The next night, Briarcliff held a movie night. The pretext was that it was to make up for the show the blackout had ended early. In reality it was mostly to distract the patients while the murderer was shuffled around. The "Lady Butcher", as some of the staff had taken to calling him, was being transferred from post-op to an isolation cell where Sister Jude took the opportunity to give him a second round with her most vicious cherry wood cane.

Meanwhile, the Reverend Monsignor was anxiously going through the asylum's library and his own personal collection of books for anything that might be helpful in the coming fight against whatever demon had taken possession of Heather Thompson's body.

In the common room, the bright, merry sounds of the feature film covered the incessant drum of the rain on the roof, lulling the audience of patients into a general calm that wasn't shared by the staff. Most of them had heard about the scattered remains that the Lady Butcher had led investigators to, all over the asylum grounds. Three women, carved up into dozens of pieces. It was enough to make even the hardened criminals nervous.

Oblivious to the grisly goings-on, Tate was just happy to be at the movie next to Violet, discreetly holding hands. He had been missing their time together since he'd been working in Thredson's office. It had only been a few days, but days felt like weeks in the asylum.

Not that the work was bad. And the job had come with the unexpected bonus that the doctor had changed Tate's medicine regime. He didn't have to get shots anymore and the pills they were giving him didn't make him nearly as tired all the time.

There was a thin whistle and a sudden sharp pain bloomed in his hand, the one clasping Violet's. The source was Sister Agnes' crop. Violet had been struck too and the pain caused them both to involuntarily let go of each other.

"Hands to yourselves," the nun admonished.

Tate stuffed his hand under his other arm so he wouldn't shake it. He didn't want to give the bitch the satisfaction of his pain. He wondered how she'd even seen them with it being so dark.

The old woman watched them a few moments longer, then kept going on her rounds and he relaxed. Not long after the nun left, Tate felt Violet's hand brush his. A smile dimpled his cheek and he laced fingers with her again, loving her even more than before.

...

The movie was nearing its end when Sister Jude left her meeting with the Monsignor about the results of the rapist's penance. The other patients would be led back to their wards soon for lights out and she wanted to personally inspect the lot of them. With so much sin uncovered at once, she felt the need to clean house.

She was on her way to the common area and considering whether to start with the males or females when she crossed paths with Dr. Thredson. He was coming out of the men's ward at an energetic pace. That was what caught her attention: The man never hurried unless it was an emergency. When he saw her, he slowed to a normal walk and that only made her all the more keen to intercept him.

Thredson couldn't avoid her without it looking strange so he put on a professional smile. "Good evening, Sister."

"Doctor," she acknowledged. "What brings you to the wards at this hour?"

"I wanted to check something in one of my patient's notebooks," he said, thinking up a credible lie quickly. "John takes extensive notes all the time and I was concerned he might have put down some sensitive information about things he might have seen here in recent days. It would be.. unfortunate if something like that fell into the wrong hands."

It was more than sufficient to throw off the nun. The idea alarmed her. "What did you find?"

"He has a very large collection of notebooks," said Thredson. It was true: John had dozens he'd filled with God-knew-what. "I couldn't go through all of them but I did find enough there to warrant further investigation. I was going to ask the Reverend Monsignor if I could have the lot of them brought to my office."

"Monsignor Howard is indisposed," Sister Jude said. "However, I can grant you the authority to seize the diaries. Take Byron to help you carry them. He's at the nurse's station."

The doctor thanked her for her assistance and headed to the nurse's station to follow through so he could cover his lie. Sister Jude continued on to the commons where she oversaw the herding of the patients. She started inspection with the women's side, then the men's. She found several infractions on both sides, and found several patients to punish. It was late by the time she finished beating the chronic masturbator, so she didn't bother with the patients in the quiet rooms. It would be mid-morning before anyone discovered the Lady Butcher was dead.

...

Thanksgiving within the walls of Briarcliff was a strange affair. Some of the well-meaning staff hung paper die-cut prints of turkeys and pumpkins on the walls. No pilgrims or Indians because most of them were illustrated with guns and bows. Nothing to inspire unhappy thoughts.

Breakfast was surprisingly good. The ladies had to be on guard: The cinnamon buns were warm and buttery-sweet, which made Jewel particularly aggressive in her attempts to procure as many of them from her neighbors as she could.

