Achluophobia
Despite the heavy rain that pelted his car, Hugh Plimpton maintained a steady speed along Interstate 83. With any luck he would make New York before midnight. He would then be able to get a decent night's sleep and wake in the morning, refreshed and ready for his meeting with the representatives from Sony.
His wife, Deborah, who had been sleeping peacefully in the passenger seat beside him, was suddenly woken up by the sound of a blaring siren as a Massachusetts State Police cruiser raced past Hugh's Mercedes.
"Where are we?" she asked sleepily.
"About forty minutes north of Boston."
"Can you please get off at the next exit? I have to go to the bathroom, and I don't think I can wait forty minutes."
"But we just stopped in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I swear you have a bladder the size of a walnut," he teased.
"Yes, and did you forget that I had a large coffee then, too?"
Hugh looked at the clock on his dashboard and shook his head. It was already past five; his wife would no doubt be getting hungry soon as well.
"We'll stop and eat while we're at it," he suggested. "I'll top off the gas tank, and then we can get back on the highway and drive right through to New York."
Deborah smiled to herself. She didn't want to upset her husband, but she knew there was no way she could make it to New York without stopping at one last rest stop.
No sooner did Hugh put on his signal and pull off the interstate onto Route 692 than the storm worsened. Not only did the rain come down with increasing force, but it was also joined by strong winds blowing off the Atlantic Ocean.
"This doesn't look too promising," he said when he saw no signs advertising local restaurants at the end of the exit ramp.
Ten minutes later, his wife asked, "What's that up ahead?"
Hugh peered through the rain at a building that bore a traditional British pub sign proclaiming that the name of the establishment was the Green Man.
"It must be one of those pseudo-Irish places where they serve corned beef and cabbage and Guinness on tap and call it traditional Irish fare," Hugh complained. "Just the kitschy type of place I usually try to avoid."
"I say we stop here," Deborah said. "I can use the ladies' room, and maybe by the time we're done eating, the worst of the storm will have blown over."
"I suppose so," her husband grumbled. "For all we know this is the only place around for miles. Besides, it won't be difficult to get back onto the interstate from here."
Luckily, there was a parking space near the door. Still, the Plimptons were drenched to the skin by the time they entered the pub.
"Come inside where it's dry," an amiable redhead greeted them with a welcoming smile. "Would you like something to drink to warm you up?"
"Coffee would be nice," Deborah said and then headed in the direction of the ladies' room.
Hugh frowned, wishing his wife would limit her consumption of liquids until they got back home.
As the New York businessman sat at a table in front of the large stone fireplace, he nodded at an attractive couple at a nearby table.
"Not the best of nights to be out," he observed.
"It certainly isn't," the man agreed.
"Here you are. Two cups of coffee," the redhead said cheerfully and then turned her attention to the other two diners. "Want something to take back to the hospital, Sarah?"
"No, thank you, Shannon. I have some leftover lasagna in the fridge I'd better eat before it goes bad."
"What about you, Lion? Do you want any dessert tonight?"
"As much as I love your pumpkin pie, I'm afraid I'm stuffed. But I will have another coffee."
"Coming right up."
On her way to the kitchen, Shannon Devlin, owner of the Green Man Pub, passed Mrs. Plimpton coming out of the ladies' room.
"Your coffee's at the table," she said. "I'll be with you in a minute to take your order."
"This place is nice and cozy," Deborah told her husband, who was studying the menu. "What looks good?"
"I was thinking about ordering ...."
A crack of lightning followed by a loud rumbling of thunder drowned out the rest of his sentence.
"The storm seems to be getting worse," Sarah Ryerson told her dinner companion. "Maybe we ought to be going."
As the two doctors stood to leave, there was another flash of lightning, after which the power in the pub went out. Shannon was about to reassure her guests that the generator would soon kick in, when suddenly Hugh Plimpton shrieked in terror.
"Are you all right?" Sarah asked just moments after the lights came back on. "You can tell me if something's wrong. I'm a doctor."
"On the table," the distraught businessman replied in a quivering voice. "Didn't any of you see it?"
"See what?"
"It was a glowing light, like a burning candle."
"There's no candle on the table," his wife said.
The power flickered, and Hugh trembled with fear.
