The Teratologist Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Critical Reviews

  Dedication

  Chapter

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Pandamoon Books

  The Teratologist

  The Teratologist Series: Book One

  by

  Ward Parker

  © 2018 by Ward Parker

  This book is a work of creative fiction that uses actual publicly known events, situations, persons, businesses, and locations as background for the storyline with fictional embellishments as creative license allows. Although the publisher has made every effort to ensure the grammatical integrity of this book was correct at press time, the publisher does not assume and hereby disclaims any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. At Pandamoon, we take great pride in producing quality works that accurately reflect the voice of the author. All the words are the author’s alone.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pandamoon Publishing. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  www.pandamoonpublishing.com

  Jacket design and illustrations © Pandamoon Publishing

  Cover Photo Credit: William Henry Jackson, Detroit Publishing Company, via Library of Congress

  Art Design and Direction by Matthew Kramer: Pandamoon Publishing

  Editing by Zara Kramer, Rachel Schoenbauer, Saren Richardson, and Forrest Driskel: Pandamoon Publishing

  Pandamoon Publishing and the portrayal of a panda and a moon are registered trademarks of Pandamoon Publishing.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC

  Edition: 1, ver. 1.00

  Critical Reviews

  “In a story set in early 20th century America, a limbless child medium, a deformed young man with special abilities, and a serial killer take on a distinguished presence in The Teratologist (The Teratologist Series: Book One) by Ward Parker.

  Thirty-six-year-old Dr. Frank Follett studies defects of birth in humans in the fairly new field of teratology. He arrives at Palm Beach, Florida, to meet a two-year-old child named Angelica, famously known as Angel Worm. Born entirely without limbs, she channels the spirits of the deceased, and Follet is able to communicate with his late wife who, unfortunately, gives him an ominous warning. Follet also finds himself hired by the wealthy William Stockhurst to examine his deformed son, Darryl. When Angelica is kidnapped by a serial killer, it becomes a turning point for many events that are hard for the normally skeptic-minded Follet to handle.

  True to its era of the early 20th century, prejudice is one of the story themes where racial differences and deformities determine the social hierarchy and etiquette. Science is challenged by the paranormal and the supernatural elements. Some historical figures come alive in The Teratologist, as main characters or otherwise. Using his interest in parapsychology and his love for science, the notable writer Samuel Clemens aka Mark Twain fits well in this story and is a great confidant for Follet, the widowed doctor who’s haunted by his past and the death of his wife and stillborn child. The erudite prose thrums with mystery and suspense where Ward keeps the well-thought out plot moving at a good pace, and reveals the twists and turns at the right moment.

  Overall, Ward has crafted a great opening to the series. The Teratologist is an excellent read, delivering memorable characters, and with fast-paced and intensely gripping moments. It will surely keep readers enthralled to the very end.”

  — Reviewed by Lit Amri for Readers’ Favorite

  "One part historical fiction, one part thriller, one part horror, one part steampunk... altogether a lot of amazing parts in this novel! I loved it!"

  — Armand Rosamilia, author of the_Dirty Deeds_crime thriller series

  “The Teratologist_is a gripping medical thriller of suspense and parapsychological action that reads like a Robin Cook thriller, but with the added impact of the supernatural; all cemented in a Florida backdrop and the sense of a bygone era.”

  — D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

  "Parker delivers good, old-fashioned chills and thrills."

  — Scott Nicholson, author of The Red Church

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all who, for whatever reason, are labeled “not normal.” What that really means is we are better than normal.

  The Teratologist

  Chapter One

  March 1902

  Dr. Frank Follett traveled twelve hundred miles just to see the messenger for the dead. He had assured himself as he boarded the train in Manhattan that it was the rareness of the young girl’s physiology that drew him, not the spiritualistic bunkum. This remarkable child, called Angel Worm, was born entirely without limbs. That the locals believed the spirits of the deceased spoke through her mouth was merely backwoods Florida superstition. Over and over he told himself this as the train pushed south far enough that the cities disappeared and only slash pines and palmettos flashed by his window. By journey’s end he was convinced that he came to satisfy his scientific curiosity, not to soothe a yearning caused by loss.

  Follett barely noticed how warm Palm Beach was when the train finally stopped on the Royal Poinciana Hotel’s rail siding. He ran his hands over his face and head. His neck and upper cheeks were rough with stubble and his close-cropped hair and beard already needed trimming. He covered his head with his homburg and was the first to step onto the platform as an army of porters emerged from the gigantic yellow structure and descended upon the baggage cars. He walked past the hotel entrance to where the line of pedicabs, wheeled wicker chairs attached to the front of bicycles, waited with their black drivers. Apparently, they were the only form of transportation on the resort. The dispatcher pointed Follett to the driver he had pre-hired, the one who knew where to find the girl.

