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June 7th, 1998

Warden Patterson,

I would like to thank you for giving me the opportunity to work on such an interesting case. Doctor Calihan and I have met many delusional schizophrenics during the course of our practice, but we seldom encounter those with such a vivid sense of self and those who lack any of the negative symptoms of schizophrenia. For the layman, it is as though the patient believes without question that the fictional events he has described to us are true and have happened, yet he does not seem to be suffering from a lack of social skills as is common with this disorder. Such extreme cases of schizophrenia are few and far between in this day and age. I have attached a document that contains all of what Malcolm Lehr has related to us in his journal exercises during our sessions in hopes that it may shed some light on his unique personality.

The following document was written under strict supervision during several court-ordered psychiatric examinations. During his initial incarceration at Greenholme Penitentiary, Mr. Lehr exhibited no strange behavior or habits other than verbalizing some of what is contained herein to guards and other prisoners as though they were fact. We have found Mr. Lehr harmless despite his delusions, which all seem to have occurred in the past, and conclude that he should pose no threat to anyone within the penitentiary walls. We have determined that the stories he conjures are merely the result of an overactive, albeit delusional imagination, which coincides with the mental profile and medical history of his mother's extended family. The following has been included as a means of release for Mr. Lehr. We feel that he should continue to project his creativity onto paper instead of keeping it locked inside his mind. The following writing should be regarded as pure fiction. For the remaining duration of Lehr's twenty-five year to life sentence, we recommend that he be moved back into a communal cell so that his current, private cell may be given to one of the truly dangerous inmates.

Sincerely,

Doctor Deborah Wilson, MD

Chapter 1: Monster

I suppose I should begin with my childhood. I was never a strong child. Other boys my age liked sports, wrestling, and other such masculine activities, but I was the quiet, mousy kid in the corner, reading a book. Books were my escape, you see. They let me travel to distant lands where I imagined the troubles of the world could never reach me. I wanted to raft down the Mississippi like Huckleberry Finn and soar through the clouds with Peter Pan. I envied Charlie for having the opportunity to pilot the Glass Elevator and I thought less of Alice when she wanted to leave Wonderland. I would have lived there forever.

But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. You asked what my real childhood was like, not the one I desired, yes? My life after the deaths of my parents was tumultuous to say the least. My Uncle, George Lehr, took me in during the aftermath among the whirlwind media circus. I was only seven years old after all. Some still say the deaths of my mother and father were accidental, but I was there. I witnessed it all...

The grandfather clock in our Victorian styled foyer chimed five times that evening. My father, Jonathan Lehr, was a lawyer. He had been working on a particularly difficult defense case for the previous week or so. My mother, Emily Sylvia-Lehr, was a homemaker and a socialite, cooking dinner in the kitchen down that hall for a Tupperware party that would never happen. The year was 1955. It was late November. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the drapes as I sat on the floor of my father's study, marching a platoon of toy soldiers made of antimony across the red Oriental while he smoked a cigar at his mahogany desk. He was pouring over all manner of legal papers that I could not even hope to decipher. The walls of the study were lined with shelves that were filled with books. Not just reference and law books, mind you, but books of all kinds and genres. He used to read to me when he had time and before I had learned how. The scent of his cigar was intoxicating. It smelled like smoky wood and the outdoors; things that were very foreign and exotic to me at that time. Preferring to be a world traveler, my father collected trinkets from any antique shop we happened across. The Oriental and my father's various antiques around the study made the room feel like a magical place to me. Playing in that room while he was working gave me a feeling of nirvana that I have seldom felt since. My father removed his thin glasses from his eyes to squeeze the bridge of his nose briefly. He sighed; a sound of tiredness rather than frustration. He looked down at me over his desk while he took a puff from the cigar.

"Having fun, sport?" He asked with a deep baritone voice.

I just nodded, smiling. My father was a handsome man. His face showed no wrinkles despite his forty five years of age and his brown hair had no signs of receding or grayness. His eyes were the kind of blue that you could lose yourself in and they made your breath catch in your chest when he glared at you. He was moderately tall, around six feet, but I knew that he could be imposing if he wished. His build was athletic even though I never witnessed him exercising. Whenever we went out as a family, women would stare as he walked by. It was as if he had some power over them that I couldn't fathom. I often wondered as a child if I would have a similar ability when I grew older. The truth was something I couldn't have ever imagined.

"Dinner should be ready soon, Mal. I bet you're hungry."

