The Augustine Murders - Season 2, Episode 4

II.4

                 “The boundaries which divide Life from Death are 

                  at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where 

                  the one ends, and where the other begins?”

Edgar POE

The premature burial

February 9^th, 1990 – Friday

– “Only two slices left, Scott... Pace yourself a bit.”

  Tom was holding a half-eaten slice in his hand. The rest of the cheesecake was on its plate by the bedpost, next to the alarm clock. It was almost 2AM, which marked the end of a pretty busy night.

– “You pace yourself, bad boy... Hurry up and finish!” Scott suggested, with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  The Bell boy had been following his instructions all night. This was the second night in a row with two large pies and a whole cheesecake for Scott. The young journalist had grown quite an appetite since he had come to Biberton, only a few weeks ago.

  As a guest at the Paddington Hotel, he had also proved to be a good customer – according to Tom, at least. Meeting him after hours meant a hundred bucks for “room service”, with another fifty for desserts in bed.

– “Your wish is my command, Sir.”

– “Good. Go a bit faster, then...”

  Tom was lean and limber, but a bit too lazy for Scott’s taste. With his arms crossed behind his head and the Bell boy sitting on him, he was supposed to be the lazy one.

  Scott felt the boy’s thighs around his hips, and a soft hand rubbing the sides of his belly. He slapped his tight butt a few times.

– “There you go... Harder!”

– “You shut your pie hole with cheesecake.”

  Tom reached for another sliced and stuffed it into Scott’s mouth, forcing him to eat it in three big mouthfuls. This made the two of them smile with delight. Scott enjoyed being forced like this – Tom could tell. He had to spread his legs a bit further, as the big boy felt bigger and thicker inside him.

– “Only one slice left.”

– “I know...” Scott moaned and sighed.

– “Tell you what... Next time, I’ll bring you a bucket of ice cream.”

– “What kind?”

– “Rocky road?” Tom teased, riding Scott like a cow girl.

– “Okay...”

– “With chocolate chip cookies!”

– “Deal...”

  The two young men were on the same wavelength, now. Tom didn’t wait for a second, and grabbed the last piece of cheesecake.

– “Open wide!”

  It was Scott’s turn to behave like a good boy. He didn’t feel stuffed, even after he had eaten a whole chocolate chess pie, a triple layer honey-glazed apple pie and a strawberry cream cheesecake...

– “A whole bucket of ice cream and a dozen cookies...”

– “Yes, please.”

– “Make that two dozen cookies!”

  “Everyone in this town wants to fatten me up...” Scott thought, as he gulped down the last bite of cheesecake.

  Tom made him lick his fingers, all sticky with strawberry cream. Then he made him cum, loudly – he was getting better at this.

– “Quite a bumpy ride, tonight... Woof!”

  Scott felt both hands rubbing his well-fed belly... The boy couldn’t help a discrete chuckle as he patted that soft, quivering ball. His thighs were also pressing it a bit rounder, as he slowly let himself out of bed.

– “What did you say?”

– “Nothing. Only, you know...”

  Tom kept patting Scott’s sides, making his whole midsection jiggle a bit, nice and soft – and plump.

– “What, are you calling me fat?”

  The boy blushed, like a kid caught stealing, with his hand still in the cookie jar. Scott was a good customer, so he smiled and behaved like the good little slut he was. He rested next to him, still rubbing his stomach, glistening with sweat.

– “Not fat. Just... well-padded for this.”

– “Okay...”

– “Yup.” The boy slapped Scott’s belly in a sudden, cocky move. “Well-padded, you Football stud...”

  Tom was clever, in his wicked way: that was a perfect choice of words, and Scott responded with a passionate kiss – and a generous tip.

– “All right. Shower...”

  Scott got out of bed a bit sloppily. He was in the mood for a good, hot rush in the shower rather than a long, toasty bath in the Jacuzzi – which would be much more appropriate after breakfast. He didn’t have to go to work too early, today. 

  Tom was still in the bedroom when he came back, feeling fresh and satisfied. It was rather unexpected: the boy usually made himself scarce, once he had been paid. Scott had been quite clear about it.

– “Are you looking for something?”

– “No... I have something for you.”

– “What is it?”

– “Two letters. I’m pretty sure that the second one is, you know... another weird message for you...”

– “Let’s see.”

  Scott gave Tom a sideways look. He didn’t feel like sharing too much information with him – or anyone, for that matter.

– “Thank you.”

– “You’re welcome... It’s my job.”

– “Good night?”

  Tom didn’t insist, although he was obviously dying to know about the content of that second letter – and maybe just the same about the first one.

– “Leave them wanting for more...” Scott smiled.

  He was standing in front of the room’s full view mirror, wearing only a large, fluffy, white towel around his waist. His smile didn’t exactly come off, but turned into a grin, self-indulgent and sarcastic at the same time.

– “Well-padded, my ass... I’m getting fat.”

  There was no need to beat around the bush. Scott had been eating really well, from his first day in this cool but funky town, taking advantage of every opportunity to stuff his face – and “opportunities” like this kept coming his way from all over the place.

  The wet towel fell on the floor. Standing up in all his naked glory, Scott looked at his reflection and smiled again, using both hands to rub his belly. Gravity was definitely a universal law that wouldn’t let itself be forgotten. Scott’s midsection was not only curved out like an egg, his underbelly was sagging a little bit from the growing amounts of flesh that kept pushing it out or simply rested on top of it. His bellybutton was surrounded with such an expanse of thick, soft skin that it looked ready to surrender at any time...

