The Red Tree

Indeed, it is difficult, when reading Olney’s journals, not to feel great sympathy for this man, driven to commit murder dozens of times over by these nocturnal visions of his beloved’s torment and imprisonment. To pick up on his allusion to Greek mythology, this mad-man has become a latter-day Orpheus charged with freeing his Eurydice, though by means incalculably more horrendous than those set forth by Virgil and Plato. In his fractured mind, Joseph Olney was left to choose between, on the one hand, becoming a monster himself and, on the other, allowing the monstrosities from his deliriums to slowly transform his dead lover into one of their own. Albert Fish might have claimed that he was charged by God to kill children, but in Fish’s claims there is not this conviction that another’s damnation hangs in the balance. I am, obviously, not here arguing that Olney’s crimes (or those of any such killer) can be justified, only that, if these “confessions” are genuine, that I ca

There’s what seems to me a fairly glaring contradiction in all this. First, we have Bettina Hirsch described as “a willing party to it all,” intent upon her former lover’s induction into this bacchanalia of the damned. But, thenwe have her beseeching Olney to commit multiple murders because “. her freedommay be gained in only one way. certain sacrifices of flesh and blood to these monsters. In exchange for the fruits of my sins, in time they will release her. ” (Though, Harvey alsosays that Olney wrote he was told to murder by the “dire beings” he imagined lived below the tree.) I have no idea whether Harvey recognized these contradictions or not, and I have even lessidea why I’m worrying over it all.

The last two days, Monday and Tuesday. I don’t even see how I can hopeto write coherently about the last two days. They have come and gone, and they have changed everything, utterly, and yet, I understand, it is not a change of kind, but merely one of degree. Constance and I should have run. We should be far away from this place, but we’re not. We are here. I did try to get her to go. I tried even after she went back upstairs and locked herself in tight behind that attic door. But I’m getting ahead of myself, and, besides, maybe Constance knows something I’m too damn thick to fathom. It may be that it’s too late to leave, and it may be that it was too late weeks ago. Possibly, it was too late before I ever laid eyes on this house and the tree and Constance Hopkins, or even before Amanda’s death.

I find myself saying and writing things I would have found laughable only a few days ago. Maybe Constance knows all this stuff, already. She’s at the head of the class, the bright pupil, perhaps, and I’m sitting in the corner with my pointy hat, my nose pressed to a circle drawn upon the wall.

I am alone down here, in the stifling, insufferable heat (though a thunderstorm is brewing to the west, I think, and maybe there will be some relief there), and she’s upstairs. I am alone, but for my shabby, disordered thoughts and whatever mean comfort I can wring from the confidences I divulge to this typewriter, to the onionskin pages trapped in its carriage.

Thunder, just now. But I didn’t see any lightning.

What I’m going to write, this is how I remember it. This is the best I can do. It is, by necessity, a fictionalized recalling of the events. Of course, it’s been that way through this entire journal (and I must surely have said thatalready, at least once or twice or a hundred times). I ca

Start here. It’s as good a place as any.

Early Monday afternoon, day before yesterday.

I was reading a book I’d brought back from the library. My agent had called, an hour or so earlier, with the usual questions, which I’d avoided answering. But it had put me in a mood, because I’ve been trying so hard not to think about the fact that the novel isn’t getting written. I was sitting in the living room, on the sofa, sweating and drinking beer and reading  A Treasury of New England Folklore. I was reading, in particular, about something called the “Moodus Noises” in East Haddam, Co

I’d not seen her since our walk to the mailbox together, and that was on Saturday. So, here it was Monday, and I’d not seen her in almost two days. She’d stopped coming down for meals, or even to use the bathroom, unless it was while I was sleeping. And, probably, that’s exactly what she was doing, sneaking downstairs while I was asleep. Well, no, not sneaking. I should not say sneaking. Merely deliberately choosing to avoid contact. But she finally showed her face, paint-stained, as it always is now, and smiled, and she pretended there was nothing the least bit odd in shutting herself away like that since Saturday afternoon.

She looked like hell, truth be told. Her ci

I don’t remember the small talk, only that there were ten or fifteen minutes of nothing in particular being said. Nothing of substance or of consequence. And then, suddenly, she laughed, stubbed out her Camel, and snapped the lid of her ginger Altoids tin shut again.