Robinson’s office was built above a remodeled garage
adjacent to his home. Jim certainly preferred the clean,
modern, and professional setting of Dr. Godbere’s office,
but he was desperate. The dentist employed one receptionist/
hygienist, an older woman named Mary, who had greeted
Jim earlier while chain-smoking in the driveway.
Mary entered the room, turned on a monitor, and
laid out the tools of the dental trade on a pan over Jim’s lap, before telling Robinson that she was headed out for
another cigarette.
“Okay, Mr. Patrick, I’m going to give you a shot to
numb the area; then we’ll get the filling out and see what’s going on with my new camera.” Robinson lifted the long,
• 122 •
IT THAT DECAYS
thin camera and flicked its light on and off before attaching it to the drill. He placed the drill in Jim’s mouth and turned it on. “I can move the monitor if you don’t want to watch.”
“Oh, it’s fine, Doc. Do what you have to do.”
The dentist nodded and went to work. He soon had
the filling out and was prodding around in the depression.
“Jim, I think I’m going to have to drill more. There’s still some discoloration. I can see how Dr. Godbere may have
missed this if he didn’t have a camera to really get in there.”
“Yeah, I don’t think he went down far enough,” said
Jim, after the dentist had removed his tools. “Drill, baby drill!”
Robinson chuckled. “Okay, okay. I’m going to place
this O-guard in your mouth, just to be safe.”
Soon enough, the drill was back in Jim’s mouth, the
two men viewing its progress on the monitor. Jim watched
as the drill slipped through the small hole, suddenly,
and Robinson unceremoniously yanked it back out of his
mouth.
“Shit!” said Robinson. “There may be some serious
basal decay. The drill went all the way through and into the gum—as if the bottom of the tooth was hollow.”
“Wha’ now?” mumbled Jim, throatily, the guard in his
mouth obstructing his speech.
“Well, let’s have a look,” said Robinson as he put the
drill with its attached camera back into the man’s mouth.
They could see some blood pooling around the tooth
and gum as the camera approached the rear of Jim’s mouth.
When the device was placed into the opening in the tooth,
the dentist gasped. Jim couldn’t quite make out what Dr.
Robinson was seeing on the monitor. From Jim’s point of
view, it looked like a dark, hairy patch in his tooth.
“This is unbelievable. Let me increase the
• 123 •
CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
magnification.” When Robinson magnified the hairy patch,
Jim could make out a sickening mass of tiny, black worms
living within his tooth and jaw!
Both men revolted, and the camera and monitor lost
the image. Jim tried to say something, but he could only
wrench out a shrill series of gasps.
“Bone worms?!” exclaimed Robinson, now incredibly
curious. He maneuvered the drill back into place so they
could again examine the issue. “Relax a minute, Jim. Let’s take another look.”
But before Robinson could get the drill into the tooth
itself, both men spotted the worms emerging from the
hole, snake-haired. The wriggling abominations had made
a home of Jim’s mandible and seemed to be erupting, their
hideout exposed. Jim panicked and grabbed the dentist’s
hand and drill, and the drill whirred to life.
“No, Jim, don’t!”
It was too late. Jim had already jammed the drill toward
the bewormed wisdom tooth. First missing and scraping
a jagged line across the dentin of another molar, then
adjusting and finding the mark—all while watching on the
monitor above. It happened so fast; Robinson was powerless to stop the frenzied man from drilling into the tooth, then through the gum tissue, and eventually into the jaw, each of which had been hollowed as the worms progressed toward
the surface. There was the whirr of the machine and the
hideous crackle of broken bone and severed tissue. The
drill easily broke through the passage made by the parasitic creatures, and Jim only ceased drilling when he had
punctured through the flesh of his jaw.
“Mary! Get the hell in here, now!” screamed Dr.
Robinson, as he finally unplugged the drill and restrained Jim from further injury.
CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
Jim writhed madly and kicked the pan of tools set on
the table hovering across his lap. Mary ran in, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, and helped the dentist keep Jim
in the chair. Blood was running from the drill emerging
from Jim’s jaw, dripping down his neck, even spurting
when he turned his head too far.
“What the hell is that?” asked Mary, as worms as thin as human hair began finding their way out of Jim’s jaw,
slinking down the drill itself and falling onto his shirt and into his lap.
When Jim passed out, Dr. Robinson and his assistant
quickly contacted an ambulance. The ER doctors removed
the drill, Jim’s injuries were treated, and he was given a regimen of medications to kill off the parasitic worms.
The write-up on Jim Patrick’s diagnosis and treatment
became a well-known case-study. It took time and effort
on the part of the medical researchers, but they could
determine that the worms had originated from a natural
kombucha which Jim had purchased online from the
Philippines, only weeks prior to his first symptoms.
