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Francis opened a drawer and took out a framed photograph, sighing. The picture couldn't have been taken that long ago, but he felt as if it could have been decades old. In it, his face was unreadable, but Alan stared off into the distance with a placid smile, as Jane sat beside them, looking composed and regal as always. Sometimes, he looked at the picture and tried to imagine it had only just been taken, and that any second, he'd hear a knock at his door and Alan would be there, just as cheerful and radiant and alive as he'd always been. And then maybe he would tell him what he never could, because he was too afraid, because he may not understand, because I loved him, Francis thought. I loved him I loved him I loved him.
And it was true; he loved Alan in the same way he loved Jane. He loved his inimitable smile, his endless optimism and every word of poetry he wrote. He wasn't much of a poet himself, but he often found himself wishing he could write sweeping ballads filled with all the words that could possibly describe what Alan was to him- although he didn't think he knew any suitable enough. What would Alan had done if Francis had told him how he felt? And what would Jane think? Maybe- and he allowed himself to indulge in a fantasy- Alan would even return his feelings, unlike Jane had. But thinking about what might have been would only make his absence hurt even more.
A knock at the door startled him, and he shoved the picture back into the drawer. Certainly, despite his fantasies, it wasn't Alan- but who else could it be? Jane wouldn't visit at this hour, not unless something was very wrong. He took a deep breath and answered the door, then immediately slammed it shut as soon as he saw who was standing there. He can't be back, he thought, dumbfounded. How had he escaped his cell? How long has he been out?
Caligari knocked on the door again, louder this time. Francis refused to answer it, bolting the door shut. What does he want with me? he wondered. At least Cesare was with Jane now; Francis never thought that would reassure him, but it, along with the fact that he was in recovery from his brutal conditioning, meant that Caligari was effectively disarmed.
The knocking stopped, and Francis caught his breath. Had he given up already? He walked around towards the window to check, only to be met with the sight of Caligari raising his cane to the glass, striking it with a surprising amount of force. Upon the second strike, the window cracked, and on the third, it shattered. Francis stumbled back as the glass splintered in all directions, a shard grazing his face.
"What do you want?" he shouted.
Caligari spoke in a disturbingly calm tone. "Just to talk to you," he said. "You wouldn't let me in, so I felt I had to speak up." As Francis stared at him, he could see a wound on his forehead; it couldn’t have been from the glass, as the blood appeared to have dried.
“I’m not listening to anything you have to say,” Francis insisted.
“Very well,” Caligari answered, bowing. “I suppose whatever you’re up to is far more interesting than what I wanted to tell you. You won’t want to listen to an old man prattle on and on about terribly boring topics, such as the fate of your one remaining friend. Good day.”
He turned to leave, and Francis winced. “What did you say?”
Caligari turned back around, his unmistakable grin plastered on his face. Francis wanted to smack it off. “Your pretty little friend,” he said in a greasy whisper, “is now a patient in my care.”
“You’re lying,” Francis said.
Caligari shrugged. “You can believe that, if you want. I wouldn’t blame you.”
“She would never enter your terrible excuse for an asylum,” Francis responded, his fists clenched. “What did you do to her?”
“I’ve done nothing,” Caligari answered. “Yet. But in any case, I wasn’t the one responsible for her admission; it was her parents. I suppose they finally tired of her aloof personality and constant rejections of every suitor that they presented to her, so they trusted me to fix that. I hear you’ve had your eye on her for a long time now; maybe once she leaves, she’ll finally give you the I do’s you’ve been hearing in your head for so long.”
Francis felt his face heat up. He couldn’t help but picture Jane quiet and dulled and completely broken, and the prospect angered him so much, he wanted to kill Caligari just for making him think of it.
“She’ll be a tough one to crack, though,” Caligari went on. “When I went to meet her last night, she gave me this.” He motioned to the wound on his forehead. “I’d imagine her parents never taught her such behavior; that must have been the final straw for them. It’s just as well, though; she looks far lovelier in a straitjacket than the ridiculous ballgown I saw her in.”
“I don’t believe you,” Francis said. “She would never hurt anyone, even you. And her parents would never put her in an asylum.” He tried to keep his voice from shaking; he didn’t trust Caligari for an instant. But what if it was true, and he let Jane suffer because he didn’t want to believe him?
“That’s a nice thought to reassure yourself with, I’m sure. But not one I’d advise you to indulge in if you ever want to see her again. Although you’re used to loss, Francis. You’re down one friend; what’s one more?”
He thought of Alan again, and tears sprung to his eyes. Already regretting his decision, he opened his door, stepping outside without bothering to close it. He doubted Caligari was telling the truth, but he also couldn’t afford to be wrong.
“Take me to her,” he said.
Caligari laughed, plucking the shard of glass from the broken window out of Francis’ cheek, and patting the spot where it had been. Francis clenched his fists.
Grinning, Caligari bowed mockingly. “At your service,” he sneered, wrapping his arm around Francis’ shoulder. He leaned into his ear, whispering. “I can’t believe I finally have all three.”
Francis shoved him away. “Enough,” he said. “Take me to her, now.”
Caligari took his arm, leading him down the street. “It must feel nice,” he said, “to think you’re in control.”
-
As Francis entered the asylum lobby, he found his stomach twisting just as much as the patterns on the walls were. How could anyone expect their sanity to be restored in a place like this? The distant sounds of shrieking chilled his blood, and he wondered what sort of treatments Caligari approved of for his patients. A place like this would be easy to get lost in, he figured, and he wondered how he and Jane would make their way out once he found her- if he found her. How did Caligari manage to resume his position, after Francis had uncovered irrefutable evidence about his crimes and gotten the staff on his side?