  Scott knew that he would struggle to close his pants, in the morning. He knew that he would have to wear them lower than ever before. He knew that his belly would rest in his lap like a ball of dough when he took a seat.

– “Oh, well... Who cares, anyway?”

  The big boy got back to bed, lying down and feeling his full stomach churning. It wasn’t much of a stretch to pretend that everyone in town wanted to fatten him up... There were enough people working on it to make his throat hurt and his belly stretch, growing rounder and heavier.

  Scott was holding one envelope in each hand, but he was in no hurry to open either of them. His thoughts were creamy, gooey and sticky, like the cheesecake he was busy digesting right now...

– “Tom’s treating me pretty well. I guess that would be okay, if he was the only guy in town who wants to stuff me full of food...”

  As it was, Tom was the least of his worries. When he took a moment to think about the students in Augustine Bells, he wasn’t at all surprised that most people would change the name of that Prep School to Hogs, Teen Bellies...

  There were a lot of strange things going around, on campus – and a LOT of food! Scott’s recent friendship with the head of security, Mr Richard Wingrave, was a constant reminder – especially now, as his jeans felt tight to the point of leaving red marks all around his waist when he put them off, in the evening.

  Rick was obese. After their last heroic morning together, fighting against three or four dozen boxes of pastries, he had confessed that his weight was definitely over 400lbs, and there was no sign that he should be slimming down anytime soon, in spite of his efforts to do cardio exercises with the school’s male nurse – whom he kept calling Graham.

  The blonde guy’s name was Phil, but it seemed that the young journalist was the only person in Augustine Bells with enough brain cells to remember that minor detail...

  Scott’s deal with Rick had proved more profitable for him than expected. They shared food and split the money as partners, now. Naturally, Scott felt a lot more bloated around noon, and he had already packed on some pretty noticeable weight, but Rick always looked so round, so full and so heavy... Whatever he was trying to do with Phil – running, jogging or swimming – as he claimed to feel a lot better, every time he joined Scott for more pies and pastries, he was still short of breath and almost choking on cream-filled doughnuts before they were done...

  Spending every morning with Rick could become a bit tedious. Scott had a complete map of every building on campus, very detailed, with a special code so he could take notes about certain places, rooms or even spots in the gardens. There was little “unexplored territory” there – and very little left for him to learn. He was still waiting to get his hands on the security tapes, from the night when Michael was dead in such mysterious circumstances.

  Scott didn’t attach too much importance to these tapes, anyway. He had seen a few minutes of it, and they proved mostly uneventful.

– “Oh well... It’s still good leverage, for that matter.”

  There were other ways to get him closer to the real mystery in Saint Augustine Bells. As a journalist, Scott knew that he would need the help and support of the local authority – namely, sheriff Maxwell.

  One afternoon lunch with him was enough for them to establish a bond of trust and mutual respect, with common interests in sports and other physical activities – and a typically male display of shameless, competitive gluttony!

  There was no doubt that Scott was eating too much, but sheriff Maxwell kept daring him to eat even more... Tall, black, strong and hard like ebony, Damon was nothing less than magnificent around the buffet or at the dinner table. He would open the top button of his pants after the first three or four helpings of food, and kept on eating until the second button popped on its own – then he would order desserts until the third button in his tight uniform would at least threaten to pop out like a bullet. That was a “decent meal”, according to him.

  To his own astonishment, Scott had managed to follow him all the way through that afternoon. A waitress had to help the fully stuffed Damon out of his booth. Scott felt relieved that he had been sitting on a bar stool, with plenty of room around him...

– “What a meal!” Scott sighed, eyes half-closed. “One more cookie and I would just explode...”

  Resting like a beached whale under the covers, the well-fed young man couldn’t forget those mixed feelings of painfully stretched, aching stomach and deliciously stuffed, contented belly. Living in Biberton was definitely a new experience for Scott. Temptation was everywhere, and he kept yielding to it: food, sex, money – and mystery...

  Even that blonde teddy bear of a doctor didn’t seem to mind that he had put on weight. Scott was looking forward to having dinner with him, as he had weaseled his way out of a lost bet – another occasion for him to enjoy himself to the fullest in this town of lumberjacks!

– “Okay, so... what does Mrs. Astern want from me now?”

  The first letter informed him that Michael’s mother would be in Biberton for the week-end. She would be free for an interview on Monday. Scott read the letter twice – it was rather short, explicit, commanding as expected. Somehow, there was also a nervous, impatient feeling to it, as if Mrs. Astern had something very urgent and important to tell him that couldn’t be shared on paper.

  Scott had been waiting for such an interview, but he was even more interested in meeting the senator’s wife now.

  He put the letter back into its envelope, and took a better look at the other one. Tom was right. There was something slightly odd about it.

– “Let’s see.”

  It was another message signed “I.M.N.” Scott had every reason to be annoyed: there were only five words in it, more cryptic than ever...

– “Remember me: Jan. 21^st, 1932.”

  That was it. Scott considered the day – Michael was found dead on the 21^st of January. There had to be some secret meaning to it, then. But why did the message refer to the same day, almost sixty years ago?