"Can we order our food to go?" he asked Shannon. "I want to get back to New York as soon as possible."
"I don't think that's such a good idea," Deborah advised. "You're clearly upset, and the roads can be treacherous in this weather."
"You know I've got an important meeting first thing in the morning. I can't ...."
Another flash of lightning, another roar of thunder, and they were again thrust into darkness.
"Look! There it is!" Hugh shouted.
When the lights returned, the businessman glanced at the faces of the other people in the room. He could tell by the look in their eyes that none of them had seen the mysterious light.
After the second sighting of the nonexistent candle, Hugh was so shaken that he reluctantly agreed to spend the night in Puritan Falls and return to New York the following day.
"I suppose I can phone my secretary and have her reschedule my meeting with the men from Sony for later in the afternoon."
* * *
"According to Dr. Ryerson, the Sailor's Rest is supposed to be about two miles up this road," Hugh said, peering through the darkness as the wipers labored at maximum speed in an attempt to keep the windshield clear.
"That looks like a bed and breakfast up ahead," Deborah said.
Suddenly, the driver slammed his foot on the brake pedal, and asked, "Did you see that?"
"See what? The inn?"
"No, not the inn. Those people. They were ...."
When a flash of lightning turned night to day, Hugh could clearly see that no one was there. He quickly pulled the car into the Sailor's Rest parking lot and sat shaking behind the wheel.
"What did you see?" his wife asked.
"You won't believe me since it's obvious there's nothing there."
"What is it you think you saw then?"
"A funeral procession."
Deborah didn't know how to respond. After all, she'd never had any experience with hallucinations.
The old standby, "Maybe you've been working too hard," was the best she could come up with.
"I always work hard. No, I tell you it's something about this place. I was perfectly fine until I pulled off the interstate and entered that damned pub."
"Don't fret. By lunchtime tomorrow you'll be back in New York. So why don't we check in, have a hot shower, go to bed and get a good night's sleep?"
"That's a great idea. The sooner I leave New England and return to the Empire State, the happier I'll be."
Hugh took the keys out of the ignition, grabbed the luggage from the back of the Mercedes and locked the door with his fob. Deborah was at his side, trying to shield her face from the rain, but as they crossed the parking lot, only Hugh saw the ghostly mourners following in the wake of the phantom casket.
* * *
Dr. Sarah Ryerson had just finished setting a broken leg when she was notified that a man had been brought to the Puritan Falls Hospital after suffering what appeared to be a mild coronary.
"I'll be right there," the emergency room physician announced and then told her assisting nurse to finish applying the cast.
When Sarah met the ambulance at the door, she recognized the woman from the Green Man Pub.
"I didn't expect to see you again so soon," Deborah said.
"I work here in the ER. Does your husband have a history of heart problems?"
"No. He's always been as healthy as an ox."
"I'll examine him and order an electrocardiogram. After we get the results, I'll decide whether or not to admit him."
"You mean he might have to stay here?" the wife asked. "Oh, that's impossible! He's got an important meeting tomorrow with representatives from Sony. He's already had to reschedule once."
"Mrs. Plimpton, I don't mean to alarm you, but your husband's life may be in danger. I don't think you should be worrying about business meetings."
As Dr. Ryerson was listening to her patient's heartbeat through a stethoscope, he suddenly opened his eyes. There was a look of panic on his face.
"It's that woman," he said.
"What woman, dear?" his wife asked.
"She thinks I'm responsible."
"Try to stay calm," Sarah cautioned when Hugh's heartbeat quickened to a dangerous rate.
The patient ignored her advice and continued to rant. The doctor then ordered the nurse to give him a mild sedative.
"I think it's best if he stays here tonight," Sarah told Deborah. "Why don't you go get some sleep? I'll call you when I learn something."
* * *
The following morning when she walked into her husband's hospital room, Deborah braced herself for bad news.
"How's he doing?" she asked the nurse on duty.
At the sound of her voice, Hugh's eyes opened.
"It's her," he cried. "It's that woman!"
"What are you talking about?"
"The woman from the Green Man. She blames me. You wait and see. She'll put one of those goddamned Irish curses on me."
Deborah turned toward the nurse with a look of apology on her face.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with him. He's not himself."
"Don't worry," the nurse assured her.
