The Book: Chapter 36

Alice’s world had shrunk to the size of the book.

She stared at the blue glow of her laptop screen, the light making her throbbing headache worse. She’d neglected her work again, spending hours searching for information on Cole, and, with less success, the cashier, Emily. After cross-referencing names, she’d followed every breadcrumb she could find on Earnest Cole. Mick had tried to help when he was there but the deeper they dug, the more obsessed Alice became. Mick left, and she barely registered it. He could’ve set himself on fire, and Alice would’ve asked him to keep the noise down.

She didn’t go to bed on Wednesday night, alternating between her obsession with reading the book and finding out what she could about Bedlam and its residents.

There was little to unearth regarding Emily Whiting. Hers was a tragic story of abuse and neglect leading to addiction, madness and incarceration. There was nothing to indicate whether she had ever left the hospital.

Earnest Cole was a different matter—entire dissertations had been written about him. By chance, Alice found the key she was looking for.

Cole’s records weren’t public. They were locked away in a government-run CHC facility, along with other patient files from cases under legal dispute. A small band of relatives were still fighting for restitution after all these years, demanding answers for the horrors their loved ones endured behind the walls of Bedlam. Decades had passed, but ghosts had long memories.

Alice had no right to access those files and no legal way to obtain them.

So, she lied.

She fabricated a request under the guise of patient care, citing an active case where a patient had developed a fixation on Earnest Cole’s crimes. She claimed the records would help them understand the current patient’s delusions. It was a severe violation of ethics and her hands shook as she typed the email.

Within hours, the Bolton archive facility had photocopied the original records and dispatched them via courier. The size of the box governed the space on her desk and the scent of aged files made her want to blow her nose The pages were fragile, the text faded in places, smudged by time and careless handling.

The courier had dropped the box off and hurried away, as though he wanted nothing to do with its contents. She unpacked it and turned the first page.

Cole, 1906-1956, was a respected businessman. The smug owner of a thriving accountancy firm, he was well respected and mixed in polite circles. He had a wife, children, and friends. When asked at the time, they all described him as dependable and charming. ‘A man of impeccable manners and unwavering routine.’

But Earnest Cole hid another side—his dark half.

Alice’s fingers tightened on the paper as she read.

He travelled often, visiting clients in their homes. If they had pretty wives, something inside him writhed with abhorrent jealousy. A hunger surfaced that had everything to do with power and nothing to do with money.

He butchered the husbands, whistling a merry tune as their wives watched.

The men he dispatched quickly—they were an inconvenience. But the women—"The lovely, terrified ladies”—he used an axe on them to prolong the pleasure. He’d hack their limbs off while they screamed. He was systematic and precise. A bookkeeper to the last, recording every gruesome detail in secret journals to enjoy, later. They were his confessions, made no less monstrous by being transcribed in a professional hand.

Alice’s stomach lurched. Cole did whatever he wanted with them and then zipped up his penis, dismembered them, and returned home in time for tea.

He cleaned up, leaving nothing on his clothes. There was never any blood spatter or evidence. No hesitation.

He fulfilled his needs with the same dedication that prevailed in his job and he terrorised, undetected for years. After a good afternoon, he’d take a nice slab of cake home for the family. Ethel loved her cake. For years, the police never suspected him—until one of his victims escaped.

A woman, naked, missing an arm, and drenched in her and her husband’s blood, stumbled onto Richmond High Street, barely conscious and screaming for help.

That was game over for Earnest Cole.

Alice exhaled, but the knot in her chest tightened. The details in the psychiatrist’s report were sickening. Everything was recounted down to the pet names Cole had for his children and the Madeira cake, bought from the bakery, after a massacre. It was a monstrous account, but something was missing.

There was no mention of the book.

The records covered his trial, his incarceration at Bedlam, and the psychiatric evaluations—but without any mention of being cursed by the green devil.

 Then, Alice found a possible clue on the final page.

She read to the last sheet and scanned the words, her pulse quickening.

‘His incredible obsession is unlike anything I’ve ever seen—’

At that point, the page had been ripped out and the rest of the report was missing.

A violent, jagged tear and the end of the sentence was gone.

Alice stared at the space. Somebody had taken the rest of the file.

Her hands reached for the phone before she had time to second-guess herself.

A woman answered after two rings. ‘Bolton CHC, how can I help?’