"Yeah..." I replied, looking away from his eyes sheepishly.

It was always difficult for me to speak to my father. I idolized the man, after all. I was afraid that I might say or do something to disappoint him. It was an irrational fear and I regret not being able to tell him even the simplest of things. Like how much he really meant to me and how glad I was to have him for a father. I wonder if I did disappoint him sometimes. It's strange, isn't it? How Fate steals those we care about away from us without warning? A soft knock sounded on the door before it opened a crack and my mother's smiling face peered around it. If my father was handsome, then my mother was hauntingly beautiful. She had soft features and kind, green eyes that, like my father's were deep as the deepest forest. Her blonde hair framed the pale skin of her face perfectly no matter how she chose to wear it. Men stared at her as well whenever we were out on the town. My parents would merely smile at each other and ignore it when others watched them. It confused me as young child, but I came to accept that it was just the way things were after a while.

"Supper is ready, gentlemen," my mother said in her flowing, alto voice. "The guests will be arriving at seven o'clock so you both have plenty of time to finish eating before then."

My father and I both stood and I watched him, smiling as he straightened his evening suit. We made our way into the large dining room together, the king and prince of my father's domain. We usually only used one end of the table, but my mother had prepared the cloth with a grand spread for her guests. The table was set as if a holiday feast were about to take place. There were at least twelve different kinds of deserts on the white clothed table as well as tea that brewed in the kitchen. A roast complete with Yorkshire pudding and lime jelly was waiting for us and my father and I eagerly dug in. As he was with his antiques, my father was an intense lover of good food. It was a wonder to me that he remained reasonably thin with how much the man could eat. I was similar, but I had my growth as an excuse. My mother could eat as much as my father, but she was far more reserved about it.

"After supper, Malcolm, make sure to finish your studies," my mother said as we ate. "Mr. Marsh may not be tutoring you this week, but that does not mean you get to play each night away."

"But mother, I hate math!" I whined indignantly.

"Everyone must learn it, son," my father said, smiling. "Do as your mother says."

I frowned.

"Yes, father."

Until that point I had been home-schooled by a "friend of the family." I couldn't have known what purpose Jonas Marsh was serving at that time, but it became clear once I became a young adult. Perhaps if Jonas had been there, he could have prevented the tragedy. I do not mean to advertise my life as perfect before their deaths, but it might as well have been. The years after were far worse and it would be a long time before I ate a meal as delicious as the last one I shared with them that night.

One half hour later, I was studying math in my room. The wallpaper was white with black planets and stars on it. I had picked it out to replace the baby blue wallpaper that had lined the walls when the room was my nursery. There was a small book case next to my bed that was overflowing with the beginning of my collection. Someday I wanted it to surpass even my father's. A small lamp rested on top of the book case. The only other furnishings in the room were my yellow toy chest where I had deposited my soldiers and the wooden desk at which I sat, studying. The problems were not particularly difficult, but I had never had a mathematic mind. I was fed up with my work by the time the doorbell rang at six. I had been studying for an hour and I decided to take a break. I was a curious child and I wanted to see who was attending my mother's party. Creeping to the top of the stairs, I watched through the railing as my mother answered the door. A man stood on our doorstep, much to both my and my mother's surprise. I had been under the impression that my mother had only invited her female friends. He was well dressed, though and carried himself with distinction.

"What are you doing here?" She asked. There was a slight waver in her voice that sounded foreign to me. My mother had never showed fear before.

"I need to speak with your husband," the man said. His voice was deep and scratchy. It had an otherworldly quality.

"I'm sorry, but John is busy at the moment and I am expecting guests in an hour. I'm afraid that you will have to leave," my mother replied, trying to dismiss the strange man as quickly as possible.

"You do me a disservice, Emily. We had an agreement if you recall."

The man kept his face out of my view. It was almost as though he knew he was being watched.

"I do remember. However we also agreed that the deadline would be ten years. You're three years early."

"Things have... changed since. Please call your husband. I would hate to have to create a scene to get his attention."

"You... you would threaten me inside my own home? How dare you!"

The man remained calm throughout the entire conversation. I still wonder what his actual intentions had been when he arrived on our doorstep. His words and actions seemed too measured to be improvising. He produced some kind of rolled parchment from his suit jacket and handed it to my mother.

"I have approval from the council. You would do well to obey their wishes." His voice was little more than a growl.