Since the emergency room was not very busy, Sarah Ryerson herself took the time to speak to the Plimptons.
"Good news," she announced. "All the tests came back negative. Your heart is fine."
"I won't be if that Irish witch has her way!"
"What's gotten into you?" Deborah asked with horror.
"Are you one of them, too?" Hugh asked his wife. "What is your business here with me, anyway?"
"My business? Don't you know who I am?"
"No. Should I?"
Deborah turned toward the doctor, her eyes imploring Sarah to help. The physician took the frightened woman out into the hall.
"Has your husband had any head injuries recently? Any emotional shocks?"
"None that I'm aware of. And I'm sure if he had, he would have told me."
"Would you be upset if I asked my friend, Dr. Penn, to speak to Hugh?"
"Is he a neurologist?"
"No, he's a psychiatrist."
"If you think it's advisable," Deborah replied, fighting back her tears.
* * *
As a favor to his good friend, Sarah, Lionel Penn cancelled his lunch plans and went to Puritan Falls Hospital to meet with Hugh Plimpton.
"Other than a quick evaluation, there's little I can do for the man," he had warned her ahead of time.
"I realize that. I'd just like you to give me an opinion on whether or not he should be discharged from the hospital. I can't find anything medically wrong with him, but if I release him and he winds up hurting himself or someone else ...."
"What are his symptoms?"
"He appears to have a sudden abnormal fear of the dark. The nurses had to keep the lights on in his room otherwise he'd shriek with terror, claiming to see candles and coffins."
"Okay, to set your mind at ease, I'll go have a talk with him."
Hugh was sleeping soundly when the psychiatrist arrived. Since Lionel had an appointment with a patient in two hours' time, he felt justified in waking him.
"Where am I?" Hugh asked, still half asleep. "Who the devil are you?"
"You're at Puritan Falls Hospital, and I'm Dr. Lionel Penn."
"What am I doing in a hospital?"
"The EMTs brought you here after you collapsed in the parking lot at the Sailor's Rest. Your wife was afraid you'd had a heart attack."
"My wife? You must have me confused with someone else. I'm not married."
"You appear to be suffering from amnesia," Lionel concluded upon his brief examination, "yet you didn't suffer any head injury when you fell."
"Amnesia be damned!" Hugh shouted with impatience. "I know perfectly well who I am. I'm Alistair Plimpton of the New York Plimptons."
"Your wife—not to mention all the identification in your wallet—claims you are Hugh Plimpton."
"I ought to know who I am, young man."
"I agree," Lionel said, believing that an evaluation was always easier when he had the patient's full cooperation. "Tell me, Alistair, what are you doing here in Puritan Falls?"
"It's that woman! She blames me."
"What woman is that, and what does she blame you for?"
"That redheaded Irish waitress at the bar."
"You mean Shannon Devlin, the owner of the Green Man Pub?"
"That's the one. She blames me for Donal Devlin's death. It's absurd! I didn't kill him."
"Why would she blame you then?"
"I don't know. Why don't you ask her?"
With that said, Plimpton closed his eyes, intent on going back to sleep. Despite Lionel's attempts to engage the man, the patient refused to answer any further questions.
* * *
Shannon Devlin was surprised to see Dr. Penn walk into the Green Man in the middle of the afternoon—too late for lunch and too early for dinner.
"I have a craving for pumpkin pie," Lionel said as he sat down at his favorite table.
"As if you'd take time out of your busy schedule for a slice of pie! What is it you really want?"
"I'd like to talk to you about the man who was in here last night, Hugh Plimpton."
"Oh, him. What's wrong with him, anyway?"
"That's what Sarah would like me to find out."
"But he's going back to New York, isn't he? Why involve you?"
"She has to sign the hospital release papers, but she'd like my opinion on his mental state before she does."
"I don't know how I'd be able to help you. I don't know the man. But go ahead and ask your questions."
When Shannon sat down opposite him, Lionel smiled like a mischievous school boy and said, "I wasn't kidding about that pie."
Shannon got up, went to the kitchen and returned several minutes later with a slice of pumpkin pie and a cup of hot coffee.
"Do you know a Donal Devlin?" Lionel began.
"I had a great-grandfather by that name. Why?"