‘Good afternoon. I received the records for Earnest Cole,’ Alice said, forcing her pitch to be neutral. ‘But I think there’s been an error. The last page is torn and the rest of the records are missing.’

‘We sent everything we have on record.’

‘Please listen. I can see where the page has been torn. But it’s a document of vital importance. I must have the rest of that report.’ She felt her voice rising and swallowed.

‘I’m sorry, Dr Calvert. We have nothing further on Earnest Cole.’ The woman’s tone was sharper now and Alice picked up suspicion in her voice. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

‘No. That’s all. Thank you,’ Alice said. She ended the call and stared at the torn page. Somebody didn’t want her to see what came next.

Days blurred together. Work lost its meaning. Food, sleep, everything felt meaningless.

Alice spent every moment she could pouring over the book and searching for answers that were never written.

Her colleagues avoided her but she barely noticed. Mara’s friendly smiles were hesitant and Calvert’s sharp stare stayed on her longer than necessary.

She had skipped ward rounds and left vital charts incomplete. Betty stopped her in the corridor and Alice clutched the book under her arm as though the alter might steal it from her. ‘Dr Grant, I am being brought forward to take charge too often. I’d like you to increase Thomas’ Risperidone. Can you see that it’s done before I go mad?’ Betty asked.

The book had infiltrated Alice’s head as Betty was speaking. ‘Tell him he’s a freak. Go on. Tell him. Freak Boy. Crazy little freak boy.’

‘No,’ Alice shouted. She put her hands to her ears, careful not to drop the book. ‘Get out. Leave me alone.’

Betty stepped back, startled. ‘And they say the collective’s mad,’ she muttered before her head dropped, and Floyd appeared in her place.

‘Hi, Dr Grant. Don’t listen to Simon. It wasn’t me who took the stapler from your drawer. As if. I mean, it’s always locked up isn’t it? Stands to reason, if you ask me. Too many dafties in the head around here.’  

Alice pushed Thomas and his band of merry men out of her way and lurched down the corridor clutching the book and mumbling to it.

It laughed at her.

She got to her sanctuary and locked the door, pushing a chair underneath the handle for added privacy from the dreaded knock on the door. A week ago, locking herself in her office would’ve been a professional suicide. Now it was just Thursday. She opened the book.

A fall is not always from a great height.

A father’s heartbeat won’t stop when the heart still beats.

Sometimes the dying just need a push.

Her thoughts tangled in a nest of paranoia. It wasn’t safe here. Somebody was always in danger. But bad things could happen anywhere. She waited to see what it would lead her into. She turned the pages. She ignored the knocking. And she disregarded the shouting. ‘Dr Grant open the door or we’ll have no choice but to call security.’

Her eyes scanned the writing, left to right. Left to right. She turned another page—fingers, eyeballs and the pulse in her neck were the only things moving in the room.

Two pages had somehow stuck together. She frowned, suspicious, running her finger over the edges. They weren’t like that before.

She tried to prise them apart, but they resisted. They were soul-bonded like a flesh-healing wound. Looking for something to use as a letter opener, she realised she couldn’t risk it. The secret to life could be written between those fused pages.  So, using her nail, she managed to peel back one corner. She saw part of a sentence beneath the sealed paper. It was a name.

The book didn’t want her to read that scene, but she had the upper hand because it had unwittingly revealed the character’s identity.

She scratched the edges, peeling away more of the page.

The lights flickered and a gust of wind slammed against the window, rattling it. The light hummed, then burst, sending glass raining onto her desk. A deep, guttural laugh slithered through the room. ‘Stop it,’ she said, not bothering to shield herself from the falling glass. ‘Do you hear me? No more broken bulbs. It’s boring. No more.’

There was stillness.

‘What are you doing? Don’t you leave me? Come back. I know you. I see you. You’re going to hurt, and kill, and make people cry. Why are you doing this to me?’

The book was open, the sealed pages refusing to give up the trapped words.

But she had seen beneath the tear.

‘They’re coming. What have you done? They’ll make me leave and then I won’t be here to stop you. I need to run before they get here. Help me hide until they’ve gone. Why are you doing this to me? Why?’

She stumbled to her feet. ‘That’s my name on the page. Mine. What have you written about me? Tell me. They’re coming—I can hear them. I have to get out. Do something. Stall them.’ Her breath was ragged, her vision tunnelling. The book knew something.

If she wanted to stop security from taking her, Alice had to harness the book’s energy—and use it against them.

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