Dr. Mystery
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It was late when I returned to my office and found a note on my desk. It had been written in pencil, but the writing looked old—not as if it could belong to anyone younger than fifty or so. “You’ll never guess where I am,” it read. It was signed only with an initial.
I took off for the hotel where I’d met the doctor at dinner, thinking that I might find him waiting in his room like he said he would be. As soon as I arrived, though, I realized this wasn’t likely. The lobby was empty; no sign of Dr. Mystery anywhere.
So I went upstairs to Room 101, where I found a note from Dr. Mystery on the nightstand saying that he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow afternoon and to leave my name and number in case I decided not to wait.
But there were two envelopes next to the note; both addressed in Dr. Mystery’s neat hand: one to me and another marked “Private.” I opened both envelopes and found that they contained identical notes—one to each of us. They read:
Dear Mr. Black,
I know you’re wondering why your wife is gone. Well, she couldn’t stand it any longer. She left this morning. But don’t worry about her. She won’t hurt herself. She doesn’t really love you anyway, but I’m sure she loves me more. If you ever decide you want to find out what happens when people die, let me know. You can reach me at this address: New Orleans, Louisiana, USA.
“New Orleans?” I thought as I stared at these words in disbelief. Then I put the letters away and sat down heavily on the bed. I hadn’t heard anything more about the supposed resurrectionist who’d supposedly died years ago. He was just a rumor. A ghost story, maybe; someone’s idea of something to frighten children into behaving better.
Or perhaps the death of this alleged resurrectionist had simply made some impression on my subconscious mind after all those years of reading and listening to horror stories, and my brain had come up with this crazy notion.
But even in the best of times, there are far too many lunatics wandering around New Orleans for me to think of it as being a normal city. And besides, Dr. Mystery’s letter had been signed with his real initials rather than those he’d used in the book.
So I did what any sane person would do. I called a cab and drove home. There was no question of going out again until I spoke to my wife.
***
My name is Richard Black and I have been married to my lovely wife, Susan, since our wedding day five months ago. Susan is a teacher by profession and has always worked hard at making ends meet. We’ve never owned a car, and when we go shopping, we shop at small, privately owned shops.
When she isn’t working, Susan likes nothing more than sitting on the front porch drinking lemonade with friends while kids play nearby. My wife also reads voraciously, mostly novels, nonfiction books on health issues, and magazines such as Time, Newsweek, People, and the like.
She’s a good cook (although I admit I prefer ordering in) and makes me feel loved every single day. Our marriage has been full of laughter and romance.
Susan is thirty-four years old, but looks younger; I suppose because she never takes life too seriously. At school, she teaches third grade, and during recess, she sits with the little ones telling them stories about their parent’s lives when they were young and how they fell in love.
Her eyes light up with delight as she tells the kids about my proposal and our wedding ceremony. Sometimes the kids ask her if they can marry me when they grow up and my beautiful wife smiles as if it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever asked her.
Susan is also quite attractive—tall and thin and always elegantly dressed in suits and dresses. She keeps her dark hair short and styled, and although she’s much too serious most days to ever think of wearing makeup, her eyes have a certain sparkle that I enjoy seeing whenever I look at her face. In short, she’s everything that I could ever want in a woman.
Susan didn’t know the first thing about the paranormal until our honeymoon. That happened shortly after we returned from Jamaica, where we had stayed at Sandals Beach Resort. We’d flown to Montego Bay together and spent a week exploring the island before traveling by airboat to the resort itself.
The trip had been magical, romantic, and wonderful. One afternoon, Susan and I were relaxing on the beach and gazing out over the ocean while holding hands. “It’s so strange to see this place without all those people,” she said. “They were everywhere last year.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “We got used to it pretty quickly, though.”
As we talked, a group of tourists walked past us, chattering animatedly and taking pictures of each other and the scenery. As soon as they passed, the peace and quiet resumed.
Susan leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “You know what, baby? I’ve decided to try my hand at scuba diving next summer. It’s not something I can do right now because of my knee, but once my doctor says it’s okay, I’ll take lessons. Maybe we can get back to Jamaica again or maybe one of those all-inclusive resorts. I think there are some new ones around here.”
I laughed. “Sure,” I replied, knowing that Susan loved anything to do with travel and exotic locations. Then I kissed her softly on the cheek and went back to staring out at the sea. Susan smiled and turned to look at me. “Are you sure there aren’t any more of those little fishies swimming around your leg?”
“No,” I said as I pulled her into my arms. We held each other tightly. “I promise.”
The trip home was much different; our moods weren’t nearly as relaxed after returning to our tiny apartment. Although we had enjoyed our time away, neither of us had felt entirely comfortable in paradise. I wasn’t surprised when we arrived home, unloaded our luggage, and settled in for the night.
After unpacking our things, we took a shower together. I shaved my legs in the bathroom and then joined her in the bedroom. We climbed under the covers and snuggled together. Susan reached for the remote control, hit the power button, and switched off the television.
