Werewright Curriculum, Lesson 2:

I’ve had to rewrite this three times now. At this point, I think I must treat last night as a narrative rather than academic notes. What I learned can’t be removed from the context.

Early last night, I heard the dreadful croak of that web-footed monster Mr. Freestone keeps in his basement. When the thing kept croaking, I went out to investigate. It was hiding in a stretch of grass, but it hopped out when it saw me, let me take the bundle of paper that was tied to its foreleg:

“You’ve been eager to truly engage with the craft. Here’s your chance. Come quickly.”

I suppose following a giant frog to the basement of a Negro practicing mysterious ways of remaking the human body is one of those ladylike things I’m not supposed to do. Didn’t stop me.

The ground floor was torn apart, broken glass everywhere, cracks in the woodwork, blood on the ground. I followed the blood trail into the basement, where Mr. Freestone was trying to haul a massive brute of a man onto the operating table. The brute was unconscious and breathing shallowly, smelling of frog spit. Victor was much worse off, with cuts and bruises everywhere above the forearms, blotchy bruises all over the neck.

“It was self-defense,” he wheezed hoarsely.

A badger got into a neighbor’s house once and I went with my dad to get it out. We found it in a corner, hind against the wall, eyes wide, teeth bared, terrified for its life. I’d never seen that look on a person before, but that was what I saw on Victor’s face. Dad killed the badger with a pitchfork. I told Mr. Freestone I believed him.

As soon as he heard that, he started hissing out orders as he started laying out his equipment. I’d spent every spare moment since the last lesson reviewing what I’d learned; I needed little guidance and he gave none. As he disassembled the body, he’d wheeze out a tool and I’d pass it to him. Over and over again for an hour. I kept an eye on the voltaic measurements that kept the brain alive, the bellows pumping air into his lungs, the thermometer that would warn us if he was becoming too cold to fully revive. Once he’d finished putting the body into short-term stasis, Mr. Freestone disassembled the brain. I was tasked with labeling each chunk as he extracted it; he had a stack of cards ready. “Frontal 1”, “Frontal 2”, “Parietal 3”, “Cerebellum 4”. I kept thinking that there should be more blood but with Victor, everything just came apart discretely, like one of those fancy puzzle boxes.

Once he’d finished pulling the grey thing apart, he explained the actual goal of this operation. “We’re going to erase his memory of attacking me, and we’re going to remove any desire he has to attack me, and then we’re going to let him loose. I do not want to kill him but I can’t risk him trying to kill me again. Hatred is a disease and it can be cured”. He made me repeat the last sentence back to him. I thought he’d gone mad, and if I didn’t see what happened next, I might still think that:

We cured hatred. Thank God I had enough of my wits about me to take notes.

• ‘Hatred’ consists of a combination of memories, emotions associated with those memories, and behavioral patterns. If enough of those factors are modified in a subject’s brain, you can force massive changes in the subject’s outlook.
• For examining the brain’s memories (in order to determine what must be altered), one uses needles and wire. Two or more needles are inserted into the brain and wire is threaded between them. Touching the wire causes a small electric shock that carries images. Verified this by viewing the subject’s memory of assaulting Mr. No, no, I don’t want to think about it again.
• For blotting out memories, he uses a white oil-based paint, applied with a small horsehair brush. The color matters less than the composition, so he said, but white helps with tracking what he has and hasn’t painted.
• For recoloring memories with new emotions, he uses a combination of blue and rose watercolor paint, with honey in place of water, applied with a goathair brush. It behaves similarly to wood varnish, seeping into the crevices of the brain.
• For removing negative behavioral patterns, he excises the nerve with a thin whalebone knife. The abcess is filled in with muscle fiber taken from the arm.
• For creating aversions to certain stimuli, a paste mixture of ground cayenne pepper, salt and olive oil has to be placed across multiple areas of the brain. Victor mentioned in passing that he adapted the mixture from the recipe of a ‘voodoo’ he once knew. Clarified that the recipe was for cooking, not rituals.

When we were done, he put the brain back together, and then put the body back together, and then we dragged him out into the fields before the sun rose. I should have been taking more detailed notes but

I have no idea if I should be writing any of this down. If we have broken no laws, it could only be because laws only forbid things known to be possible, and no judge in this country could imagine such a thing. If this is what werewrightwork is capable of, then I understand why Victor hides it so keenly from the rest of the town. I still have no idea who that man was; I’ve never seen him before. Was he from the circus? I think Victor muttered ‘Marvin’ when he was looking through the memories, like the minstrel master. I’ve heard most of the headliners there are from South Missouri, or even further South than that. Was he attacked just for being a Negro doctor working in a white town? Or is it because he can change men’s minds with paint and meat?

If I become a problem, will he deal with me the same way? Make me ‘safe’? Like everybody always wanted me to be? I’m the only person who knows what Victor did to this man; it would be very convenient if I couldn’t remember anything.

I need answers, but he told me not to come back to the office until he tracked down who assaulted him, ‘for my own safety’. Like I’m not an accomplice already. I want to trust him; he seemed as terrified at what he did as I am about what he can do. But I can’t just sit and wait.

I’ll just have to ask some questions at the circus. And make sure someone can find my notes if someone tries to break me. I won’t be safe until I know what’s behind this mystery too.