"Hugh claims he's a man named Alistair Plimpton and that you blame him for the death of Donal Devlin."
"That's bizarre! I don't know any Alistair Plimpton, and all I know about Donal Devlin is that his name appears on the Devlin family tree. I never even met him; he died in the early Fifties."
"What did he die from?"
"I don't know, but I suppose I could find out."
"I don't expect you to go to too much trouble," Lionel concluded after finishing his pumpkin pie. "The man's not my patient, after all. I'm just doing Sarah a favor by offering an opinion."
The psychiatrist reached into his pocket for his wallet, but Shannon insisted the pie and coffee were on the house.
"There is one thing you might want to consider when you form your opinion on Hugh Plimpton's state of mind," she said as Lionel got up to leave.
"Oh? What's that?"
The look on Shannon's face was one that Dr. Penn had seen before on the faces of certain residents of Puritan Falls. It was a look that could be translated as "you're not going to believe a word I tell you." Shannon and Lionel, however, had both been born and raised in the small Massachusetts village, and more often than not had come to believe the strange occurrences that went on there.
"Last night at dinner when he claimed to have seen a light shining on the table, I thought it had been a reflection or that trick your mind plays on you after you turn the television off and the screen seems to glow. But the light wasn't an isolated incident. I talked to his wife on the phone this morning. Hugh saw something right before he passed out in the parking lot."
Lionel was intrigued. Why hadn't anyone mentioned this before now?
"What did he see?"
"A phantom funeral procession."
"A what?"
"There's an old Celtic legend about ghostly funerals, called teulu. Some people believe seeing one is an omen of impending death. The same is true of canwyll corff, a Welsh term meaning 'corpse candle.' It's also known as a death light, a light that predicts a death."
"You think what Plimpton saw in the Green Man was a corpse candle?"
"He saw something, or at last he believed he saw something," Shannon reasoned. "Maybe he thinks these strange visions are a sign that he's going to die. And maybe that's why his mind has taken refuge in another identity."
"I think you missed your calling," Lionel laughed. "You should have become a psychiatrist. But I'm glad you didn't."
"Why is that? Don't want the competition?"
"No, it's not that. You make the best pies in Puritan Falls."
* * *
"He's lost his mind," Deborah cried after visiting her husband. "Can't you help him, Dr. Penn?"
Shannon, Sarah and Deborah all looked up at the handsome doctor like he was Sigmund Freud reincarnated.
"Therapy can take months, even years. What I can do is recommend a good psychiatrist in New York."
"He can't go back to New York like this!" Mrs. Plimpton insisted. "What if I have him committed? Isn't there some facility near here that will take him?"
"I'm afraid modern psychiatry doesn't believe in confining people to asylums. There are prescription medicines, outpatient therapy ...."
"You're just going to let him walk out of this hospital in his condition?"
"I can have him transferred to the psychiatric ward for observation."
All three women smiled, as though their faith in him had been justified.
"Splendid!" Deborah exclaimed. "I want to hire you to be my husband's doctor—if you agree."
Lionel wearily nodded his head, wishing Sarah had never gotten him involved.
"Now what's this about ghost funerals and death candles?" Deborah asked, directing her question toward the owner of the Green Man Pub.
"They're old Celtic legends ...."
"I don't think that's the question we should be considering," Lionel interrupted.
"But he saw something in the restaurant and then later both in the road and in the Sailor's Rest parking lot," Deborah argued.
"Legends and superstitions aside, I want to know why he believes he's Alistair Plimpton, and more importantly why he thinks Shannon blames him for the death of Donal Devlin."
"I suppose you want me to dig up all those family tree documents now?" Shannon asked.
"Yes, and if you don't mind, I could sure go for another slice of your pumpkin pie."
* * *
With Sarah on duty in the emergency room, only two of the three women met with Dr. Penn in his office. In addition to Lionel's piece of pie, Shannon brought with her a large cardboard file box full of documents detailing the history of her family. Her mother's side, which went back to the early settlement of Puritan Falls, constituted the majority of the papers, and they were put back into the box. It was the remaining files, which dealt with the Devlin ancestors, that were of interest to the three people seated at the conference table.
