The Crescent

Chapter 1

December 27th, 1939

Will Drachman patted the dash encouragingly as his car spluttered up the winding dirt road. He'd never visited Eureka Springs, but he'd heard The Depression had taken its toll on the little town. He speculated that Norman Baker's alleged Cancer-Curing Hospital might usher in some tourism, but the houses suggested otherwise. The once sturdy homes grown up from the ground had fallen into disrepair, posts brittle, paint peeling, and only dim kerosene lamps in the gritty windows. But that was a half an hour ago. Will hadn't seen a single house since, and the road had degraded to pot-holed indifference as he found himself in the increasingly remote wooded ridges of the mountain.

He was ready to pull over and reassess his map when his car gripped the road as gravel replaced dirt. He relaxed a little. If the road was maintained, he must be close.

Rounding the last bend, the hospital emerged. Baker is eccentric, he thought. The hospital was an imposingly cheerful lavender: the chimneys, the posts, the brick. It was vacant of vehicles, saving one polished, orchid Imperial Chrysler. Butterflies fluttered in Will's stomach as he shifted his clunkier Model-T into park.

He straightened his bowtie, punch pink, slightly improving the aesthetics of the vomit-green sweater his mother had knitted him for Hannukah. He draped his camera around his neck and stepped out of the car. There was the tiniest tug in his gut as he pushed through the wide front doors.

They slammed shut behind him and the sound ricocheted through the hospital. The walls were subjected to purples and golds, strewn with encouraging banners: HEALING BEGINS FROM THE INSIDE, and KICKING CANCER OUT THE DOOR and another, YOU CAN DO IT SO YOU WILL. Mateless sofas ranging from beaten to brand new grew up from the floor like colorful fungi. It was only fractionally less cold than outside, ratified by a barren fireplace stretching to the ceiling like staunch snakeskin. Will had expected the place to be teeming with patients, but there was no one. He wrinkled his nose at the combination of wet carpet and cleaner in the air.

The hospital was laid out like a cross. Lofty windows and double oak doors lined the opposite side of the hospital, and to Will's left and right paths tapered into carpeted hallways. The main stairwell to Will's right climbed squarely into the guts of the hospital. Will pulled The Brick out of its supple leather pouch and began snapping pictures.

"Excuse me," interrupted a curt voice. "No pictures."

Will spasmed and his camera nearly catapulted out his hands. To his left a brittle receptionist in square-framed glasses stared down haughtily from behind a desk. Will composed himself with a crooked smile.

"Hello! Sorry," he cried a little breathlessly. He cleared his throat. "My name is Will Drachman. I'm a journalist for the Cellardoor Journal. I was wondering if Mr. Baker is available. I'd like to interview him about the hospital's progressive treatment."

The woman pursed her lips, and the lines across her forehead deepened in annoyance. Will couldn't gage whether she was an old woman who looked young for her age or a young woman who looked old for her age.

"I'm sorry," she said unapologetically, "but Dr. Baker is currently unavailable. If you'd like to call and schedule an appointment, that'd be another thing, but you simply can't walk in and demand an interview."

"I see." Will glanced around. He didn't see any other appointees on the desolate couches awaiting Dr. Baker's visit. "Ma'am, I've driven quite a way to speak with him. This establishment is astounding. I only hope to elaborate on the behind-the-scenes action. Are you certain he's busy?"

"Of course, I'm sure. Dr. Baker is currently running personal errands."

"Is that your car out there?"