by David C. Porter
One day, in a time different from our own, the central government of a large country received an immensely troubling report: an execution had been botched at the Forced Perspective Execution House. Not only that, it had been botched in the most severe way possible—the condemned man had lived. The process by which he was supposed to be executed, it was reported, had not even harmed him. Naturally, a government Inspector, a man of exacting efficiency and impeccable reputation, even by the high standards of his office, was immediately dispatched to ascertain what had gone wrong, and to ensure that the error would not be repeated.
***
The Forced Perspective Execution House was situated in one of the country’s most remote prefectures, requiring two full days of travel from the capital, first by train and then by creaking, horse-drawn carriage, to reach the town on whose outskirts it stood like a silent warning. It was a small town of squat, simple buildings and roads only recently paved, spread over the rolling countryside in such a way, the Inspector noted, that there appeared to be no single vantage point from which its entire spread could be apprehended. The day was waning, and the Inspector was very tired after his long journey. As such, he resolved to take a room at the local inn, and not meet the Director of the Execution House until the next morning.
The inn was a modest wooden building of two stories, with a bar and dining area on the ground floor, and five plain rooms on the one above. Four of these rooms were empty, the Inspector learned from the young man behind the bar, who was the innkeeper’s son. The fifth was occupied by an artist, one who was rumored to have come from the nation’s great metropole, where he supposedly possessed “quite the reputation,” although the innkeeper’s son was not sure of exactly what sort. He pointed him out, a slightly pale man sitting at a table in the corner, reading a red, clothbound book and largely ignoring the glass of cognac in front of him. After the necessary arrangements had been made, the innkeeper himself brought the Inspector his dinner, a plate of veal and string beans, and the Inspector took the opportunity to ask the man what he thought of the Execution House. A shadow appeared on his face.
“Well, sir, honestly, I don’t much like to talk about it.”
“Please,” said the Inspector. “I insist.”
“Well, if you really want to know, and this is just my opinion, mind, but I don’t much like it. Not many people around here do. Now, I grant it’s the biggest employer by a margin, it keeps a lot of families out of the poor house, I can’t deny that, but it has a way of…changing people, too. Don’t know how else to describe it. After a few weeks working there they just don’t act the same anymore. Saw it happen to my own nephew. Used to be, he had a word and a smile for everyone. Not anymore. Not since he took that job. Gets home and just sits there now, not talking, not doing anything, face like a stone, just waiting until it’s time for bed. Then back to work in the morning. Takes all your effort just to get him to show he knows you’re there. Driven his wife half crazy, poor girl. Really, sir, it’s changed the whole town. Not just the people. You might think I’m off the deep end saying that, but it’s true. This is a beautiful part of the country. I’m sure you’ve noticed. All the towns around here are full of vacationers in the summer. But not this town. Not anymore. Honestly, sir, I can’t remember the last time I’ve had more than a couple rooms filled at once. It’s like people sense that something’s not right around here, even if they can’t say what, and so they go somewhere else. They don’t want any part of it. You noticed it, too, I’m sure, when you first arrived. It’s because of that…facility. It wasn’t like this here before they built it. Trust me, sir, I’m old enough to remember! And don’t misunderstand me, it’s not what they do there, it’s how they do it. Its wrongness. I don’t mean morally, you understand, sir, I’m a strong believer in our justice system. A strong believer in law and order. Very strong. But there’s something, something spiritually, psychologically…how should I put it? Metaphysically! Yes, the whole thing has got a metaphysical wrongness to it, sir. And by design! Something like that will have an effect on everything around it. How could it not?” The innkeeper shook his head. “Honestly, sir, I don’t see what needed fixing about a nice, simple hanging post.”
“Well,” said the Inspector, “my understanding is the method employed at this Execution House is completely painless. Perhaps there are still issues that should be addressed, but wouldn’t you say an advanced society such as our own should strive for the humane treatment of even our lowest criminals?”
“I suppose so, sir, I suppose…you would know better than me.” The innkeeper drifted away and the Inspector busied himself with his meal, which had grown slightly cold in the interim. He noticed that the artist, although his eyes were still fixed on his book, was smiling in a way that suggested he had been listening to the innkeeper’s speech.
