The Pit

The Pit
Ren Hughes


There are two ways to go mad.

One is to snap. Just let everything pile up, drowning yourself. Let your problems, your worries, your cares bury you alive until you can’t breathe, until you’re clawing at them, trying to break away and find light again, only to realize that the light isn’t there. That it’s all piled so high it’s engulfed the sun itself, and with that realization, break. Stop caring. Laugh at the dark and let yourself split in half, cracked wide open. Let yourself be consumed.

The other is slower. Less easy to spot. It begins with one problem instead of many. A slow walk into the dark. Each step you take is your own, and each time you look back at where you’ve come from, you find yourself making the choice to move away from the light. You let the problem be your guiding hand downwards, a spiral staircase into the deep. You might have even built it yourself before you began your descent. Spending hours upon hours in the harsh light of day hammering away at each nail, carefully placing each and every beam, until you could fit it snugly and safely against the walls of the pit below you. When you reach the bottom, you find yourself sighing in relief. You and the problem are indistinguishable now, curled around each other until no one could tell where you end and it begins. It’s possible that it’s always been this way, that you’ve always been in the dark. In fact you’re sure of it. There was never any light at all. You’ve been here the whole time.

For obvious reasons, the latter is far more insidious. I wish I could say it was less common, but sadly, I have come to understand through my work that either is just as likely to occur. Even an entirely sane person, with no distinguishing features otherwise, can fall to either one.

An interesting similarity is the descent. They always start in the light of day and move into the dark. Now that means there is also two ways to interpret the descent. One is that all humanity begins good, walking in the light and being dragged into the dark, and the other is...that any of us can fall into the pit.

My best example of the less optimistic lesson is Mrs. Pembelton, a hysterical woman of the snapping variety. Her husband brought her here years ago, claiming she would not eat or sleep. She had even begun speaking of abandoning him and their two children to join a coven of witches in the woods. Our forefathers would have burned her, stoned her for such a claim. Luckily for her, we are more educated than those who came before, and have decided to help her, to attempt to draw her back into the light of day so she may see her children again.

“Now, Mrs. Pembelton…”

“My name is Sarah.”

“As I have told you multiple times, we work in a professional setting here, Mrs Pembelton.”
I stand, and gesture to the man behind me. “Now, this is a student of mine, Mr. Locke. He will be observing our appointment today.”

“Another indoctrinate into your madhouse monsters, Dr. Jones?” The patient spits at us, a primal gesture. A simple flick of a handkerchief across my cheek and all evidence of her remarkable aim is gone.

“Do you see, Mr. Locke?” I turn my office chair slightly to show my expression, calm and dignified as every doctor should be. To instill calm in the minds of their patients. “Mrs. Pembelton is an excellent example of the subtler evidence of hysteria. Look at her expression, such a primal anger to her. Abnormal to the female face. Her words and tone are aggressive as well, do you understand?”

“Of course, Dr. Jones.” Locke bows his head in proper fashion. A smart, polite young man who knows his place.

“Now, let’s speak again about this coven, Mrs. Pembelton.”

“I’ve told you time and time again, it doesn’t exist!” she growls at us. “Thomas made that up!”

“Now, Mrs. Pembelton, we’ve been over this. Why would he make such a thing up?”

“To get rid of me.”

“As you keep repeating. See, Mr. Locke, another subtle symptom of hysteria, repetition of lies over and over. She truly believes every word she speaks.” I can’t help but to shake my head at how sad it all is. “Now, Mr. Pembelton would have no substantial reason to be rid of you, Mrs. Pembelton. You are the only person your children listened to from what I understand. You have no large inheritance to gain, and he has taken no other lovers since you were brought here. So, let’s dispense of the lies shall we? The coven you claimed to run off to, where is it? How did you discover it, and who was in it?”

“I’m telling you, it doesn…”

“It doesn’t exist, yes yes.” A sigh escapes me. “Mr. Smith, please bring the patient back to her room.” Of course, she begins screaming the moment our nurse begins to drag her away. I say drag because that is what he has to do. She seems determined to stay, and spit insults in my face. Alas, such predictable behavior for her condition. Mr. Smith was however chosen for his position for a reason. He is a large man. He says he was a an athlete in university before he chose his current profession. Mrs. Pembelton has no chance against his size and strength, and she is carried away.

“Some context on that patient Mr. Locke.” I look back at him to see he is still simply watching with interest, a curious expression upon his face. “Mrs. Pembelton has been here three years, and as I said, entrusted on the diagnosis of hysteria by her local physician. Her husband brought her here personally, only wishing to see her get better. We are well known for helping women in particular get over their debilitations.” I stand, and make my way over to a book from the vast shelves lining the room. Always kept on the right wall, so they might be closer to the dominant side, and more natural to gravitate towards.

