Early December

It was easy for Reverend Monsignor Howard to find a photographer. He just sorted through the various cards and slips of paper the media men had stuffed in his hands over the past months. He found one that he recalled had a clean-cut look and seemed less dodgy than others. From there it was a quick phone call and comparing of calendars. Two days later, a team of four people were at Briarcliff, ready to take pictures.

Rather than stage an area to do a photo shoot in, the photographer and his assistants were escorted to each of the patients' rooms to take pictures of them. They shot everyone they were allowed to—they weren't allowed near the high-risk patients—but some proved more photogenic than others.

Most who made it into the final magazine spread only had a single, small, black and white photo: There was one of Mort standing on his head (only his feet were in the picture). There was one of Greta, the toothless old woman who told everyone she was dying. Even Vita got into the magazine, smiling big and drawing with crayons.

Then there were the feature models. They each had their own two-page spread. The photographer had loved Violet, even though she had hated him. The whole time he was in her room, she just gave him dirty looks and hoped he would leave. She didn't want her picture in some magazine about crazy people. Her chances at politics might be shot but she did want a life after Briarcliff. Unfortunately for her, the stand-offish attitude translated beautifully on film.

Heather was a feature as well, personable and waifish with her haunted eyes and skinny frame. She worked well with the photographer; he told her she would do well in a modeling career once she got out of the asylum. He left his card with the staff for her and it was stowed with the cache of personal belongings she wasn't allowed to have during her stay. Her box of things, along with everyone else's boxes, were kept in a basement storage room none of the living patients knew the location of. But Sara knew where it was.

Tate was also featured, though not for the same reason as the girls. Half of his pictures were of him making crazy faces. Those shots came across as goofy but in an adorable way thanks to his good looks. The other half, he looked like he was on the verge of fondling himself, pretending he was Jim Morrison posing for Rolling Stone. Those pictures got him a vicious caning from Sister Jude when the magazine came out, but he managed to smile the whole way through the punishment.

In addition to photos of patients, the crew was allowed a truncated tour of the hospital. They ran black and white shots of people working in the bakery and the laundry. They took pictures in the geriatric ward. They weren't allowed anywhere near the greenhouse, the mill, or the morgue. In the back was a section about the staff of Briarcliff. The doctors were easy to photograph but the religious side of the institute's staff appeared in a group photo; too many of them found it prideful to sit for an individual picture.

The money that came in from the magazine sales helped considerably, both in easing Briarcliff's budget crisis and in easing the Monsignor's conscience about allowing the shoot. The time it took also allowed him to prepare for the exorcism he would be conducting. He knew many exorcisms didn't "take" the first time so he was fortified and ready to do whatever it took, as many times as it took.

He had Sister Jude's assistance. All he needed was a medical doctor present to monitor the girl's health during the procedure—and to provide first aid to anybody in the room that might need it before the ritual was finished.

...

-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-

...

Breakfast in Oliver Thredson's basement had quickly become routine. He was a man of habit by nature and moving from the upstairs kitchen to the kitchenette wasn't a big adjustment. Occasionally he had to run upstairs for something and he kept the week's supplies in the big refrigerator up there but in general the transition had been fairly easy.

He liked the comfort of the ritual. He'd taken to sleeping in the bed with Constance, pressed against her side, though he still kept her bound hand and foot. Every morning he'd rise with the alarm clock. He would assist her through a shared shower. Zip ties and a handicap bench sufficed to keep her in place while he washed her. Through it all she kept a rigid silence, neither resisting nor assisting him.

At breakfast he would bind her to a chair at the table and prepare the meal while the morning news played on the small black and white television. They would eat; he would comment on the program. She rarely said anything, not trusting herself not to tear into him. She was waiting, saving it all up. Watching his every move for an opportunity to break free.

For him, it made her easy to manage. He still couldn't trust her so he left nothing to chance. Other women had frustrated him with their tears and cowering. With Constance, it was different. He could tell the stubborn wall he was hitting with her was just that: A wall. He'd seen the same thing with her son and was certain he could break through it, in time—just as he was doing with Tate.

It was incredibly satisfying to know he was repairing a whole family. He even fancied sometimes, late at night when he was drifting off beside her, that one day she and Tate would be his family legitimately. He would have the best of all worlds then.

He was nearly done with his eggs Benedict when the television newscaster's report turned grim.

"A body found last night by police is suspected to be linked to the Bloody Face murders. The victim was found beneath the MacArthur Park bridge. Her clothes were removed and her face is missing. The woman, who is believed to be in her mid-20's, remains unidentified."

Oliver had paused eating to watch the broadcast, hoping for photos or footage, but the program stayed on the newscaster and featured a white rectangle with a blank-faced silhouette where they would usually run a picture of the suspected killer. They had no idea who they were looking for. It made Thredson's confidence soar.

"If the woman is indeed linked to the other murders, that makes her the fifth victim of Bloody Face," the serious-faced anchorman said.

Oliver looked over at Constance and pushed his thick glasses up. "Don't worry, honey," he said, when he saw her watching the TV. "She's old news. I promise you, I've stopped seeing other women since you moved in."

She shifted her attention to him and stared. Then she barked a sharp laugh. "How considerate."

He smiled, ignoring the sarcasm that laced her words. "Only the best for you, my dear," he said and lifted his glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice to her.

...

Author's Note:

I know I just ended Harvest this week but I wanted to get this rolling already. The insanity can't be contained. In the show, Bloody Face only killed 3 people; Thredson only was attributed with one of those murders (and another kidnapping/rape). I thought I'd make Bloody Face more prolific this time around. Earn his killer moniker.

Next time: It's visitation day!