66 - The Case of the Terrible Merkin

"Sixty-six," Roberta said as she picked up a candle two-thirds burned down. From her pocket, she drew a notebook, and flipped it open, holding the candle close to read from it. "How far we've come, and so far to go. I want to tell you of a story that haunted me, since I first ran across it. I call it

THE CASE OF THE TERRIBLE MERKIN

The fire had scarred Magdalene Dubois, though most could not see it. Her wigs were very carefully made, of the best materials she could afford. The high-necked, long-sleeved dresses she preferred covered most of her, and with the gloves she habitually wore and a bit of makeup, there was no way to tell she had been caught in that terrible blaze that had consumed the old schoolhouse. The new one was built of brick and concrete, and coincided with the organization of the local school district.

The newspaper archive of the Hollow Herald was clear on Dubois' survival, her long recovery, her re-emergence into society. The town had arranged a pension. Not a fortune, but in the wake of Prohibition and before World War II, it left her in the odd position of a woman of independent means.

The Wolff family papers at the library are partially under seal, but there are letters from that period, between Magdalene Dubois and Arlene Wolff. The two had grown up together, and maintained a friendship in adulthood. Even into quite intimate matters. I recall one letter where Dubois claimed:

"I do not mind the scars so much as the fact that all of my hair down there has been burnt off, and will never grow again. I feel naked and inappropriate to my own eyes. It is difficult enough to find a good husband, as you well know, and I fear my appearance counts much against me. I know what you will say, and that in the dark all men and women are alike, but I have no desire for a simple lover. Call it a romantic notion, unfit for an old maid of 29 years, but I want love, not simply coitus."

In response, Arlene Wolff sent her friend a merkin; which is like a wig for the pubis, an artificial patch of hair to cover a woman who lacks their own for whatever reason. Popular enough in earlier periods, when shaving was necessary to treat certain diseases or deal with lice. Dubois wrote back:

"I must thank you for the kindly gift. What is it made from? Beaver? It so much resembles the color of my lost hair that it is strange to see it upon myself in the mirror. Like I had back a lost part of myself. I am not much given to staring at my reflection, like Narcissus, but with it held in place I feel a confidence I have not felt in years. Perhaps I will...seek out companionship."

Later that week:

"William Turner is not the gentleman that I imagined him to be. Nor, perhaps, am I the gentlewoman I had imagined myself to be. We went for a drive, out in the country, to see the stars and moon. It was such a howlable moon. Our hands strayed, and a hunger of the flesh like nothing I have ever known overwhelmed me. I fear I quite ruined his moustache. It reminded me of those stolen moments together, after our lessons."

The next night:

"The merkin will not come off. I thought it was merely that the glue had set too firmly, but I tug and I can feel the flesh beneath being pulled. Arlene, what was that you gave me? What kind of hair was it made from? Please answer me. William is taking me for another ride tomorrow night, and I fear how far things will go."

The next letter was splattered with a brownish substance:

"Arlene, please excuse the stains on this page. I am suffering greatly at the moment. The moon wanes, and my flow has returned, for the first time since the terrible fire. The merkin will not come off. The hair spreads. Thick and luscious. I wish you would answer me. I know you say you got it from a tinker man, but you know they are not to be trusted! I hate to think what price you paid for it."

In October of that year, a notice ran in the Hollow Herald that William Turner, a commercial traveler, had vanished, leaving unpaid his bill at the New Tokyo hotel. All of his effects remained in his room, and his car was missing, which was discovered in a ditch outside of the town limits. There is a gap in the letters between Arlene and Magdalene, but when they return, Magdalene is writing from St. Louis:

"The hair spreads. And with it, healing. The scars fade beneath new skin. Did you know? Oh God, Arlene, I pray you did not. The hunger. The need. I couldn't help it. Poor William thought he was beastly when he tried to **** himself upon me, never guessing what hid beneath my clothes. When he pressed my head into his lap, and that warm meat filled my mouth, could not help myself. It was as if I was drunk on dandelion wine. A kind of delerium of sucking came upon me, determined as I was to extract as much of that manly elixir as I could. And when he could not produce more...my hunger was only raised but not abated. Is this what you feel like, all the time? I must be careful what I say now. No doubt the police are looking for me. I could not stay. Yet it grows stronger every day as the moon waxes. I had to get away. Write to me when it is safe to return."

A curious incident is reported in St. Louis in November. According to a local paper, a pair of young Army men on leave reported they had been attacked by a female ape, escaped from some circus. Of course, there was no circus in town at the time, and the state of the soldier's dress was such that the local police accused them of unnatural acts with each other, which both hotly denied. The matter, as near as I can tell, never went to court.

Magdalene Dubois returned to Dagon's Hollow in early November. As before, she was tightly dressed, no doubt to hide her extensive scars. The Hollow Herald reports that she purchased a house with her friend, Arlene Wolff, where they resided together, leaving only for joint vacations. When they died some decades later, Magdalene predeceasing Arlene, the old editor referred to this as a "Boston marriage," for Miss Wolff insisted on her friend being interred in the family cemetery. Where, some years later, Arlene Wolff herself would be buried, right beside her.

"There is one final artifact to accompany that parcel of letters," Roberta said. "A locket that belonged to Arlene Wolff. In it are a number of black, curly hairs...and a photograph of a woman, naked and hairless, save for a black triangle of dark hair that spreads out from her crotch to cover her lower body."

So saying, Roberta blew out the candle.