"Alistair Plimpton," Deborah noted while reading one of the documents, "was born in 1842 in New York and died there in 1913. Your ancestor, on the other hand, was born in Puritan Falls in 1887 and died here in 1954. I don't see any connection between the two men. They were from different generations, were of different social classes and lived in different states."
"Donal Devlin's death was the result of natural causes," Lionel said after reading the death certificate. "He suffered a massive stroke. Why would Hugh's subconscious mind think his ancestor was even remotely responsible?"
"Maybe we ought to forget about this Alistair Plimpton identity and go back to the dead candle and ghost funeral," Deborah proposed.
"Wait!" Shannon cried, looking up from the pages of an old family Bible. "I think we're not finding a connection because we're looking at the wrong man. It seems my ancestor was named after his uncle."
"And perhaps that Donal Devlin does have a connection with Alistair Plimpton," Lionel suggested.
"I remember my grandmother telling me a story about the first Devlins to come over from Ireland," Shannon said, putting the Bible down. "It was a young widow and her three children. The mother died on the voyage over. Her oldest son was a boy only fifteen years old, yet he had to care for his two younger siblings. Oh, it was a sad story. The young man had no money, so he accepted three hundred dollars from a wealthy family and joined the army."
"I read about that," Lionel said. "A drafted man could pay for a substitute to fight in his place."
"What happened to him?" Deborah asked.
"The poor boy was killed in battle," Shannon replied.
Lionel saw a possible connection.
"Alistair Plimpton bragged of being from the New York Plimptons, a family that would have had more than enough money to pay for a substitute."
* * *
"Why the hell am I still here?" Hugh demanded to know when Lionel entered the hospital room. "Why hasn't that infernal doctor signed my release papers yet?"
"I'll talk to her and see if I can't speed things up," the psychiatrist replied, humoring the man. "While I'm here, I thought you and I could have a talk."
"About what this time? I hope not my imaginary wife again."
"How about your war record?"
Lionel could tell from the dramatic change in the patient's countenance that he had struck a nerve, figuratively speaking.
"Another nonsensical question!" he boomed, but he was clearly flustered.
"You were from New York. Didn't you serve in the Union Army? Is that where you met Donal Devlin?"
"She put you up to this, didn't she?" the patient growled angrily.
"By she do you mean your wife—oh, excuse me, your imaginary wife?"
"No, that other woman, the redhead from the bar."
"Shannon didn't put me up to anything. She didn't even know Donal Devlin existed—until now."
"She blames me for his death. I could feel it the moment I saw her in the pub that night. It wasn't my fault he died. He was killed by Confederate soldiers, not by me."
"I'm not here to debate your guilt or innocence. I'm only here to assess your mental state. To do that, I need to know what happened to you. What was the catalyst that set you off? When you went into the Green Man Pub, you were Hugh Plimpton. At what point did you suddenly become Alistair? When the power went out and you saw the corpse candle? Or was it later, at the Sailor's Rest, when you saw the phantom funeral?"
Hugh shook his head in denial and insisted, "There is no Hugh. I'm Alistair Plimpton of the New York Plimptons."
"Alistair Plimpton died a hundred years ago."
Lionel's words had a dramatic and immediate effect on Hugh. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and his breathing stopped. Lionel ran out to the nurse's station and called for help. When the resuscitation team arrived with their crash cart, they discovered the patient had made a complete recovery.
"What's going on?" Hugh asked, with an inquisitive expression on his face.
"You stopped breathing," Lionel explained.
After the team determined he was in no immediate danger, Hugh asked the psychiatrist, "Where's my wife?"
"Wife?"
"Yes, Deborah, my wife. Where is she?"
"Who are you?" Lionel asked.
"I'm Hugh Plimpton. We met the other night at the Green Man Pub."
"A few minutes ago you swore you were a man named Alistair Plimpton."
"I did?"
"Yes. I'm a psychiatrist. Your wife asked me to talk to you about your recent experiences."
"What experiences?" Hugh asked.
"You saw a glowing candle on the table when no one else in the pub saw it. Then you told your wife you saw a phantom funeral. I was asked to see you because there was a possibility you might be suffering from achluophobia, the fear of the dark."
"I don't remember anything about candles or funerals. What I do remember is that my wife and I were driving back to New York after spending the weekend in Maine. Deborah had to go to the bathroom, so I pulled off the interstate. The last thing I remember was stopping at the pub for something to eat."