“What are you smiling about?” I asked.
Susan rolled onto her side and looked at me. “Nothing.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “I’m exhausted after being cooped up on an airplane for almost twenty-four hours. Besides, I don’t like coming back to that godforsaken place.” I meant that quite literally. While we’d been in Jamaica, I’d seen the same kind of houses we’d lived in growing up; the only difference between these homes and ours was that ours had central heat instead of fireplaces.
Susan nodded in agreement, then put her head on my chest. I ran my fingers through her long black hair as we lay there and stared out at the dark ceiling. After a few minutes, I reached down and squeezed her buttock and gave a squeeze. “You know, I really missed you on vacation, baby.”
“Me too,” she whispered as she hugged me tightly. “When are we going somewhere else, John?”
I paused. My mind was filled with thoughts of where we might go after Jamaica, and I suddenly realized just how badly I wanted to make love with my wife that night. We hadn’t made love since the honeymoon. “I thought we’d stay here for another year, maybe two, and save all our money. We’ll buy a bigger house, maybe hire somebody to fix up this one.”
Susan lifted herself onto her elbow and looked me in the eye. “But I miss having a baby.”
I stopped moving my hands and rested them gently on top of hers. She was looking at me very seriously as if she had something important to tell me.
“What makes you say that?” I asked softly, hoping for a hint.
“Well…it’s hard for me to explain.” Susan sighed. “All those times on vacation, all those women—well, I guess ‘women’ isn’t exactly right, but they’re older than us and have their own lives. But there are so many kids there. All of them want attention, especially when I’m walking around by myself.
And they’re so damn cute. They were always tugging at me to come to play with them, but I could never find the time.” She turned to face me, her eyes bright in the darkness. “It’s so easy for you to leave them behind, but I couldn’t do that.”
She was serious, which worried me more than a little. “Baby…” I started, then paused and took a deep breath before continuing, “There is no baby. There hasn’t been a baby—not that way, anyway. If we had a baby, I’d be telling him or her to go outside to play, not to tug at their mother.”
Susan looked relieved but disappointed at the same time. Her shoulders slumped slightly and tears began to form in her eyes. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry, baby.”
I put my arm around her and pulled her against me. She buried her face in my neck and cried quietly while I stroked her hair. When her sobbing became less violent, I kissed the top of her head and whispered, “Don’t cry, baby.”
After several minutes, the crying stopped altogether. Susan leaned back so that she could see me. “John…there are so many women in that place. The only thing you need to worry about is me. Please don’t ever stop loving me.”
We sat there without speaking for a couple of minutes before I broke the silence. “Why do you think you’ve missed these children? You mean other than the obvious fact that you have a wonderful husband who spoils you rotten every day and makes you feel loved and appreciated?”
Susan shook her head and sniffled. Then she reached over, took my hand, and placed it on her breast. “Yes,” she said quietly, “that’s part of it, but I can’t explain any of that. It seems like I should know what’s bothering me, but I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like I’m going crazy.”
“Baby…” I began as I moved my fingers across her nipple. “If you’re feeling this way because of all the kids you saw playing in Jamaica, I assure you that it won’t always be like that. As your husband, I promise you that.”
She nodded and smiled at me. “You’re such a sweet man, John.”
As if on cue, I felt a sharp pain in my gut and let out an explosive cough. I clutched my belly and gasped, “Damn, baby, you didn’t have to rub my stomach so hard.”
Susan frowned but did nothing else. She continued to hold my hand and stare into my eyes for a couple of minutes until I felt better. She was very still for a minute and finally asked softly, “Do you remember what you said on our honeymoon?”
I laughed. “The first time I heard that question, I was afraid to answer it honestly, even though I knew I should. What would happen if we told people that our honeymoon was interrupted by a hurricane?” I shrugged. “But now I think it’s time we faced reality, as much of it as we can, anyway. Let’s face the truth together. Tell me.”
Susan’s expression changed as if someone had hit her upside the head with a baseball bat. Suddenly the look in her eyes was gone. A new one replaced it—fear. For the longest moment, neither of us spoke as we listened intently to hear a sound from somewhere in the house.
Then my wife turned away from me and looked up into the darkness overhead as if searching for answers there. Finally, she whispered, “I don’t know how to tell you.” She paused, swallowed hard, and said again, “I don’t know how to tell you.”
My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach when I realized what she meant to say. I squeezed her hand and asked, “Tell me what? Tell me the truth!”
Susan’s lips quivered and her voice shook when she answered. “There are some things—things that I really wish I’d never done—but I did them. And then they got worse.”
“Like what?” I asked as calmly as possible. My hands were shaking badly enough that I could barely control them. “Tell me the truth, Susan. We can handle anything. Anything.”
She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them and looked directly at me as she said, “It’s too late to turn back now.”
The End