“Her husband is well known in their town as a kind man. A good man. He has never beat her, or asked anything of her beyond the usual duties befitting a woman, and then one evening she snapped. Almost out of nowhere, according to him. She began raving about that coven of hers, abandoning their children to join them, to never come home again. He called the physician, and now here she is. It would benefit her treatment to find out if this coven is merely a delusion, or if she came across other women claiming to be part of it.” I place the book in front of him. “This is a tome entirely on the history of hysteria, it would benefit you to read it within the month.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

I have him follow me down the hall, pointing out some of the patients rooms. We try not to use cells here, but the darkness and dampness of some of these rooms is...unavoidable due to their inhabitants hygiene practices. For a few patients, such as Mrs. Erikson, allowing them to wallow in their filth even aids in coming to terms with how far they’ve fallen.

“We have about twelve married women, four widowed, and 45 unmarried ladies stationed here among the inpatients. Almost all of them have been brought in on hysteria, four due to their...seeing of things that aren’t there, and a few with melancholy.” I explain as we walk. “Each one requires a weekly check in for at least half an hour by me, and some by you. We try to do it in the offices but should you ever find one of the patients too...unwashed to be in the same room with, Mr. Smith will force them to bathe. We try to avoid cruelty but...sometimes things must be attended to. Do you understand Mr. Locke?”

“Of course, Dr. Jones.” His disgust at the idea of the women unwashed is palpable, a usual reaction for those unused to it.

I let him go then. He will make a fine addition to the staff once he is finished with his residency here. There is of course the problem of  some of the women taking to him, for lack of a better term. They can be heard often admiring the “man with the curly hair.” But, of course, such can be expected whenever any strapping young man is put in the presence of so many women. They are human, just like men. They lust as much as we do. Especially those here, so weakened by their illness.


I wish I did not have to give such sad news to our residents. We are down yet another colleague. Dr. Oliver, a good friend of mine, met an unfortunate end in a riding accident this morning. It seems that his horse became spooked by a garter snake of all things, and bucked in it’s fear. Dr. Oliver’s foot became caught in the stirrup and he was dragged to his death. That makes four of our staff who we’ve lost in the last six months, and only a week since our nurse Mr. Moore decided to move out west.

Thank heaven for Mr. Locke, who’s taken on more and more responsibility in these past few months. For only a resident, he seems very capable. For instance the other night he had an entire group of the married women out for a run. Usually the women become so held up on their own illness, they refuse to go outside. Getting seven of them out there at once, and each one talking to each other and even him, is quite the feat.

I had to visit Mr. Locke in his quarters today for his studies. The poor man has taken ill with some sort of stomach virus. It is bringing him great pain, but we have determined it is not contagious. It’s gone on for two days, and no one else inside the institution has caught anything of the like. Mr. Locke, studious as he is, has insisted on continuing his studies, and in recognition of such dedication, I decided to bring him some case files to look over and aid me in determining proper treatment.

A file of particular interest was Mrs. Jacobs, of the former type of madness. Once a pillar of the community, she simply snapped one afternoon, turning on her friends and family, spouting nonsense. Her brother, who interned her here never deigned to tell us the exact details, and she seems to have become mute as a symptom of her hysteria.

Except of course, for when she speaks to Mr. Locke.

“I believe it has been a combination of the reintegration of some social interaction, some exercise, and an extension of kindness on my part. She did not have much important to say, and still refused to speak of the incident.” Mr. Locke details the experiences for me, propped up against the headboard, steadfastly ignoring his pain in order to do his job.

“What did she speak of then?”

“The fresh air, her loathing of the wire frame in her old hoop skirts, her brother’s whale oil company, how Mrs. Cauthers shared her bread with her the other night at supper.” He shrugs. “As I said, Nothing of importance.”

The detail about Mrs. Cauthers is especially interesting. Mr. Locke’s suggestion of increasing the amount of time the married women are allowed to spend together seems to be fruitful. The increase in social interaction with other patients who may have similar experiences. “Speaking at all is a step forward. Well done, Mr. Locke.”
“Thank you, sir.”

The other patients have also made progress, not much, but some. Mrs. Cauthers herself has become less prone to fits of sobbing, Mrs. Jackson seems more engaged in daily tasks, Mrs. Stanley’s screams have lessened in the night, even Mrs. Pembleton’s anger seems to have calmed somewhat.

We go through each patient one by one, their progress, and how to continue said progress in the future. Eventually I deem Mr. Locke should get some rest, his pain obvious. “I hope you improve soon Mr. Locke, it would be a shame to lose you for long.”

“Thank you, sir.”

On my way out of the room, I notice a piece of fabric half hidden in an open drawer. It’s simple, unassuming. A white band. I do not know its use. I can see Mr. Locke follow my gaze out of the corner of my eye, cringing at what must be the pain.  I try not to dwell on it. There are far more important things to worry about.



A year of residency has now gone by for Mr. Locke, and unfortunately, he has become distracted from such a bright beginning. It should have been obvious to me that a man so young would be easily swayed by a horde of lonely women. The youth do not yet possess the strength of will to ignore such a thing. I have to wonder if it is time to question him on this subject.

With so much of the staff leaving before I have time to replace them, Mr. Locke remains invaluable, however. He continues to make great progress with the patients, but I’m beginning to wonder at what cost.