  “Doctor Follett?” a driver asked, a tall, fit, young man with dark skin wearing a hotel uniform and cap.

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Name’s James Hartwell. I can take you to the Angel Worm.”

  He didn’t sense any derision in the man’s voice, though coming to Florida just to see a child would seem quite mad to most people. Yet in Follett’s world she was considered a prodigy. Follett conducted research in teratology, the study of anomalies and curiosities in anatomy—specifically, humans born with physical or mental defects or oddities. He wanted to learn what caused these conditions and, possibly, how to prevent them. He wanted to understand the people whom the public called “monsters,” in this new century when science had banished the traditional monsters and beasties of folklore.

  The black neighborhood was called Pleasant City. Follett didn’t want to ente
r it riding on James’ pedicab, so they walked across the bridge over Lake Worth into West Palm Beach and traveled north of downtown as evening fell. Men stood in the kerosene lamplight that spilled from inside the homes and shacks along the rutted sand road and watched him warily.

  “Don’t worry about them,” James said. “They’re just on the lookout on account of all the folks who’ve gone missing.”

  He explained that numerous residents had disappeared over the years, both here and across the lake in the Styx, Palm Beach’s shantytown.

  “When did the last person disappear?” Follett asked.

  “I don’t know for sure. A lot of the folks were migrant farmworkers who were too old or crippled to make enough money to feed themselves. No one knows if they were murdered or if they just crawled off and died. The law doesn’t seem to care. Maybe they’re happy to get rid of these folks. I do know of at least four gone missing last year during the Season. That’s when they go missing—during the Season.”

  The Season referred to the winter months when high society and the well-off flocked to Palm Beach to stay at the Royal Poinciana and The Breakers hotels. Like Follett himself.

  They arrived at a small but neat home of unpainted wood. Hints of fried fish and boiled greens came from inside. They stepped onto the porch, where an old man rocked slowly in his chair in the shadows.

  “Evenin’, Mr. Norris,” James said.

  Follett removed his hat and smiled but the man ignored him.

  He followed James into the main room where a girl of seven or eight sat beside a crib in a rear alcove. A single oil lamp on a table illuminated the room and created tall shadows.

  “Hello, Trudy,” James said.

  “Mama, James is here with a white man to see Angelica,” she called out.

  “You take care of ‘em,” answered a woman’s voice from the kitchen.

  “Come right over here, Misters, and see our little Angel Worm,” said Trudy with pride, obviously familiar with showing off her sister to strangers as if she were running an oddities exhibit. Which is where Angelica could very well end up someday to help support her family.

  James remained standing by the front door while Follett carefully approached the alcove. The girl removed the lamp from the table and held it above the crib.

  “When Mama was pregnant, she got frightened by a worm in a piece of meat gone bad. That’s why Angelica come out looking like a worm.”

  Such a fallacy was common among the uneducated. It was exactly what Follett’s work meant to debunk.

  He peered down at the child. The chubby, limbless creature looked more like a grub than a worm, with her large, black-haired head atop a short stub of a body wrapped in a blanket. She rolled about on a mattress stuffed with straw and Spanish moss, staring up at him with large, wise, brown eyes. He estimated her age to be between twenty-four and thirty months, though lacking limbs made her small and seemingly younger.

  “I’m a doctor,” he told Trudy. “Please ask your mother if I may examine your sister.”

  She shouted the question toward the kitchen and her mother appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands with a rag. The mother looked him over. She was thin and wizened like her husband on the porch and looked quite old to be the mother of a young child.

  “Mrs. Norris, I’m Dr. Follett. Thank you for the opportunity to see your baby.”

  “A doctor looked at her after she was born,” she said, as if she thought him naïve. “Nothing can be done for her.”

  “Of course not, ma’am. I study teratogenesis—birth defects and such. I try to find their causes so they can be prevented.”

  “Prevented? You can’t control what God wants.”

  “Cold!” Angelica said when he pressed the stethoscope to her chest.

  “No, ma’am, you can’t,” he said as he listened to Angelica’s heart and breathing. The child smiled and placidly allowed his examinations. “What I hope to do is prevent accidents of nature that God did not intend. Accidents in the development of babies caused by injuries to the mother or contamination of the womb by chemicals, for instance.”

  The mother looked dubious.

  “Please allow me to remove her blanket and diaper,” Follett said.