■ ■ ■

  Scott didn’t get much sleep. Anonymous messages were always a game of cat and mouse – and he didn’t enjoy being the mouse, right now. After another short shower and a hearty breakfast at the hotel, the young journalist had put on his best clothes and his favorite leather jacket to take the bus.

  The security office was empty, behind the gates in Saint Augustine Bells. Scott always came through the back door, since he had received the key from Rick. It was still pretty early, but something felt odd about being welcomed by a tall pile of boxes on the desk instead of a guard or a secretary.

  These boxes of pastries couldn’t be ignored. Scott had spent enough time with Rich to take an educated guess: there were twenty-five boxes for him, and just the same for the head of security.

  Scott sat down and opened the first box: chocolate eclairs – a decent start. He started eating immediately.

  He was still alone when he was done with them. Then he took the five hundred dollars stashed in the bottom of that first box, and moved on to a nice, honey-glazed apple cider cake.

  Even after a good breakfast, it felt good to indulge like this. Scott cut the cake in eight big pieces and munched them down like a real glutton. Eating helped to distract him, as he kept thinking about that new message: 

“Remember me: Jan. 21^st, 1932.”

  It didn’t mean anything. Scott grunted. He couldn’t make head or tails of it.

– “No more cat-and-mouse for me, today... I’m a fat cat, now!”

  The young man laughed and patted his well-fed stomach. He would have felt a lot better if Rick had been here to share this.

  The sun was showing on top of the trees, on campus grounds. The whole office was bathed in gold, and Scott heard noises in the security office. He recognized Mr Wingrave’s voice.

– “Yo, Graham!”

– “Good morning, Rick.”

– “Where do you think you’re going?”

– “To work... To my office.”

  Rick wasn’t alone. Scott couldn’t miss Phil’s voice either.

– “Come on, you know the rules. Hands against the wall.”

– “Do you seriously think that I have something to hide?”

– “It depends. There’s not much room left for you to hide anything, down there. Come on, hands and feet apart. You don’t want me to do this the hard way.”

  There was a moment of silence – rather uncomfortable, too.

– “All right, you’re good to go... I had a hunch that you were hiding something under that T-shirt, but I was wrong. You must have grown a little bit thicker... Ha ha!”

  Mr Wingrave was still laughing as he entered his office. Scott could see Phil walk away, looking at the window. He was only wearing a tight T-shirt and short pants like a rugby player, and he looked athletic more than anything else. Rick, on the other hand, looked like he was holding a water balloon the size of a beach ball, as he rubbed his jiggling belly with both hands...

– “Hey, Scott. Already at it, I see... Good!”

– “No time to lose. Look at these, all yours...”

– “Don’t worry about me. This is just what I need, I’m hungry!”

  Rick sat in his chair, and joined Scott in their daily, morning eating game. For almost an hour, there was not a sound in the room except munching, gulping down, guzzling and chugging, followed by a few well-deserved belches...

– “I didn’t see your assistant, this morning.”

  Scott’s question was only natural, but Rick only shrugged at it, with a growl. He finally gave him a proper answer, when he was done with his cupcakes.

– “He’s at the hospital.”

– “I didn’t know that he was sick.”

– “He’s not sick. He was attacked, last night.”

– “Oh...”

– “Badly injured, too. Graham had to put fourteen stitches on him.”

– “Wow, that’s bad...” Scott hesitated to ask. “What happened?”

– “What do you think? He got ambushed...”

– “You mean to say that he got mugged?”

  Rick responded with a nervous laugh. Then he opened another box, and stuffed his mouth full of Kentucky butter cake.

– “Don’t be silly! Biberton is a perfectly quiet town.”

– “But you said...”

– “Danny was attacked by three students, on campus.”

– “Oh...”

– “What were you thinking? We are dealing with violent kids here, every day... You came to investigate about a murder, in the first place, what can you expect from this place?”

– “Yeah...” Scott suggested with a sly grin. “Murder.”

  The young journalist knew that he had hit a bull’s eye when he saw Rick stop devouring his cake. He had let the cat out of the bag, and it was too late to deny anything now.

– “Yeah”, he whispered. “Frustration, violence... and murder.”

  Scott didn’t say anything. He could always pretend that he was busy munching on another doughnut. Rick was red in the face. He threw caution to the wind, and admitted that he couldn’t accept Michael’s death as merely an accident.

– “You’re the only person I’ve told this... Well, you’re the second person, but Graham doesn’t count.”

– “Graham?”

– “We’ve been talking about this, since he’s started coaching me to... BURRRP!... lose some weight. He’s a good coach, too. Not much of a runner, but he’s a good swimmer – and a lot stronger than he looks.”

  Rick patted his large gut lovingly. Scott asked him about the attack, and the students.

– “There were at least three boys, according to Danny. They will be grounded for a few days, no matter how much they intend to bribe me...”

– “Of course.”

– “This means that you won’t see Brad today, by the way.”

– “What? He was one of the boys who assaulted your assistant?”

– “Yup. He’s a regular troublemaker...”

  Scott had a bad feeling about this, but he couldn’t ask for any kind of special treatment. He would only have to wait – again.

– “How about my copy of your security tapes?”

– “You’ll get the cassettes tomorrow, okay?”

– “Okay...”