Having overheard her husband's last sentence from the hallway, Deborah entered the room with a beaming smile on her face.
"Thank God! You've regained your senses!" she exclaimed.
"I wasn't aware I'd lost them," Hugh said with a carefree laugh.
* * *
Lionel and Sarah met at the Green Man Pub after Sarah went off duty. Given the lateness of the hour, there were only a handful of diners, most of whom were finishing their meals. As a young waitress totaled the check for an elderly couple near the window, Shannon headed toward her friends' table.
"Coffee?" she asked.
The question was simply a formality; the two doctors always wanted coffee.
"Doctors and coffee," Sarah said as she removed her lab coat. "Around the hospital it's a cliché like cops and donuts."
When Shannon came out of the kitchen carrying a pot of hot coffee and two cups, she was surprised to see the Plimptons sitting at Lionel's table.
"I thought you two went back to New York," she said.
"A change of plans," Deborah explained. "We're going to take a trip to Ireland instead. Hugh wants to visit a little town called Castlemaine in County Kerry."
Shannon dropped the tray she was holding; thankfully, she had already put the coffee pot and cups on the table.
"Castlemaine, you say?" she asked. "My father's family came from Castlemaine."
An hour later, Sarah and Lionel were the only two patrons left in the pub. The waitress had already gone home for the night, and Shannon was sitting at the table drinking coffee with her friends.
"We ought to go, Lion," Sarah said. "Shannon must be exhausted."
"No, I'm fine."
"Are you sure? You haven't been your usual animated self tonight."
"Sarah's right," Lionel agreed. "I've never known you to be this quiet."
"Something's been bothering me. Did either of you find something peculiar about Hugh Plimpton?"
"As a psychiatrist, I did think it was a bit odd the way he just snapped out of his delusion," Lionel said. "One minute he said he was Alistair Plimpton, and the next he was back to being Hugh."
"I'm not so sure it was a delusion or that he snapped out of it," Shannon said.
"Do you think he was faking it the whole time?"
"No. I think the man who came into the Green Man with his wife the other evening was Hugh Plimpton. I'm not so sure about the one who just left here tonight."
"You think he still believes he's Alistair?" Sarah asked. "Why would he lie?"
"I think Alistair and Hugh were one and the same but that neither one of them was in here tonight."
"There's something you're not telling us. What is it?" Lionel asked.
"The night we were looking over my family records in your office, I came back here to close up. When I turned off the lights I saw a canwyll corff, and on my way back home I saw a teulu. I think these visions foretold a death."
"Whose?" Sarah asked.
Shannon took a sip of her coffee before answering and then turned toward the psychiatrist.
"Lionel, you said Hugh stopped breathing and you ran to the nurse's station to get help. I believe he died in the short time you were out of the room."
"Then who's in Hugh's body?"
"Donal Devlin, the orphan from Ireland who died on the battlefield after taking three hundred dollars to fight in Alistair's place."
"It seems a bit farfetched to me," Sarah said, "even for Puritan Falls."
"Why? Don't you think it's odd that he wants to visit Castlemaine, the place where Donal Devlin was born? What do you think, Lionel?"
The psychiatrist finished his coffee before answering the question.
"My mother always believed everyone has a time to die. Who knows? Maybe Alistair—and then Hugh—was living on borrowed time. Maybe his time to die was back in the 1860s."
"And by the same token," Shannon added, "it wasn't Donal's time to die. It's possible some unknown hand corrected a mistake made one hundred and fifty years ago. Maybe no one can buy a substitute when it comes to the Grim Reaper."
"On that note," Sarah said, rising from her seat, "I'm going home. I have another long day ahead of me tomorrow. Hopefully, my patients will have nice, normal ailments like broken arms, upset stomachs and sprained ankles."
Shannon Devlin put the empty coffee cups in the kitchen sink, grabbed her coat and handbag and then followed Lionel and Sarah out into the Green Man's parking lot. Before unlocking her car door, she peered through the pub window to make sure it was the security light and not a canwyll corff that was glowing in the darkness.
Although his ancestors don't come from the Emerald Isle, O'Salem is not one to pass up a good Irish pub!