• 126 •
• XIII •
TWO VISIONS, 1984
A shade of a man accosted Ross Davie in the dark of the
pre-dawn morning on September 12, 1984. Ross had
just left the Roscoe Diner, his only planned stop on the way to Binghampton from Liberty, NY.
“Sir, I really need to get to Deposit. Are you going
west?” said the stranger.
“Sorry, pal. I’m in a hurry,” replied Ross, walking
hastily past the dim outline of the man.
The shadow stepped forward, grabbing Ross by the
arm, and pleaded with him. “Sir, I need a ride west! You can have all of the money in my wallet.”
Ross shook the man off and tried to look him in the
eyes, assuming he was drunk or on drugs. “I don’t want
your money. I’m a reporter for the Liberty Gazette and I
need to get to Binghampton within the hour, so I can be where I need to be for that idiot Reagan’s visit.” Ross began walking away.
“Please, sir! I’m desperate.”
The reporter paused, looking back over his shoulder,
and eyed the man. “Fine. Come on.”
The pair traveled Route 17 West as the sun crept over the
foothills of the Catskills. It was an unusually chilly morning
• 127 •
CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
for early September, and they passed through intermittent
fog as they rounded hills and ran beside misty creeks and
rivers. This section of the highway was unique, as homes and driveways met the road itself, and there were few entrance and exit ramps.
An uncomfortable silence had settled be
tween Ross and
his unnamed passenger, until Ross was startled from his
road trance by the sudden jerking of the man beside him.
• 128 •
TWO VISIONS, 1984
Ross recognized the malady as a seizure and immediately
pulled the car to the side of the road. He knew that the best he could do was sit, watch, and wait for the episode to end.
The man’s skin had now lost all color. His eyes flickered
madly, and he gulped for air, as his nose bled onto the seat belt.
“Okay. You’re having a seizure, buddy. Just try and
breathe,” Ross stated, more to comfort himself than his
passenger. “What’s your name, guy?”
The man continued seizing; soon he was shaking
violently, pressing his head against the side window. Ross began to worry at the length of the seizure, when suddenly the pale man beside him slumped over.
“Are you alright?” asked Ross, following a stretch of
silence.
The other man responded after another wordless
minute. “My name’s Saul.”
“Are you prone to seizures? We have a woman who
works at the press who...”
Saul cut him off. “It’s never been that clear...”
“What do you mean?” asked Ross.
“Just now, I had two separate visions—but they were
somehow connected.”
“Huh?”
Saul stared ahead, blankly. “Either the President is
going to get shot today, or someone is going to die in your car.”
The certainty with which Saul made this prophetic
statement unsettled Ross. The seasoned reporter had a
nose for bullshit and knew the hallmarks of an unhinged
person, yet, despite his discomfort, he felt no immediate
need to rid himself of his passenger.
“If you say so, pal.” Ross looked the man over again
• 129 •
CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
and grinned as he pulled the car back onto the road. “How
about we get to Deposit. That is where you’re headed, right?”
Saul made no response as they drove on, the post-dawn
sun now shining brilliantly. But it wasn’t a minute before they came upon an overturned car in a ditch, just in front of an abandoned motel. Ross pulled off the highway and
into a small, broken lot.
“This doesn’t look good...” stated Ross.
“No. You have to help him.”
Ross nodded at the sallow man beside him and got
out. He ran down into the ditch and found the driver, still belted, secure yet accessible from the broken window. “I
think I can get you out of here, pal.” The driver mumbled
something indiscernible in reply.
Ross unfastened the man and removed him through
the bent window frame. “Saul! Help me get this guy to the
car.” He looked around for the other man. “Saul!”
But Saul made no reply. The injured man was able to
stumble along with Ross’ support. Ross got him out of the
ditch and into his backseat. As he lay him down, the man
begged Ross to try and help his friend.
“There’s someone else in that car?” asked Ross.
“My friend...was riding with me,” the man said,
straining to talk.
“Okay.” Ross ran back down into the ditch and dove
onto his stomach in the cold, damp dirt. A wallet lay open just beside him, bills spilling out onto the ground. The car was leaning more on the passenger side, and he knew there
was little chance he would find another living soul inside.
“Can you hear me?!” Ross called into the wreckage,
attempting to see into the crushed portion of the vehicle
from the rear passenger window. “Oh, god...how could it
• 130 •
CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
be?!”
Ross spied the face of the clearly deceased passenger,
the eyes devoid of expression, mouth agape, nose still
trickling blood. The head was severed, and it belonged to
the man he had been riding with only five minutes prior. It was unmistakably Saul!