As it was a federal holiday, all occupational and personal therapy was cancelled. To manage the patients, everyone who wasn't being punished was allowed access to the halls, bathrooms, and common areas all day. In the commons, instead of the incessant Singing Nun, they played Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on the huge floor model television that morning and, after a light lunch of turkey noodle soup and rusty tea, the patients were treated to the Lawrence Welk Show's Thanksgiving Day special. The overall mood at the asylum was relaxed; even the most difficult patients were reluctant to spoil what was shaping up to be the best day in the recent rocky past.

For Tate, it was a dream. He sat beside Violet on the floor as the Lawrence Welk show started on the old television screen. Shelley crowded up on his other side, which was okay because that meant he didn't have to worry about where he put his arms and legs. Tinny applause welcomed a pilgrim man and woman to the show. They delivered snappy patter about Plymouth Rock then went and got into a 1968 Plymouth Satellite Convertible. They drove off while the show's announcer introduced Lawrence Welk.

Maybe it was the drugs or maybe it was the company he was with, but Tate enjoyed the holiday-themed show. His mother used to watch Lawrence Welk all the time and he hated it. Toward the end, he'd taken to burying his head in headphones and listening to music on the record player in the den. It hadn't helped his headache but it had asserted some independence in what he had to listen to. He could also pretend not to hear her when he had the headphones on.

He still didn't really care for the dreary hymnal of Thanksgiving praise at the end of the show but the ending signaled dinner time. Another Plymouth advertisement saw the inmates out. They were herded through the wash-up routine and another unusually good meal was served: Actual boneless turkey with cornbread dressing and mashed potatoes, and little dry pumpkin tarts for dessert.

Compared to the past few months, it truly was something to be thankful for when prayer was held.

...

Across town, the end of the Lawrence Welk Show played on a smaller television that was propped on the sideboard near a small card table. The table had been set, simple yet charmingly elegant, with place settings for two.

Constance sat in one of the chairs, her wrists bound securely to the back legs of the chair. Her ankles were duct taped to the front legs. A panel gag kept a large ball securely in place in her mouth, preventing her from making noise. It was all she could do to breathe around the thing. Tears had dried on her face and under the leather straps of the gag.

Her heart skipped a beat when the door above the stairs opened. Footsteps followed, as did her anxiety.

"Honey, I'm home."

She looked back over her shoulder and saw him coming down off the basement steps with a brown grocery sack in one hand. He had a bottle of champagne in the other. She looked away to stop herself rolling her eyes in despair and disgust.

"Happy Thanksgiving," he said and he stopped beside her chair where he bent and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I'm sorry that took so long. Apparently I'm not the only one who forgot the cranberry sauce."

He went over to the kitchenette he'd been using to provide for her over the past weeks and finished preparing the two meals. Once both plates looked picture-perfect he brought them out then went and got the champagne and two glasses. He arranged everything and admired it all for a moment before seating himself across from Constance.

She stared at him. He popped the cork on the champagne and poured out. Then he brought one glass to her side of the table. He set it down and finally reached for her gag.

"I'm looking forward to our first Thanksgiving together," he told her with soft sincerity. "I've never had a family Thanksgiving before."

Constance choked when the gag came out of her mouth and likely would have been sick if her stomach hadn't been empty at the time. Thredson brushed a blonde curl back from her temple. He'd cut her hair to make it easier to groom her. It gave her a contemporary look he didn't normally care for but, on her, it was flattering.

He set the gag down on the sideboard and turned off the television. Then he moved back over to free her hands so she could feed herself. She grabbed the champagne glass and rinsed away the taste of the gag while he seated himself across from her and shook out his napkin.

"Shall we say grace?" he asked. He wasn't particularly religious and certainly had his fill of ritual at the asylum, but it seemed appropriate for Thanksgiving dinner.

Constance stared at him, silent because she had to quell the first few dozen things that sprang to her tongue. Antagonizing him at this point wouldn't help her.

He took her silence to mean he should decide. "I think we should." He smiled. "It's traditional." He put his hands palm-up on the table and looked at her meaningfully.

She stared at him a bit longer then forced herself to put her hands in his. He bowed his head and she followed suit. But while he openly gave thanks for the bounty, she silently prayed that she would find a way to kill him before the meal was done.

...