  There was another long moment of silence. The two men wouldn’t stop eating, and neither of them interrupted the other while he was stuffing his face... Then Scott was done with his share of the pastries. All the buttons in his shirt looked like they were about to pop opened.

– “Well... I’m full!”

– “You certainly look that way”, Rick complimented.

  After a short pause, Scott decided to ask him about his last cryptic message.

– “What do you make of it?”

– “January 21^st... 1932. Huh...”

  Rick thought about it for a minute.

– “I have no idea. My father was born in 1932, that’s all I know about it.”

– “Of course...”

– “This must be about our school, so you should ask some historian maybe.”

– “You’re right. It would be a good start.”

– “Then who was around here in 1932? I can only think about two guys who would fit the bill: Mr Scupper and Mr Thorne.”

■ ■ ■

  Mr Scupper was busy in the garden. He appeared to be in a bad mood, and he hardly said hello when Scott joined him. Rick’s assistant wasn’t the only victim of assaults recently perpetrated by some violent boys in Augustine Bells. The school had also lost two gardeners in the last six months, and Mr Scupper was alone to take care of everything.

– “I can’t even get anyone to mow the lawn...”

  His interest was piqued, however, when Scott showed the anonymous message with that mention of the year 1932.

– “I was born in Biberton, so you were right to ask me but there’s little I can do to help you. I was only three years old, back then. You should ask Mr Thorne about this...”

– “Thank you. I will.”

  Scott was about to leave. Mr Scupper grabbed his arm, suddenly.

– “Do you think that this has something to do with...”

– “What with?”

  Mr Scupper nodded, as if he was hesitating to share something truly important with Scott.

– “You should ask Mr Thorne... like I said.”

– “All right, I will.”

– “Yes... You should ask him about the ghost.”

  Scott looked straight into his eyes. The old man was serious.

– “A ghost?”

– “Yes. I shouldn’t tell you about this, but since someone has been feeding you such information, you have the right to know...”

– “What is it?”

– “I.M.N. This came as a breakthrough for me...”

– “It did?”

– “Yes. I’ve been trying to cover for it, but it was quite clear. I.M.N. These are the initials for Ian MacNeill.”

– “Okay. Who is he?”

– “Don’t ask me who he is, but who he was. Ian MacNeill was a prison guard. He worked in Saint Augustine Bells, and this is where he died... in 1932.”

■ ■ ■

  Calling Mr Thorne for an interview wasn’t too difficult. Scott took two bottles of the finest brandy from Rick’s office and invited the dean of boys for a talk about Napoleon. They agreed to meet around two in the afternoon.

  This allowed Scott plenty of time to take a nap. He was really stuffed and out of breath, after another busy morning with Rick. Walking to meet Mr Scupper felt like a chore to him. He couldn’t ignore his own weight when he took a walk in the grass, wandering aimlessly on campus. His hip hurt a bit, once again.

  Scott had found a pavilion, almost abandoned, which may have been used as a rose garden. There was a room for the gardener, with a large couch and a view – perfect for him to lie down and rest. The young man knew that he wouldn’t be bothered by anyone.

  Lying comfortably on that couch, with two fluffy pillows behind his head, Scott opened his pants and shirt. Then he took a deep breath – and projected a loud belch against the ceiling, that echoed for a moment through the empty room:

– “BUUUUUUURRRRRRRP!”

  Letting it out – and letting go – was pure relief for the big boy, who started patting and rubbing his full stomach to ease the pain. Then he turned to the side and looked at the sky and the trees moving with the gentle breeze outside.

  He heard the bells sound for lunch time – but not for him. He had only eaten pies, cakes and pastries until now, but he couldn’t face any kind of regular meal, not for the next five or six hours, at least!

  Scott may have closed his eyes for a while. Sleeping wouldn’t hurt. When he looked at the window again, he saw Phil walking in a field with a lawnmower.

– “Mr Scupper has found someone to help him mow the lawn...”

  Then he yawned, smacked his lips and closed his eyes again.

■ ■ ■

  Mr Thorne was discussing something with Mr Porkenham, in the director’s office. Scott had to wait for him outside, but he didn’t mind. As a matter of fact, he kept trying to avoid Mr Porkenham, ostensibly so, since the pompous old man had made it clear that he wouldn’t be interviewed again.

  He didn’t have to wait too much. Mr Thorne was leaving, bowing to his director and closing the door behind him.

– “Have a nice day. Have a nice day... An ice cold one, for sure!”

  Mr Thorne had only mumbled those last words. He waved at Scott and invited him to follow him to his office.

– “Good brandy! You know something about liquors, boy.”

– “I have learned from the best...”

– “We won’t be interrupted. I’ve asked Mrs. Spread for some tea and chocolate pie. Now that we’re settled, she will get busy elsewhere.”

– “Tea?”

– “Mr Porkenham took my glasses away...” Mr Thorne shrugged.

  Then Scott was served a double, double extra dry brandy – neat – in a mug, with a large piece of pie. Pastries and alcohol, that was his diet for the day...

– “Sit down, my boy... What did you want to tell me?”

– “I wanted to show this to you.”

– “Oh, your “I.M.N.” message? Did you receive another one?”

– “I did.”

  Scott gave him the envelope.

– “Remember me... Sure. January 21^st... Okay. Oh, 1932?”

– “What do you make of it?”