  When Mrs. Norris nodded, he unwrapped Angelica. She had flawless brown skin with no stumps or scars where the limbs should have been. Her shoulders were fully formed but ended smoothly so that her torso was a cylindrical shape. At the base of her abdomen were flattened buttocks and normal genitalia. In Follett’s judgment, her lack of limbs was clearly a case of embryonic malformation, not intrauterine amputations.

  He took a few photos with his folding, pocket Kodak.

  “Mrs. Norris, I was told that you and your husband were farmers?”

  “We were sharecroppers in Georgia. Then we hired onto farms around here for some years until Jacob’s back got too bad last winter. Now I work at the laundry in town.”

  “Do you know if chemical pesticides were used in the fields when you were working?”

  “Sometimes they sprayed stuff on the crops to kill the bugs. It make your eyes burn something fierce.”

  “Interesting. Many pesticides use arsenic and tests have shown that it can penetrate the womb. Perhaps exposure to arsenic caused Angelica to develop without limbs.”

  He didn’t expect an answer, but Mrs. Norris wasn’t even listening to him. She stared at her child with a smile on her face and eyes welling with tears.

  “Angelica went away again,” whispered Trudy.

  “She what?” he asked.

  Then Angelica opened her mouth and Follett’s wife spoke to him.

  Which was problematic, because, of course, his wife was dead.

  * * *

  The small sloop was positioned perfectly offshore of the darkened smudge on the horizon that was Palm Beach. The boat was close enough to land that the lights of The Breakers Hotel could be seen, alone in the darkness, as well as the blinking red light at the end of the pier beside the hotel. It was time to dump the cargo overboard. The current and the incoming tide should deposit it as near the hotel as anyone could wish. There was no moon and no ships were nearby, so the task should go unseen. But the wind was picking up from the Northeast and the seas were at least three feet so it had to be done immediately before the boat was pushed out of position.

  He reached down to grab the bundle and got a surprise.

  The captive was still alive.

  He had been positive the captive was dead but he could feel low, shallow breathing when his hand touched the man’s chest. Fear and doubt rushed in. Should he bring him back and resume where they had left off?

  No, that was out of the question. The captive had to be disposed of and this is where he was told the body had to be found. The drowning would be quick and the man, being unconscious, would not suffer.

  He lifted the surprisingly light bundle and pushed it over the gunwale. It quickly disappeared beneath the rough waters.

  * * *

  The child looked up at Follett with wise eyes that knew him.

  “Where is he, Frank?” she said.

  His heart dropped into his stomach. It was his wife’s voice. No, it was slightly unnatural, coming from immature vocal chords. But there was no mistaking that it was hers.

  “Isabel?” It came out only as a whisper.

  “Please help me, dear, please help me. I don’t know where I am and I’ve lost our baby.”

  Spots swam in front of his eyes. He had to remind himself to breathe.

  “You are speaking to me through a small child.”

  “Yes, she can see me and does not fear.”

  “But surely, my love, surely you must be in Heaven?”

  “I lost our baby. I don’t know where he is! Please help me find him. I failed him in birth and now I fail him again—oh, please don’t blame me, I couldn’t help…”

  “No, no, my dear. Don’t think that way. You didn’t fail anyone. You did all you were supposed to do.”


  “I don’t know where I am. Please help me, Frank! There is nothing here, only loneliness.”

  Then Angelica’s eyes lost their focus and darted about like a normal child’s. She looked at him again and giggled.

  “Isabel? Are you there? Isabel, please! Isabel!”

  “The lady gone now,” Trudy said. “She your wife?”

  A tear rolled down his right cheek and dizziness made him stagger backwards. Suddenly James was behind him, guiding him into a chair at the dining table.

  “It’s always like this,” Mrs. Norris said. “One minute she’s Angelica, then the next minute a dead person is talking. Then it’s gone and Angelica’s back again. Even Reverend Wallace believes it, because his dead mama talked to him. He says Angelica is a devil’s child but we all know she’s a gift from God.”

  Follett shook his head. He wanted to believe. But he was a man of science and thus a natural skeptic. He believed in only what could be proved empirically. He followed that principle in all aspects of his life, which, at times, had driven Isabel to exasperation.

  There was simply no rational explanation for why he heard her voice coming from a two-year-old child.

  It could not have happened. It did not happen.

  Undoubtedly, he was exhausted from his travails over the last four years and his emotions or fantasies overrode his reason. The folklore about Angel Worm speaking for the dead must have lodged in his subconscious and festered there, oozing out at a moment of vulnerability.

  Or was this what he had hoped for ever since hearing the rumors about the child?

  “I need some air,” he said, staggering to the front door. James handed the mother five dollars as Follett had instructed.

  “You can come back and talk to your wife anytime you want, mister,” Trudy said.