The smell of fresh-baked pumpkin cupcakes lingered in the air but Dandy was too stuffed full of his mother's turkey dinner to even think of dessert just yet. The scent wasn't the least bit enticing. It just smelled sickly-sweet and cloying.

To make matters worse, Dandy was bored. All the good television programming was over and the news wasn't running anything about his escape. That insulted him. He was important. His escape should mean a state-wide manhunt, yet there wasn't even a sideline about it. He blamed Briarcliff, reasoning that they must not be placing emphasis on how dangerous he was.

He wasn't far off from the reality of things but that didn't matter much to his boredom. Nothing in the house interested him. He couldn't even stand to go into his playroom. It felt so idiotic, that room of oversized child's things. He was a man! He wanted a man's room. He might still prefer his liquor in a bottle with a nipple but that didn't mean he wanted to sleep in a crib.

"Mother," he called as he searched the large house for her. He wanted to tell her his decision about his room.

She had sent the only servant away when he'd escaped. The place felt even bigger and emptier than it had when he was growing up. Being a patient in Briarcliff helped him understand so much about the unhappiness he'd experienced living at home. He hated being alone. He needed people. He needed them to adore him and entertain him and feed him and stimulate him. He needed to perform. He needed to fight and to live!

"Mother!"

He was getting annoyed. Where was she? Why was she ignoring him?

By the time he got to the music room, he was worked up into quite a state, ready to give his mother a serious piece of his mind. Didn't she know Thanksgiving was supposed to be a time families spent together?

His anger cooled immediately when he saw her. She was hanging by her neck from the chandelier, one of the silk ties from the velvet brocade drapes acting as her noose. A toppled mahogany chair lay nearby. She spun gently in the air like she was dancing.

At first Dandy thought she was playing a trick on him and he actually smiled. But when he came over and touched her hand, it was limp and cool. He grabbed her legs in a panic but her petticoats made it difficult to get a good grip on her.

"Mother! I've got you!"

He tried pushing her up but in her limp state, she just folded over on him. Her voluminous yellow skirts blinded him. He had to let her go so he could pick up the chair. He couldn't reach the noose without it.

Her body swung wildly and he had a hard time catching her once he got up onto the repositioned chair. When he had hold of her, he tried pulling the velvet cord free from the chandelier but she had tied it well. It wouldn't come free when he was using just one hand and he couldn't bear to let her go again. So he pulled as hard as he could on the decorative rope.

Dandy expected the noose would come untied or maybe the cord would tear, but it was the light fixture that gave way. It came down in a shower of plaster dust and crashed loudly on the wood floor. Gloria was yanked out of his grip and slammed on the floor in a way that left no doubt as to whether she was alive. Someone living would have reacted to such a harsh fall. She just lay there in an unnatural position, not moving.

Lost and defeated, the young man sank down beside his mother's body. For a few moments he was anguished, uncertain about his future. Then he got mad. How dare she abandon him? And on Thanksgiving! She was supposed to be there for him always! How was he supposed to manage without someone to do the shopping and cooking?

He hugged his mother's battered, dusty corpse close and looked down at her, tears brightening his eyes as his emotions tried to resolve into something definable. Something he could understand. "I can't believe how selfish you are." He lowered his chin and arched his brows meaningfully. A couple of tears dripped from his lashes onto her pale face. "After I cut you free, Mother, it's a bath and straight to bed. No pumpkin cupcakes for you tonight."

He pulled her close, buried his face in her neck, and sobbed into her dusty hair. After a few moments he sniffled wetly and lifted his head. He blinked away a few more tears and tipped his head back so he could see. He was truly alone now. Completely in charge of his destiny.

Dandy smiled. Then he laughed.

xxx

Author's Note:

Cue end music.

All I had marked down in my outline for the last segment there was "T-day/Gloria suicide". Writing it was strange but editing was even stranger. I think I was still in Tate's frame of mind when I read it back because I couldn't help laughing at the visual of Gloria hitting the floor. Whump! Yellow skirts and petticoats and dust everywhere. That was really traumatic for Dandy though. Second parent he's lost and the second that's hung themselves. But I'm sure he'll be juuuust fine.

The next Episode's called The White Room because things are really getting crazy. I thought it sounded classier than "Padded Cell" and there's a great song by Cream written in 1968 that goes well with it.