– “What do I make of it? I was only five years old, in 1932. I was born and raised in Biberton. My father was a shopkeeper on Main Street. I don’t remember that year precisely, but... I guess, I know what this day means for this school.”

– “What happened on that day?”

– “There was a fire. Many people were injured. Some buildings were destroyed... They have been rebuilt in the fifties. Then there was one casualty.”

– “So... that person died in the fire?”

– “Not exactly. You see... The fire was started by the inmates.”

– “Inmates? You mean the students?”

  Mr Thorne took a deep breath. His hands were shaking a bit, as he was looking for a pack of cigarettes inside his vest. Scott could see him hesitating, just the same as Mr Scupper.

– “I meant inmates, because the school served as a State prison for a few years. There was a big riot in January 1932. It lasted for a whole week. One of the guards was taken as a hostage, and he was killed before the Police and the Fire Brigade put everything back to normal.”

– “And this prison guard...”

– “His name was Ian McNeill.”

– “I.M.N.”

– “That’s right.”

  Scott was offered another large slice of pie, which he couldn’t refuse, now that Mr Thorne seemed willing to talk. It was a bit difficult for him to eat such sweet, rich and filling food, but he was all ears...

– “The story I am about to tell you goes back to the Roaring Twenties...”

■ ■ ■

  “Back in the day, when Congress passed the infamous Volstead Act, prohibition came into force in Biberton. That was not received too well. The brewery had to adapt its products, which were the pride and joy of many citizens. It also meant a great number of job losses in the county, only a few years after the World War. Needless to say, most men were unhappy with that decision from the government...”

  “But there is no doubt that the saddest man in town was Ian McNeill.”

  “Ian was in his early thirties. He had fought a few battles in France, but he had come back to the United States a healthy, strapping young man. He was tall and rather handsome, as the story goes. Some say that he had left a sweetheart in Europe, and he missed her terribly. Some say that he had simply tasted to all the many beers in Belgium and the North of France. Be it as it may, the result was the same: poor Ian was a hopeless alcoholic.”

  “He had been fighting against it for a few years, and he seemed to have won that battle. However, as any true alcoholic should know, that kind of battle is a daily fight against your inner demon. You wake up in the morning, put on your boxing gloves, and keep them on until you go back to sleep... Anyway, Ian was hired as a prison guard in Saint Augustine Prison when the breweries stopped providing him his favorite drink.”

  “In 1917, the number of students had decreased so much that the school – inaugurated in 1898 with great ceremony, and a presidential visit from William McKinley – and the local administration decided to turn the institution into a prison. This lasted until 1934, then president Roosevelt came to Biberton and put everything in order. There were a lot of new buildings, including the main hall and its tower. That’s when they added the “Bells” to the original name.”

  “Just as the school was devoted to troublesome, rich kids – as it is today – it made sense that Saint Augustine Prison would specialize in the criminally insane, dangerous cases. There weren’t so many cases closed with a defendant found “not guilty by reason of insanity”, in those years. As for psychopaths, the term was loosely applied, and not as famous as it is today. Some of the inmates were definitely crazy. Some were the harmless kind of crazy, who only needed to be kept under surveillance. Some were truly deranged, and a genuine menace to society. Then some of the most hardcore cases were better isolated, and guards such as Ian had to keep an eye on them at all times...”

  “As you can imagine, Ian’s life wasn’t easy. He was single, living cheaply, with constant fear of being hit or bitten, verbally assaulted and harassed more often than not... Being forced to stay sober only got him depressed.”

  “Then Ian found solace in the only addiction left available: hard candy.”

  Scott interrupted Mr Thorne for a moment. He was half done with his chocolate pie, but he was definitely struggling to eat bite after bite. It felt like sinking his teeth into a brick of pure butter, heavily flavored with sugar and cocoa...

– “Hard candy?”

– “Yes. Lollipops, candy canes, whatever... Biberton’s brewers had found a way to transform their facilities to the best possible use. After a few years of financial struggle, they made profits again.”

– “Okay...”

– “I remember a song. Wait, it’s an old song, but they used it for commercials for a while...”

  And Mr Thorne, encouraged by a generous mug of brandy, started singing with a rather blurred voice and almost no sense of pitch:

         “Oh the candy stick striped like a gay barber’s pole,
          was a luscious delight of my infantile soul...”

  Then he broke into a laughter.

– “Can you imagine such words being sung today? Ha ha ha!”

– “Well... No, not really.”

– “Anyway... Where was I?”

– “Back to when Ian was eating hard candy.”

  Scott was doing his best to listen to Mr Thorne’s story patiently – and finish his pie without forcing the shirt to split opened around his bellybutton...

  “Ian wasn’t exactly skinny, to start with. He had the right physique for a prison guard: tall, broad shoulders, heavy build... You get the picture. He must have weighed 200lbs when he was hired. Then he was still enjoying a daily beer, after hours. When that was no longer an option, he turned to candy and that became a constant activity for him. He was particularly fond of butterscotch and toffee. His pockets were always full of those, and he kept sucking on one or the other. It helped him go through the day.”

  “He also had a good appetite, and prison food is always pretty starchy. Then, as it was bound to happen, Ian started putting on weight. He had been appointed to the building and cells of our most dangerous criminals. Food was the only kind of comfort he got, then his appetite increased and he started overeating for good.”

