The Phantom Barber of Pascagoula

She looked so innocent and angelic when she slept. Her golden hair framed her milky face in the dark. Only a sliver of light from the lamppost outside shone through the slit window screen. White blankets were drawn around her tiny body, arms and legs that belonged to someone no older than six. They were so pure at this age. That’s the way he liked them.

Dolan crouched down besides the bed, careful not to wake the kitten sleeping at the foot of the bed. For a few minutes, all he could do was stare. Sit and stare. He ran the pad of his thumb across the blade of his razor, traced the bumpy surface where his name was carved into the handle. The girl stirred, let out a soft breath, but did not wake. Perfect. She was his for the time being.

He brushes a strand of her hair behind her tiny ear, a smile sliding smoothly across his reddened lips. He twisted his fingers around her blonde hair and lifted the strands off of the pillow, holding it lightly and gently, as if he were her mother. Shhh. Everything will be all right. Mommy is here.

In the reflection of the razor, he could see her neck, the slight curve of her jaw below her tight-lipped mouth. Clumsily, he began to chop off clumps of her hair, dropping them in his brown leather medical bag. He was not skilled at this. His hand always shook from worry. What if someone came in? What if he slipped and cut her? No, he was fine. No one would come in. No one ever does.

He left her with just a few wisps of hair atop her head, no more than an inch long. He would have taken it as well if he wasn’t worried about marking her pretty forehead. She had such gorgeous hair. Even at the bottom of the bag, it gleamed and begged him to touch it. So soft and so long for such a young girl.

Dolan dropped his razor in his bag and snapped it shut. The sound echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears. The girl’s eyes fluttered open. She stared dreamily at him, not yet fully awake.

“Dad?”

Panic was spreading through his body, tightening his heart. Now what? He could run, but she’d get a good look at him if he went near the window. If he covered her mouth, she would scream. There was only one thing left to do. “I’m...Santa Claus…Your Dad is off fighting against bad Germans. Since he couldn’t make it this Christmas he sent me instead.”

Her bottomless blue eyes widened as she sat up slowly, not yet aware of the crime that had been committed. “Really? Did he get me anything?”

More panic. Calm down Think. Think! Dolan pulled a raspberry lollipop out of his coat pocket and held it out to her. “This is all he could get for you. He’ll be back soon and you’ll be showered with gifts. Now go back to sleep.”

“Thank you.” The girl nodded and rested her head back against the pillow, cradling the lollipop in her hands, asleep in seconds.

So close. Dolan sighs quietly and pat the girl’s shoulder. He picked up his bag and shuffled to the window, slowly climbing out to avoid making too much noise. It was a long walk home and part of him couldn’t help but feel guilty for lying to the girl. He remembered Mrs. Walkins reading a letter. He knew what it said. Many other women in the town received the same one every once in a while. Her father had died months ago.

The Walkins girl will grow up thinking that her father abandoned them. Her mother won’t tell her what really happened. If she knew, she’d hate the country for sending off millions to die. It’s funny how much parents unintentionally shape their children.

Dolan had talked to little Victoria Mason once before. She was a rude eight-year-old girl with beauty marks decorating her chin and cheekbones. During their first meeting, she had managed to insult his profession and his graying hair. Mississippi doesn’t need chemists. It needs factory workers. They needed people to build weapons for the war. She was a real piece of work. If he could kill anyone, it would be her. Or maybe her gluttonous mother for not teaching her any respect.

At the moment, he didn’t mind her. She was dozed off on her bed, a pocket sized red book on her lap. No longer the little devil he knew her to be. Still, he could take the pillow and press it to her face, get it done with. No one would know. He’d turn her over on her face; tangle the sheets around her legs. She would choke herself to death trying to escape her blankets. He’d get away with it. He did before.

No, that wasn’t what he was here for.  This was the last house, the last piece he needed for his little project. Tomorrow the papers will read ‘November 1^st, 1942, Pascagoula’s Phantom Barber strikes again’. For the last time, they’d later correct. He was getting old, anyways. Wrinkles crinkled around the corners of his eyes, lips, and nose. He was starting to develop limp. He already fought in one meaningless war, why support another? The war to end all wars. Yet here they go again. The war to end all wars part two!

Her hair wasn’t as soft as everyone else’s. It didn’t slip through his fingers like sand or feel like the finest silk, but it would have to do. He was running out of blonde girls to steal from. In fact, this one here was the last one with hair that grew past her shoulders. Long hair. That’s what he liked best on a girl.

