An interview with the boogeyman, by Robert Rusk

Bloody Mary, Bunny Man, the Devil’s Chair. Urban legends we tell around campfires. Legends that could not possible be true. Every place in America has one. Some are based on facts. Real people, real places, yet they become ghost stories. Boogeymen. My hometown of Deadwood, Michigan, has a boogeyman. He is the reason I am writing this in the first place. Dr. Abraham Arkham, the boogeyman of Deadwood. 

The Arkham family is a household name in these parts. They founded Deadwood and the nearby town of Arkham. The family hails from England. They settled this area shortly after the War for Independence. Solomon Arkham, the family Patriarch, made a fortune in lumber. He used his fortune to build the family manor up on Dunwhich hill. The hill overlooks both towns, and the manor still stands to this day.

Solomon did not live to see the completion of the manor. He died from wounds sustained on a hunting trip. His son Abraham took over the family affairs. What is known of Abraham is that he was born in 1792 and studied medicine at the Perelman School of Medicine at the University of Pennsylvania. The rest of his life is lost to history. There are mentions of him in town records.  He helped deal with an outbreak of influenza and married a local girl named Eleanor Talbot.  Then in 1815, Eleanor was killed by a wild animal.

This where the legends begin. Losing his wife drove him insane. He began kidnapping people and robbing graves in a mad quest to bring her back. There were sights and attacks of strange creatures in and around town. Abraham became the stuff of nightmares. 

For a while, the town forgot about him and the so-called monster-men sightings. That was until 1951. A construction crew breaking ground for a new hospital discovered a mass grave filled with 60 skeletons. Reportedly, the skeletons were all deformed. Folklore historians saw this as proof that Dr. Arkham existed. The story takes a strange twist as carbon dating revealed the oldest skeleton was only 30 years old. Most people believe that the grave was the work of a serial killer.

Back in college, I did a paper on this article and on the doctor in general. I discovered there are stories on him or variations of him pretty much everywhere. Massachusetts, Louisiana, New York. There is even one from a concentration camp in Poland. Some stories say he has an army undead monster men or ape men. Others say he eats people and drinks their blood. I never believed the stories. Then I got the letter from him, asking for an interview. 

It was the first week of October. The air was cold and the sun was blocked by clouds. I walked into the Last Call Tavern. It is one of the oldest buildings in town. It hasn’t changed much since the 1800s. It has changed ownership a dozen times in the last 10 years. The newest owner is Judson Hog. A 6’ tall, 200-lbs. former Marine. He gets mad when people call him that. He always says there is no such thing as a former Marine. He is cleaning out a beer mug with a rag as I walk in. He is the closest thing I have to a friend. He is the only one who stayed by my side as my life fell apart. 

He looks up from the glass, “Hey, Abagail. What brings you in this early?”

Judson is the only person who calls me Abagail. I think he does it to get under my skin. I walk up to the counter.

“Nothing much, ‘Boss’ Hog.” I call him that to get under his skin. “Doing an interview.”

“In a bar?”

 “I might need some Dutch courage for this.”

“What, you interviewing a serial killer or something?”

“Guy claims to be Dr. Abraham Arkham.”

Judson laughs, then looks at the two men sitting at the other end. They are the typical redneck white trash you get in this place. They are a clearly half cut.

“Are either one of you pulling a prank on her?”

They both look at me and one says, “Sorry, we ain’t into jungle queens.”

Racism. One of the many reasons why I hate being the only black woman in this hick town.  Judson is about to hop over the counter when a voice cuts through the air. It is like steel with undertones of sorrow and rage to it. 

“I think you gentlemen have had enough.”

We all turn to look at the door way. “Holy shit.” Judson takes the words right out of my mouth.  At city hall there is portrait of Dr. Arkham. The man standing in the doorway is a spitting image of the portrait. His clothes look like the love child of the 1920s and the Wild West. He walks towards the rednecks. He has smile on his face. I have seen serial killers smile. There is nothing behind the smiles. This man, on the other hand, looks like like the devil is smiling at you. The rednecks are barely standing now. They are ready for a fight.

 “Who the hell are you?”

 “How rude of me. Let me introduce myself. My name is Dr. Abraham Arkham.”

 “Oh, yeah? Then I’m the Queen of-“

Arkham grabs the redneck by the back and throws him out the front door. Twelve feet. That is the distance between the front door and the other end of the counter. He just threw a full-grown man like a softball out the front door. He grabs other man by the neck and drags him towards me. He lifts him with one hand says, “Apologize or I will debone you like a fish.”

Redneck says, “Sorry,” or at least attempts to. Arkham turns him to look him in the eyes.

“I am still going to kill you. Just not now.”

He throws the man out the door and turns towards me.

“Hello, Abagail, or do you prefer Miss West?”

I say nothing. Honestly, I am scared out of my mind. Judson is the same. 

“Ready for the exchange of favors?”

“What?”

“The interview will remind people why they should be afraid of me.”

“What do I get in return?”

“The man who killed your unborn child and cost you your marriage. I know who he is and where to find him. I am going to kill him for you.”

The devil.  I am staring at the devil.

“Shall we begin?”