  “After only two years as a warden, Ian’s weight had almost doubled. His once V-shaped body had ballooned into a real blimp of a man, and the inmates started making jokes and poking his belly whenever they got a chance to get close.”

  “Long story short, Ian’s life was Hell on Earth.”

  “Then in January 1932, a group of inmates had planned a very daring escape. They managed to take over, put their guards in a few closed cells, then things didn’t go quite as they wanted and Saint Augustine was surrounded with patrol officers and policemen. They were still trapped inside.”

  “As it happens only too often in such a case, their escape turned into a hostage situation. With all the inmates out and wandering on Saint Augustine grounds, there was chaos... and that made search and rescue a lot more difficult.”

  “Negotiation wasn’t even considered by the authorities... When leaders were designated among the prisoners, it was already too late. As for the guards, they were still locked in their cells, with no communication with anyone outside.”

  “Ian was a particular case. All the other guards were saved, although they were starved and badly dehydrated. They had simply been forgotten... As for Ian, who had opposed more resistance against the inmates, he was not only locked in but stripped down and attached to a prison bed... Then he was force-fed by the guys who had tried to escape.”

  For the second time, Scott interrupted Mr Thorne – simply out of shock.

– “Force-fed?”

– “Yes... There was plenty of food in the kitchens. And you can imagine that they had some sort of rum-running alcohol. That kind of beverage is already bad for your health in a glass, but Ian’s body was found surrounded with piles of broken bottles.”

– “Oh... Is that how he was killed?”

– “I’m afraid so.”

  “When the U.S. Marshalls threatened to attack with full force, there was no answer from within Saint Augustine prison. Then there was an explosion, and a fire that required all the firemen in the county to be stopped after a few hours.”

  “Most of the prisoners were killed in the fire. As the Police started investigating, it became clear that they already been killing each other for a few days. Most of the employees were found in some improvised hideouts. Then the prison guards were released and sent to the hospital. Then they found Ian...”

  “The poor guy was stuffed like a Christmas turkey. His face was still full of food and he reeked of cheap whisky. It was a dreadful moment for the authorities. When his body was transported to the morgue, the newspapers printed that Ian’s weight was about 400lbs, but everyone had already heard that it was well over 600lbs!”

  “Those were the events on January 21^st, 1932.”

  Scott didn’t know what to say. He was holding his breath, sitting on the edge of his seat as his pants were cutting into his underbelly...

– “I understand...”

– “Well... Now you know. But you can’t possibly understand.”

– “How so?”

– “Everything I’ve told you was only what happened on that day... Real trouble began on that day.”

– “What do you mean?”

  Mr Thorne took another sip of “brandy for tea”. One bottle down, one more to go. Scott was offered a generous mug too. Alcohol helped Mr Thorne get to the bottom of a painful story. As for Scott, he felt flushed in the face, with his hands itching a bit and his whole body warm and glowing...

  He was really tempted to refuse the last piece of chocolate pie, but Mr Thorne ignored his faint protest when he put it on his plate. He would have to eat it to the last bite.

  “Ian was dead. His coworkers were under shock and asked to be transferred. Most of Saint Augustine prison was in ruins. Some valiant firemen had saved a handful of inmates, who were locked back inside their cells – including the one where they had tormented and tortured Ian.”

  “A new administrator was designated, with new staff and new equipment. My uncle worked in this office for a while, as a secretary. Everyone was counting on financial support from the State, but nothing came of it. The Blaine act ended prohibition soon after all the main buildings were cleaned up. Biberton Brewing Brothers were back in business, and their beer tasted better than ever. There was work and good wages for everyone. The whole incident started feeling like a nightmare fading away, an event of no importance, no consequence. It would become a tale for children on Halloween, and that was it.”

  “Then things happened, and the nightmare became all too real...”

  “There were only four prisoners left from Ian’s time. The new guards did their best to ignore them. They kept complaining that they couldn’t sleep, but since it is now a well-known fact that you can’t survive for more than a week without sleep, that was a shameless lie.”

  “Then they started pretending that something was tormenting them in their sleep. As you can see, they got to sleep in the cells, somehow. This was reported in a note to the director, but that note ended in a file and no action was taken. The administration was only annoyed by their requests.”

  “The first thing that came out as odd was when the new medical staff checked the prisoners’ physical health. The four guys had been fed very little for the last six months, as a form of appropriate punishment, yet their weights were up by twenty-five to thirty pounds... The male nurse checked again. The results were confirmed, although there was no explanation for such numbers.”

  “As a result, the four prisoners were put on a diet. There was no need for them to grow any bigger or stronger. The director also agreed on monthly check-ups. After only a month, each prisoner showed a weight gain of about fifteen pounds. Then the rumors started about Ian’s ghost...”

  “By the end of the year, the four inmates had put on more than two hundred pounds. Their bellies had grown enormously, and they were almost too fat to get out of bed. It was also recorded that their breath was heavy with alcohol, and they looked drunk and bloated at all times.”

  “In January 1933, the smallest of them weighed 620lbs. Then, one morning, the guards came to check on their cells and found the four guys dead, each one with his stomach blown up to a monstrous size... There was more than enough evidence to get cause of death, but still no way to understand how food must have been brought to them, and fed to them so forcefully.”