Unsure of what was transpiring, Ross returned to
his car. “Saul. He’s dead.” The man in his backseat only
moaned in response. “We’ll get you to Memorial Hospital
in Binghampton.”
Ross drove madly, racing to try and preserve the man’s
life. He saw no other cars or trucks for miles. It was just him, the road, and a dying man in his backseat.
“We’re only ten minutes from the hospital. Hold on,
pal.” The man in the back had been unresponsive for most
of the drive. Ross thought of Saul and his ghastly prophesy.
He was supposed to be in Binghampton to cover the
president for the Gazette; it had been the most important
thing in the world to him only an hour or so earlier that
morning. Now he could only think of getting this stranger
to the hospital.
“Ha. Either the president’s going to get shot today or this guy’s going to die in my backseat,” said Ross, gloomily—
knowing, and disappointed by, the likeliest outcome.
“If I were in your shoes, I’d certainly be hoping that the president takes a bullet.”
Soon enough, Ross was in Binghampton, and had
pulled into the emergency room drive. He jumped out and
waved to the nurses and attendants inside for help with his passenger. The staff quickly got a stretcher out to the car and tended to the injured man.
“Sir, please park in the lot across the road,” said one
of the paramedics.
• 132 •
TWO VISIONS, 1984
“Oh, yes. Of course,” replied Ross. He hesitated for a
moment, thinking that he could still make it to the campaign rally in time to get a good position for the presidential
visit. His conscience got the better of him, however, and
he parked the car across the street and returned to the
hospital’s waiting room. He knew he would have to answer
questions regarding the man he had only met that morning,
and whose name he didn’t even know.
Hours passed while Ross waited for news of the injured
man. When a uniformed police officer and two hospital
security men came out to see Ross, he feared the worst.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
The officer ignored the question. “Your name is Ross
Davie, correct?” Ross nodded. “Can you come back with us
for a few questions?” Ross complied.
They led him to a small room just past the main
emergency area, and seated him at a table across from the
officer. “Listen, I don’t really know anything about the guy other than I found him in his car in a ditch on 17, between Roscoe and Deposit.” Ross began to worry when the officer
didn’t immediately respond. “I’m a reporter for the Liberty Gazette and I’m supposed to be at the rally this morning.”
“We searched your car, Mr. Davie,” replied the officer,
evenly.
“What the hell do you mean you searched my car?! I need to see the President today!” He got up as if to leave.
The two security officers grabbed Ross and made him
sit back down.
“Easy- easy, Mr. Davie.” The officer motioned to
another policeman who had appeared outside the door.
A stack of loose, typewritten pages was tossed on the table between Ross an
d the officer.
“What’s this?”
• 133 •
CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
“You don’t recognize your confession, Mr. Davie?”
stated the officer, as he leafed through the pages. “Of
course, we also discovered your rifle and ammunition.”
Ross’ face fell. The compartment in his trunk was ideal
for concealing his long-range rifle and rounds—and his
manifesto had been tucked away safely in his locked glove
compartment. “How did...”
The officer interrupted Ross. “Yes, it was all well-
hidden. And we assumed that your passenger was just
delirious when we searched the trunk the first time and
found nothing. But we’re obligated to investigate something of this nature thoroughly, and had a locksmith open your
glove box.”
“How did... What do you mean he was ‘delirious?’”
Ross sighed, knowing he was caught. “How’s the guy I
• 134 •
TWO VISIONS, 1984
brought in doing?”
“He passed away not long after he was admitted. But
before he died, he said that he heard you say that the
president was going to get shot. He was insistent, and
wanted us to know that the president was going to get shot today.”
“What?!” Ross then realized that the man in the
backseat must have heard him when he mockingly repeated
Saul’s prophecy.
“So, we searched your car...and now we’re here.”
The officer motioned to his uniformed partner, who
handcuffed Ross. “We’ll continue this conversation down
at the station, Mr. Davie.”
• 135 •
• XIV •
WOmAN ON
THE CAmpUS GREEN
WOmAN ON THE CAmpUS GREEN
It was the middle of my junior year at Geneseo State when
she started following me. I was heavily into research at
the time, analyzing data for Dr. Gibb’s psychology lab. The work was time-consuming, and I often didn’t leave the
science building until 9 or 10 at night. By then the campus walkways were relatively empty—most everyone was either
back at their dorms, in the library, or out on the town
drinking—and the 10-minute trek back to my dorm was a
quiet one. It gave me time to think.
Throwing myself into my schoolwork had provided me
some respite over the years, but on those walks home, when I had nothing else to occupy my mind, I couldn’t help but