Now, how to broach...

“DR. JONES, DR. JONES COME QUICK.” I am startled out of my musings by their subject, bursting in through my office door in quite the disheveled state. He is panting, partially doubled over against the door frame, his hair over his face and eyes that almost seem to have the madness in them.

“Mr. Locke, what is the meaning of such an intrusion?”

“The married patients have escaped, they’re meeting down in the courtyard, I think, I think Mrs. Pembelton finally found more for her co…”

“Witches do not exist Mr. Locke, I should think the delusion she was under was clear.”

“She, she’s gathered, gathered other patients and broken free sir!”

“Calm yourself. Go fetch Mr. Smith and we’ll...”

“They overwhelmed him on the way out sir!”

I can’t help but be startled by this. How could they possibly have overwhelmed a man so big as Mr. Smith? Through sheer numbers? Sheer perseverance? Women in their condition should not have the foresight to be able to plan this.

So it must not have been as premeditated as Mr. Locke seems to believe. If Mrs. Pembelton has swayed them with her anger, and force cannot stop them, than it is logic, persuasion that must calm their minds. If so, I am the only one in this hospital with the talent and soundness of mind who knows each of them well enough to bring them back.

“Alright, Mr. Locke. Ready the horses.”

It takes all of half an hour to find them. Mr. Locke must be quite the tracker in order to do so as quickly as he has. Bathed in moonlight, in such a dense forest as this, the circle the women formed in the clearing is certainly...coven like. Has Mrs. Pembleton's unique delusion become shared? The silence is eerie. I find myself unsure if these are truly the same women, as I have become so used to the wailing and moaning in their respective rooms.

I cautiously dismount, Mr. Locke following my lead, remaining behind me as we move towards the circle of women. They do not look at me, even the ones facing me seem...still, gazing to a point beyond us that neither of us can see. So closely strung together are they, that you cannot discern anything beyond their bodies. Their dresses held in their hands, one layered over the other. If only I were a taller man, I might be able to look over them.

I clear my throat, attempting not to startle them. “Ladies?”

I receive no answer. “Mrs. Pembleton? Mrs. Jacobs? Mrs. Cauthers?”

Still they remain silent and still, like ghosts. Had I not lived in the same establishment as them for the last 25 years, or if I were a less learned man, I might just believe there were witches amongst us at this sight.

“It is time to go home.” I begin to step into the circle, calling each woman by name as I see her, and yet I receive no answer. I find myself in the center now, and I turn to look at the women on the other side, but I am astonished to see a ditch? No, a grave. At the center of the circle lies a grave, dug six feet into the ground. I look up to see Mrs. Pembleton, still staring at some point beyond, and, now that I look closer, there is dirt under her nails. The ditch hidden from my line of sight by the women before now seems as though it could swallow me whole. I cannot help but stare. They dug this themselves? Why? For whom? What ritual are they performing? Are they mad or is it all...is Mrs. Pembleton’s delusion not a falsehood? What in God’s name have they begun here, what do they mean to do with a gr…

There is a third way to go mad.

To be pushed is perhaps, the most tragic way to go. There are no steps, there is no ignoring of the dark. You know it is there. You’ve known all along, and you pushed away from the edge at every conceivable moment. You fear the fall, how long and deep it would be. You cannot see the bottom. You don’t know if there is one. You spent so long attempting to claw your way away from the dark that you didn’t notice it behind you. You pretended it wasn’t there, denied the pit its own existence. Or you gave it others to consume. It is always starving after all, always hoping for another to claim. Often, the one who pushed many closer to the edge is the one to be finally pushed off, to be betrayed by one they trusted. Perhaps a lover, a friend, or a student.

When a limp body hits soft dirt from six feet in the air, the noise it makes is louder than one might expect. It’s the same sound you might hear when you flop onto a bed late into the night. A thump, a small woosh of air giving way beneath you. The weight of a man will draw him down faster and faster, but the fall is too short to end it all. Instead, you remain asleep for longer than anyone expects. This in turn, gives others an opportunity.

When you wake up, the first feeling you might have is a grating in your lungs, an inability to catch a breath. You gasp for air, opening your mouth wide to capture what you so desperately need, but you only succeed in allowing more of the weight above you inside. Confusion gives way to primal fear, gives way to anger, and then gives way to a primal fear again. You can see the shadowy figures of those you pushed above you, damning you to the fate you damned them too, but there is dirt in your eyes. The weight thrown upon you by each of those seeking a vengeance, by the one who gave them the opportunity. If they all must live in the dark, than so must you.

That’s all there is now, darkness. You cough and sputter, but you cannot claw your way back to the light, you cannot move your arms. The crushing force pins you down, and as time goes on, you find whatever light you’d clung to sputtering out. With each new accusation, with each new clump of dirt, you sink farther and farther. You cannot stay awake, you cannot catch a breath, you cannot stop the weight of it all pushing in on your chest and breaking you down. There is nothing now, nothing at all.

Nothing but the pit.