  “Losing four criminals was a good thing, but everyone in Biberton kept talking about Ian’s ghost. The food, the booze, the size and weight, everything about their deaths felt like a signature kill. The rumor became a legend. The building where Ian and those guys were found dead was closed. Saint Augustine prison was put under investigation, then president Roosevelt took the right decision and offered to reopen Saint Augustine Preparatory School.”

  It felt like Mr Thorne was done. Scott had lots of questions about that urban legend – the ghost of Saint Augustine Bells.

– “Did something happen after 1934?”

– “Not for a few years. But there were talks with the mayor about rebuilding the dorms where Ian MacNeill was fed to death. Then there was some controversy about the exact location of the cell, and the building. Ten years after the event, testimonies were bound to be vague. Records were kept, but never so precise. It was decided to keep the walls, which were part of historic buildings, and redraw the blueprints so the rooms would be up to code.”

  “In 1949, one student showed some rather substantial and sudden weight gain. It was reported in the local newspaper, anecdotic as it was. A perfectly natural explanation was given to the Press.”

  “In 1953, another student put on thirty-two pounds almost overnight. There was another article about it in the Biberton Morning Bugle, but no statement from the school.”

  “Then a few years went by. Every now and then, some journalist would mention that one of the rich sons of Saint Augustine Bells had mysteriously gained twenty or thirty pounds and couldn’t get to put on his clothes for breakfast. It attracted little attention, most of the time. Ian’s ghost taking revenge on the boys who had forcefed him had already become part of the local folklore...”

  “Only ten years ago, one of the exchange students was found dead in his bed, in the morning, with that particular Modus Operandi. He was presented as a big, strong, difficult teenager – the bullying type, to put it in a nutshell – with quite an appetite. The administrators claimed that his body weight had always been over 320lbs, which sounds a bit forced... With an official inquiry hanging over the school, there was no way to deny that the boy’s body weighed more than 500lbs when it was taken by the paramedics. His stomach was stuffed so much that doctors compared it to an overfilled water balloon. Then a group of scientists came up with an experiment to prove that a regular water balloon would have exploded under such pressure...”

  “That exchange student was the only victim, fifty years after the first ones. The Government forced the members of the board of administration to retire. Mr Porkenham was nominated to replace the previous director. Mr Swayn was hired two years later, and new policies came into force.”

  Mr Thorne took one last sip of brandy. Talking made him thirsty.

– “Mr Swayn had his own theory about Ian’s ghost. You’ve met him, you know how he likes statistics. Numbers, progressions, projections, you name them...”

– “Yes.”

  Scott was a bit tipsy. Mr Thorne had been drinking more than a full bottle of brandy, but that left more than enough alcohol for him.

– “It takes some courage to read through that many, tiny, dreary numbers. And he’s good with numbers... That’s how he has found out that Ian’s ghost only tormented boys who were trying to lose weight, or stay thin, or simply boys who wouldn’t eat like... Huh...”

– “...Pigs?”

– “Let’s go with pigs. Mr Swayn does not truly believe in ghosts. The poor guy has no imagination... But he believes in records, and that observation was one of the main arguments in favor of his Quiet Diet... I guess you’re already familiar with that policy.”

– “Yes, I’ve heard about it.”

– “There you go, then... That’s all there is to it. And now, someone wants to make sure than Ian’s ghost won’t be forgotten.”

– “Huh... Why?”

– “Your message, here... What does it say?”

  Scott looked at it again. The first two words were: “Remember me.”

■ ■ ■

February 10^th, 1990 – Saturday

– “A ghost?”

– “That’s what they told me... I’ve asked everyone about it, yesterday.”

– “You’re asking a lot of questions...”

– “That’s my job.”

  Scott was resting, face down, on Phil’s massage table. It was almost 11AM. The blonde doctor was too busy during the week to meet his friend like this.

– “So, what do you make of it?”

– “I have told you...”

– “You haven’t told me anything!”

  Phil kept on massaging his lower back in silence. It was a clever move – Scott was very sensitive to his gentle, firm touch. When they got closer to his butt cheeks, he would start moaning and purring like a cat. Phil always found a way to get him too horny to talk.

  Scott had to resist the urge to hump the table, once again. He was sweating profusely. The young doctor’s hands felt warm and smooth as he kept pressing and kneading his slightly rounder midsection.

  Phil didn’t avoid answering Scott’s question, but he didn’t sound too curious about his latest findings.

– “People around here only call me when they need my help. They let me do my job, and that’s it. People in general don’t ask me for my opinion.”

– “So what? I don’t work for People magazine.”

– “You want me to share my thoughts with you? It’s easy. I don’t have any.”

– “My hunch exactly...”

– “I have nothing to say, when it comes to this. Life and Death, disease, pain, injuries, insanity... I can deal with these. That’s what I do every day, in here and at the hospital.”

– “Okay... So?”

– “I don’t question what things may come after a patient is dead, when I have done everything in my power to save him. If I indulged in such thoughts, I would lose focus on what’s important... It would be a waste of time.”

– “How can you say that?”

– “It is my job to try and take care of every patient in our hospital, and everyone in this school. I help a patient or a student get better, and feel better. Then they leave, and I have to move on to the next person.”

– “So you just go with the flow...”

  Phil let out a deep sigh. Scott had noticed that he looked tired. He wondered about what kind of week it had been for him – probably more strenuous than usual... Phil had not raised his voice even once, but there was that slight stuttering again, as he was trying to organize his thoughts into complete sentences.