He looked around for another doctor, before finding a group of men in coats standing by another hallway. Breaking from Caligari’s grasp, he ran towards them, gesturing frantically.
“What’s happened here?” he demanded. “What is he doing out of his cell? Why is he back in charge?”
They looked to each other, then to Francis. “Are you a new patient?” one asked in a tone Francis found exceedingly patronizing.
“The director!” Francis insisted. “He’s a murderer; don’t you remember?”
He flinched, feeling a pair of hands resting on his shoulders.
“I see he’s mistaken,” Caligari said from behind him. “That was the previous director who committed those unforgettable crimes. The staff was found compliant, too, and they were all fired. But all those poor patients had nowhere to go, and luckily, I was in town- one of the most experienced and credible psychologists in Germany. I was appointed the new director, hired a new staff, and things have been running smoothly ever since.”
“You were replaced with… yourself?” Francis muttered as the other doctors nodded and clapped politely.
“No, no,” Caligari shook his head. “I replaced the previous director, who was the murderer. Try and keep up.”
Francis couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How could this happen?” he wondered aloud.
“Lots of paperwork and technicalities you wouldn’t be interested to hear about,” Caligari said flippantly. “And between you and me, most people don’t care about who’s in charge, so long as there’s someone in charge of them.”
The doctors clapped again as Francis watched, outraged.
“But the patients! The patients care, don’t they?”
Caligari smiled. “If the patients have any concerns, they will make them known. And speaking of patients, let’s stop wasting time and go see our favorite, shall we? Maybe if you’re lucky, she’ll still remember who you are!”
“What motivational words from our director!” one of the doctors said.
“How compassionately he speaks about our helpless patients!”
“Helpless?!” Francis demanded. “But you’re supposed to be helping them!”
“Oh, but we are,” Caligari insisted, taking his arm and leading him away. “Now, don’t you worry about this institution anymore. I can reassure you it’s running exactly as it’s intended.”
I’m coming, Jane, Francis thought, and followed him away from the doctors, down another hallway covered in triangular doors that pointed towards the ceiling like the sharp teeth of a feral animal. He could hear noises behind them as they walked, and figured they must have been the cells in which individual patients were held. He wondered if any of them were getting any actual treatment- and with Caligari back in charge and the original staff fired, he doubted it.
“Which one is she in?” he asked. He wasn’t sure if she was even here at all, but if she was, he wouldn’t let her spend another second locked up in this horrible place.
“I had a feeling you’d ask that,” Caligari said. He approached a cell at the end of the hall and took out a ring of keys, unlocking the door. Then, with the same gesture he used to welcome people into his carnival tent, he motioned for Francis to enter.
Tentatively, Francis stepped forward. The cell was completely dark inside, and he couldn’t see whether or not it was occupied.
“Go on,” Caligari said, prodding him in the back with his cane.
Francis edged closer to the entrance of the cell, trying to make out the inside. This must be what Cesare saw all the time, he thought to himself. He felt along the inside for an electric light switch, but couldn’t find one. “Is there a light?” he asked.
“Electricity is expensive, I’m afraid,” Caligari smiled.
“Jane, I’m here,” Francis called, his voice wavering, to no response.
She’s not here, he realized. He wasn’t sure if he was frightened or relieved about that. He’d confirmed what he’d suspected all along- it’s a trap.
But it was too late. The door slammed shut behind him, and a lock clicked into place. As he pounded on the door, screaming, he could hear the faint sound of wheezing laughter draw further and further away.
-
Caligari was still laughing by the time he returned to Francis’ house. True, he would have liked to have the girl taken care of- after all, she’d proven to be more of a handful than he’d expected- but watching Francis’ doomed attempt at heroics was just as priceless. For all his talk of justice, Francis was blind to the fact that it didn’t really exist- there was only power, Caligari knew, and those who were strong enough to wield it. For him, justice was revenge against the nuisance playing detective who humiliated him, along with the girl, and his somnambulist, who had both defied his will. If not for Francis, things would still be as they should. But getting rid of him- if only for now- was just the first step in a list of methodical procedures he intended to carry out to their inevitable conclusion.
The door was unlocked, and he threw it aside as he entered. Where was it? he wondered, approaching a series of drawers. He threw them open, rifling through them and throwing their contents to the ground. His hand came across something small and rectangular, and he picked it up, only to see it was a framed photograph of the three faces that caused hatred to flame through him the second he looked at them. He threw the frame to the ground, crushing it with his boot and tearing the photograph to shreds. Let him see that, should he return! he thought, and resumed his search. When the drawers were emptied, he turned to the bookshelf, flinging volume after volume aside.
“Where is it!?” he demanded, bludgeoning the shelf with his cane and making even more books fall to the ground, pages flying everywhere. A particularly heavy volume shattered a mirror when he flung it across the house, and he tore pages from the rows of encyclopedias and books of literature in frustration. At last, one shelf was left, and he grabbed another book by its spine, about to destroy it when he felt its familiar weight in his hands. He gasped, flipping through the pages- it was his handwriting, the words he wrote as he salivated over them. Such precious secrets had been stolen from him- which would only make his plans more gratifying. Triumphantly, he left the house with the journal tucked under his arm. Tonight was a success, but tomorrow, he knew, things would only get more interesting.