My mother perused the paper and glared at the man, defeated. I couldn't understand the significance of that scroll then. To me at that age it was just an ordinary piece of paper with words on it.

"Please wait for a moment." My mother's voice was strained. I couldn't tell what emotion she was hiding.

She left the man in the foyer and returned moments later with my father. The atmosphere in the house seemed to thicken as if in preparation for Fate's scissors. The air became heavy as my father stared down the stranger.

"The time has come, Jonathan," The man said. "I'm sure you know what will happen should you attempt to resist the council's decision."

"Just answer me one question. Why has the council altered their agreement?" Where my mother's voice had been strained, my father's was strong, almost defiant.

"Certain... events have forced them to rethink their previous plans."

"You and the council know full well that we will not be ready for three more years. There is no possible way we can honor the agreement now."

"You don't have to be ready. Only he does and your sacrifices will help him along." I could just barely see the stranger grin as he waited a few moments to let the weight of his words sink in. The thin lines of his lips curved upward underneath his pencil-thin moustache maliciously into a visage akin to a hideous Cheshire cat. All time in the house seemed to stop at that moment. The grandfather clock's ticking was silenced and I sucked in a breath at the eerie feeling in the house. The air became stale; none of the people below me moved. I blinked.

The first cut happened in a split-second, the stranger swiping his right arm in front of my father in the blink of an eye. It was as if my father's chest spontaneously erupted blood that splattered upon my mother's face. He clutched his gushing wound as he gurgled in surprise and horror. My eyes were locked open then. I couldn't turn away from the terrifying scene and the sight of the stranger's fingers dripping with the thick maroon liquid. My mother shrieked; the reaction slightly delayed from surprise or maybe from the weight of the air. She started to turn away; to flee, but the man grabbed her and impaled her somehow with his bloodied hand. It forced its way through her back to rip her chest open in between her breasts, spraying blood and bone onto the bottom step of our staircase. My mother's beautiful eyes, once filled with life, rolled back in her head as she spasmed on his arm, her punctured heart staining her dress deep red. I tried to move as she had; to escape, but the oppressive air of the room held me fast. It took most of my effort just to breathe. The stranger discarded my mother's twitching body like a rag doll, pulling his arm from her and tossing her aside with surprising strength. My father roared in fury at the sight of his murdered wife, a sound that sent chills down my spine. He turned on the killer with a ferocity that I had never seen, but his rage blinded him. The stranger remained calm, easily stepping to the side as my father attempted to swing at him. It was over in seconds. The murderer's blade-like hand punctured my father's chest, forcing portions of his spine out of the back of his suit and dyeing our grandfather clock crimson with a burst of fresh gore. At that moment, the grandfather clock resumed ticking and the heavy air abated. Somehow, I forced myself to move and silently made my way back to my room, heart thudding desperately in my chest. I closed the door despite my shaking from terror and shut myself in the closet, fighting back the urge to vomit and praying that the killer would not come for me as well.

When I smelled the smoke from the lower floor burning, I thought the murderer had intended for me to perish in the fire that he had set. In any case, the house that I grew up in burned quickly and I barely managed to flee before the flames consumed the building to its foundations. There was no sign of the stranger on the estate grounds and, from the outside, I watched my father's kingdom burn; unable to think or do anything other than stare in dumbfounded grief and confusion.

I was found hours later, amidst the bushes and trees of the grounds, shaking from fear and the cold like a small dog. I had nowhere else to go; no relatives that lived in New York City, so I took refuge there until rescuers arrived. The police brought in a psychiatrist who asked me many of the same questions that you both have. They determined I was sane, if not traumatized. But who wouldn't be slightly disturbed after witnessing such a scene? Then came the questions about the actual incident itself. No one asked me to identify the killer, though I doubt I could have given them an accurate description anyway. It was only the image of his blood-coated hand piercing my parents that remained etched into my mind. The authorities were all more interested in how the fire was started and they ignored my claims that a stranger had set it after murdering my parents with his bare hands. It wasn't until two days later that my uncle "rescued" me from the questioning police and papers. By that time though, I had been branded a lunatic despite the psychiatrist's diagnosis. The police never discovered any evidence of the stranger's presence and concluded that the fire was started accidentally by items left cooking too long in the kitchen. It was from their myriad theories and accusations of insanity that I was swept into the arms of my uncle. At the time I considered it a blessing to get away from the interrogators. However, George Lehr would prove to be much more of a monster than even my parents' murderer had been that night.