No one woke up this time. Victoria Mason did not stir. Her mother did not walk in to check on her. His bag didn’t make an echo. The only sound besides his shallow breathing was the sound of her father’s watch ticking away on the nightstand.

A heavy weight seemed to drop from his shoulders as Dolan climbed out of the window. He felt a thousand pounds lighter that he was. As if the next wind would blow him up to the heavens. He was soaking in this feeling; cracked lips curled into a smile as he strolled down the sidewalk. He didn’t even notice the shadow in the window of the second floor bedroom.

It didn’t sink in deep enough to cause any damage, but a tiny gush off blood followed the removal of the needle from his thumb. He held his thumb to the dim light of the candle, pressed the wound to the wax, a few drops of blood falling onto the hair scattered on his desk. He didn’t feel any pain. He was almost numb.

He wasn’t doing this for himself.  This was all for her. He was tired of being her warden, her caretaker, being the only think that kept her from going completely insane.

Almost over, he whispered to himself. Just a little longer and he’ll be done. He needed one more hour to finish it and he’d be free forever.

Pieces of glass snapped underneath Dolan’s shoe as he made his way to the darkest corner of the basement. His candle provided little light. All he had to do was follow the sound of chains scraping against the floor. He hadn’t visited her in a week. She must be getting restless, pacing back and forth, tossing broken off pieces of the brink wall at the mirror that sat just out of her reach. She doesn’t want to look at her transparent skin, her blackened nails, or the clumps of silver hair that peppered her hair.

Should he feel bad for keeping his own mother locked up? Perhaps. But every time he tried to give her the key, the crescent scars around his wrists burned, reminded him how sharp her nails were, how tightly she held on when he came too close one night to refill her water cup.

“Boy…” Her voice was scratchy, low, and cracking. It sounded like sandpaper against glass. He hated that voice. He almost killed her one night when she called him by name. It disgusted him when she did. He preferred ‘boy’. “Am I…pretty? Am I, boy? Tell me I’m pretty…I can’t look…Shine the light, boy. Tell me.”

His afternoon lunch threatened to make a come back and leak out of his mouth. She disgusted him. Yet here he was, tending to her. Taking care of her. He was a dutiful son. She used to tell him that he was.

“Boy…Tell me that I’m beautiful…”

Dolan took a hesitant step closer and set his medical bag on the dust-covered floor, the candle next to him. His mother crept over to him, hunched over and bouncing on the heels of her feet like some kind of twisted animal. Again, he pushed his meal back down his throat. From inside he bag the pulled out his project, the one thing he dedicated the last month of his life to make it.

“Blonde…Pretty…Pretty…” His mother’s eyes were fixed on the homemade wig. It was perfect in every way. Each strand of hair was groom and shone like thinned out gold. It was soft to the touch, like the fur of the cat Dolan had once given to his mother, the same cat he could still smell from the opposite corner of the room. Poor thing died before its time.

“Don’t move,” he ordered his mother in a stern tone. “Don’t move an inch.”

She sat still like a frightened bird, almost scared to move, but her eyes stayed fixed of the wig, admiration and lust shining in them. With gentle hands he placed the wig onto on her nearly bald head, fixed it so the bangs covered almost all of her veiny forehead. “There, now you look pretty.” It was a lie, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her that she didn’t. Her mind would crumble more than it already had if he did.  

Her hands were shaking as she ran the tips of her fingers through the wig, her lips parted in shock to reveal a toothless mouth. “Pretty…pretty hair!”

Dolan’s gaze softened on his mother. He hadn’t seen her smile this way since he was a young boy. He almost forgave her for the hell she made him go through when his father left her for a younger woman. Almost.

“Be careful and don’t ruin the wi– “ A booming knock on the door interrupted Dolan. He pressed a thin finger to his lips and stood, picking up the candle, shuffling back up the stairs. There was another knock a second before he swung the large oak door open, the figers of two built policemen coming into focus. “Can I help you, Sirs?”

“Are you Dolan,” one of them asked, as if he didn’t already know the answer. Instead of commenting sarcastically like he desired to, he nodded his head. “You’re arrested for the theft of hair from several young girls.”

“What evidence have you?” Neither man answered. They simply stood on the porch like gargoyles. “Let me go get my coat.”

“Be quick.”

Dolan nodded his head and went to retrieve his coat. For some odd reason, there was no fear or sadness. He was grinning like a child in a candy store. One thought comforted him on his walk to the station.

If he was going to rot in jail, so would his mother.