinny, with glasses, Jim and his old green
trench-coat quickly faded into the background, so you forgot he was there.
And so no one, at first, noticed he had begun using the
microfilm reader.
Or what he was using it for.
Every town has its dirty laundry, its secrets it never
discusses – in public. In our town, it was a series of murders which took place
in 1937.
Late that summer, a black Terraplane began cruising the back
roads north of town during the hours of darkness. Canada was still in the grips of the Great
Depression and had a high population of young transients working as farm or
casual labourers.
If the car passed a solitary young man walking alone, it
would stop and a voice would ask:
“Do you need a ride?”
And the young man would never been seen again…at least
alive.
Later, parts of bodies would be found in both the Lake and
the Creek and it was eventually concluded that 5 young men had gone for a last
ride in the long, black car. Its driver was one William Magnus, who was hanged
for murder at the old jail on April 15th, 1938; Magnus was the
servant of Dr. Francis E. Morrow, an eccentric doctor who committed suicide by
throwing himself into the Lake before he could be arrested.
The slayings had no known motive; Magnus pled guilty and
went silent to the gallows. Many assume the killings were sexually inspired,
but the local whisper stream claim the young men were victims of peculiar
medical experiments – which failed.
No one knows how Jim learned about the case – no one spoke
of it and there were no accounts of it in any book in the collection – but the
original press reports were available on microfilm, both murders, the suicide,
the trial, the execution…so he began to spend his free time reading yesterday’s
news.
Jim bought a Hilroy scribbler and made notes.
He had decided to write a book about the murders, with the
proposed title: “The Night Doctor.”
From the notebook:
“I doubt these were sex crimes in the usual sense. Morrow
was a brilliant medical student, but considered a crank because of some of his
theories – I need to find an MD to explain it all to me but as near as I can
understand, he thought it was possible that individual body parts contained the
spark of life, i.e., a leg could walk by itself, a decapitated head could
retain consciousness, even think and speak.”
“Is that what he wanted the farm hands for – experiments?
Guinea pigs?"
Jim tried to question his GP about Morrow’s ideas but was
strictly told they were nonsense; the actual term the doctor used was “sick”
and he tried to discourage Jim’s interest.
It didn’t work.
Jim apparently decided to visit the scene of the crimes.
Morrow’s old house on King Street, which backed directly onto the Lake –
providing an excellent place to dispose of bodies and related parts; he was
actually caught trespassing in the back yard, which featured an old concrete
dock, the home owner threatening to call the police if he caught him again.
Jim also found where Morrow was buried in the back corner of
the local cemetery and was observed by a classmate actually talking to the
grave:
“Oh Doc, I wish I could have met you…how I would have liked
to learn your secrets? What exactly where you up to in that house on King
Street – putting your theories into practice.”
Jim was already considered the school weirdo and such
reports did little to improve his social image.
As for Magnus, no one knew where he was buried.
I often did my homework in the library’s reference area; it
was better than staying home. I had a few classes with Jim, so when I saw him
at the Microfilm reader, I asked him what he was doing.
“Some historical research, eh,” he mumbled, trying to brush
me off – which only increased my curiosity. I kept bugging him until he
admitted he was looking into the 1937 murders.
“Wasn’t that some sort of sex crime,” I asked.
“Maybe.”
Jim wouldn’t say more but I did notice he was making notes
in a blue Hilroy notebook.
A few weeks later, I saw Jim talking with a few old
rubby-dubs sitting outside a beer parlour on the Lakeshore Road. As I was
passing, a burly middle-aged man came out of the bar, grabbed Jim by the collar
and yelled: “What are you asking questions about Magnus for?”
“I'm just doing some research,” Jim squeaked.
“Get out of here and mind your own damn business” the man
yelled, shoving Jim around and giving him a kick in the ass that propelled him
down the street.
The rummies raucous laughter filled the night. As I watched
Jim slink away, I thought about asking him if he was okay – but I figured he
might be even more embarrassed if he knew I had witnessed his humiliation.
One night, Jim decided to walk the train tracks near his
apartment and took a short cut around back of the Canadian Tire store when he
saw the car – The Car.
From the notebook:
“April 30th
I was behind the plaza when I saw it – an old black 4-door
sedan – on looking at the front, I was amazed to see the Terraplane logo – it
was a Hudson Terraplane. I checked the tail lights and sure enough the year 37
was moulded into the plastic – might even have been the Night Doctor’s car. It
was huge and I couldn’t resist standing on the running boards when this grey
man, grey hair, grey clothes, came out of nowhere and asked me to get off. He
was polite, but it still freaked me out – where did he come from. I watched him
drive away towards the tracks and it sure had a powerful engine. Guy looked
familiar – maybe he lives in the apartments.”
Later:
“The grey man was William Magnus and he was wearing a grey chauffeur’s
uniform. It’s insane but it was him – I saw a ghost.
After this, the entries in the notebook became increasingly
paranoid:
May 3:
Car followed me home – first saw it on the Rebecca bridge,
then it was prowling behind me along Queen Mary – had to cut thru the woods to
get away. Will stick to well-lit streets from now on.
May 5:
It’s following me up Kerr as well, even though other cars
& people around – I had to go into a variety store and sneak out the back
to get home. Don’t want them to know where I live.
May 8:
Looked out the bedroom window through the curtains 3 a.m.
Car parked on the street, with Magnus looking up at my window. And there were
things on the street or parts of things that crawled or hopped and looked wet
and a head, just a head, sitting on top of the stone fence.
May 10:
They’ve been inside the apartment – everything’s wet and it
stinks like the Lake and like something worse.
May 11:
I’ve spoken to him. He called just after midnight and
explained all. He offers me immortality of a type or at least parts of me and
before he hung up, he said in his cultured voice, “You said you wanted to meet
me – and so you shall, very soon. I hope you won’t find it a cutting
experience.”
My God, what have I done!
May 13:
In the library. No place else to go. They’re getting ready
to close and then what shall I do. Maybe I should go to the police – they’ll
think I’m nuts and put me in 999 Queen Street, but that’s better than this.
Magnus is sitting across from me pretending to read a book – Torso by Marjorie
Freeman Campbell – but he’s just staring at me. And smiling.
The diary ends.
Jim’s disappearance occupied the front pages for several
days, but then the case ran cold until his torso – just his torso – washed up
at Holyrood Park. The rest of him, including the head, were never found. The
local police claimed Jim’s murder was drug-related but anyone who has read the
notebook knows it had another (supernatural) cause.
How do I know all this?
A staff member found Jim’s Hilroy notebook on the floor in
the Fine Arts room and put it in the Lost and Found without examining it. Later
that summer, I had the opportunity of looking through the Lost and Found for a
pair of missing sunglasses and recognized the scribbler – so I took it.
And read it.
And burned it.
And I never did find those missing sunglasses.
The moral of the story: The devil makes work for idle hands.