– “Look, Scott… There are two things I know for certain. One: you can slow down or you can run, but you can’t hide... You can’t cheat Death. Two: it’s all a one way street. You can look back, but you can’t go back. And when you’re gone, you’re gone – for good…”

  It had to be the longest speech Phil had delivered in a long while. He didn’t look too happy about it either. Scott spent a moment in silence, enjoying Phil’s firm touch around his hips.

– “So this doesn’t mean anything to you?”

– “I guess it doesn’t... What do you think?”

  Scott was far too comfortable to focus about anything, but he had discussed and asked for more details about Ian’s story for the whole evening. He could at least pretend that he was considering it now.

– “I believe that... it would be an explanation.”

– “An explanation for Michael’s murder... Seriously?”

– “Maybe, maybe not. It certainly explains why all the students in this school are eating without even catching a breath.”

– “Oh...”

– “It explains why they told me that they had to eat, or they would be killed just the way Michael was killed.”

– “I guess...”

– “So you agree that it’s an explanation.”

– “I understand that the students believe in Ian’s ghost. Believing in something does not make it a fact.”

– “But it’s a fact that Michael was found dead with his belly ready to explode, full of food that was nowhere to be found in his bedroom...”

  Phil didn’t answer. In any case, a supernatural cause of death was better than no explanation at all. They were lost in darkness and confusion with Michael’s death. This was Scott’s first glimmer of light for his investigation.

– “It explains that Quiet Diet imposed by Mr Swayn... And it makes sense now that all the boys in Augustine Bells are obese...”

  Scott’s words turned into a moan. Phil’s massage was maddeningly sensual, as always, but he had come up with some new moves that could set his aching body on fire at any time.

– “Our boys are overweight. Mr Swayn will tell you that their Body Mass Index is never under 35, but not all of them are obese...”

– “Not yet. They’re always stuffing their faces!”

– “You said it: They have to eat...”

– “When you’re encouraged and threatened at the same time, it’s no wonder that you keep on gorging... and growing!”

– “It’s not like it’s a rule.”

– “But it is: Thou shalt be overeating. It’s the one and only rule around here. It could be set in stone and painted in gold letters, as the school’s motto.”

– “How about you, Scott? Are you chasing a ghost, or is it chasing you?”

– “What do you mean?”

  Phil grabbed Scott’s sides on purpose. The big boy didn’t mind being handled like a man, but the doctor’s point was clear enough.

– “You must have put on some weight...”

– “I know... Eating big has become a part of my work.”

– “So you have to eat big?”

– “That’s right. I have to eat!”

  Scott blushed, feeling teased and excited even more, as Phil was massaging his butt cheeks now. He was already hot and sweating, so his reaction was hardly noticeable. Scott had put on more than just weight – he was turning into a real glutton, with his body growing chubby and his belly like a soft pillow...

  The big boy chose to change the subject, ask the questions again.

– “Basically, you don’t believe in ghosts...”

– “I believe that it’s not for me to know.”

– “So that’s for me to know and for you to find out?” Scott teased wickedly.

  Phil responded with a silent laugh, and kept providing him with such delicious, manly rubs that Scott was ready to forgive him – especially when the handsome doctor reminded him about their dinner date.

– “I thought that you would never tell me. Where are you taking me?”

– “Matt’s Place. Best French restaurant in town.”

– “Good... What kind of specials do they serve?”

– “You’re really asking a lot of questions...”

  Having his butt and thighs massaged so well made Scott swoon. He was more than ready for an after-dinner date with that blonde teddy bear... 

– “You’re no fun...” Scott mumbled, turning his head to the side, drowning in his own dreamy thoughts.

– “What do you mean? All work and no play?”

– “Exactly.”

– “I can be playful... Only I keep both feet on the ground.”

  Scott felt an intense heat wave flow through his body, from his loins to his head – resonating all the way to his fingers and his toes. Phil could definitely be more than playful!

– “I’d like to see you play my game...” Scott teased again, trying to ignore the sudden quickening of his heartbeat.

– “What kind of game is it?”

– “Simple enough, even for you...”

– “Oh?”

– “There’s only one rule: I keep making it up.”

  Phil leaned over Scott, enough to whisper into his ear.

– “How about a game with no rules at all?”

  Even more than his words, Phil’s sensual, low baritone voice generated so much electricity that Scott felt struck by lightning. His entire body went stiff and numb at the same time.

– “How about your game, then?” He managed to answer, his breath feeling like steam from a blast furnace.

– “Come on, Scott, it’s not even noon.”

  Scott let out a silent “woof...” – Phil was more than fair game. He was the best kind of challenge for him.

– “We can play tomorrow evening. How about that?”

– “At the restaurant?”

– “Sure. Why not?”

– “Okay... No rules?”

  Phil leaned forward, once again – so close that his lips almost touched Scott’s cheek. The big boy was overcome with desire... He could smell Phil’s masculine scent through the perfume of massage oil.

– “How about one rule?”

– “So we do it my way?”

– “All right. Let’s do it your way...”

– “Sounds good to me. Huh... what about that one and only rule?”

– “You already know it.”

– “...I do?”

– “You said it earlier. House rule: You have to eat...”

(To be continued...)