***
The Inspector slept lightly that night, as he did most nights, and arrived at the Execution House barely an hour after dawn. It was a plain, institutional building, a wide stone box similar in appearance to a school dormitory or military barracks. Certainly quite unassuming, and in no way living up to the sinister language which the innkeeper had used to describe it. It had been built on a hilltop which overlooked much of the town, which was still quiet at this hour of the morning, the stillness broken only by a few columns of chimney smoke. He was greeted at the front gate by a neatly-dressed assistant who led him to the Director’s office. The Inspector, true to the reputation which had earned him this assignment, wasted no time.
“You know why I’ve been sent here, correct?”
“Of course, of course, the malfunction. Very strange. We’ve never had anything like that happen here before, I can assure you.”
“I would hope not. How many times has your execution process been performed successfully?”
“147 times, according to our records, although those of course go back to before my time here.”
“I see. And how exactly does the process work?”
“It would be easier to explain if I showed you the room. Would you follow me?”
The Director led the Inspector through a series of narrow corridors and down a long flight of stairs, eventually arriving at the door of a small, dark viewing booth. Set into one wall was a large window looking into a brightly-lit, unadorned room which seemed to stretch impossibly far into the distance.
“It’s really very simple,” began the Director, gesturing through the window as he spoke. “The condemned is sent into this chamber and told to walk to the other side. As you can see, this seems to be a great distance, but in actuality the walls, floor, and ceiling on the far side have simply been contorted to create the appearance of such. Really, the whole room is of perfectly ordinary size; it simply tapers inwards in such a way that the eye is tricked into believing it stretches off into infinity. A very simple optical illusion, quite common in funhouses and other such attractions. Why, I distinctly remember a room constructed upon identical principles being a part of my town’s fair as a child.” The Director chuckled. “Well, as I was saying, the condemned starts walking, but he never reaches the other side. Again, it’s a very simple illusion, but in an environment as this, a government Execution House with the full weight of legitimate authority behind it, the condemned can’t see it as such. Under such pressures he can’t help but accept the illusion as real, and so despite himself he conforms to its logic, and can’t help but be ‘pulled’ into it. Although he should strike his head on the downward-sloping ceiling quite quickly, he instead grows smaller and smaller, as if the room really were the size it appears to be. Because for him, it is, of course. We make sure of that. Then it’s just a matter of waiting until he disappears into the ‘horizon.’ It takes about 15 minutes, usually. No fuss and unpleasantness, they just disappear and never come back. We don’t know where they go, but we feel that so long as they have been removed from society, there’s really no reason to worry ourselves about the externalities. Quite ingenious, no?”
“Perhaps. How did it ‘malfunction?’”
The director frowned. “Well, we still haven’t quite determined that, to be perfectly honest with you. He just walked to the wall and stopped. The real wall, I mean. Wasn’t affected by the mechanism whatsoever. Just reached out and touched the ‘horizon’ with his hand, then stood there looking at us. We didn’t know what to do, so we just took him back to his cell.”
“I’d like to see him.”
“Of course.”
***
The director led him down several more corridors and up two more flights of stairs, until eventually they reached a long, wide hallway lined with heavy iron doors. The Director turned to the first one on the right and, after fumbling briefly with a large ring of keys, unbolted it. The cell was narrow and dimly lit. The condemned, an altogether ordinary-looking man, was lying on a cot at the far end. At the sound of the door he sat up and looked towards the two men. His face was impassive. The Inspector sat down in a hard wooden chair opposite him.
After a moment spent silently sizing each other up, the Inspector began. “You’re the condemned man who survived this facility’s execution process, correct?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“I’m a government Inspector. Can you tell me what happened, exactly?”
“There’s not much to tell. They took me to a room and told me to walk to the other side, so I did. Then I waited there for a while. Something must have gone wrong, I guess, because eventually they came and got me and took me back here. That’s it, I guess. I noticed on the way back the guards almost seemed scared of me. Or maybe just confused. The two emotions seem very similar for people around here.”
The Inspector leaned forward and adopted his best conspiratorial tone. “Tell me, did you do it? The crime you’ve been sentenced to death for. I have a theory the process may not work on innocent men. I might be able to intervene on your behalf, if that’s the case.”
“Oh, no, I certainly did what I was convicted of.”
“I see. And what were you convicted of, exactly?”
“I killed a police officer.”
“Why?”
“Well, I was unemployed and had just lost my lodging, so I was walking to the next town. I planned to try to find work there. When I was about halfway I decided to sit down by the side of the road and rest for a while. I found a nice tree to lean against and had gotten quite comfortable, when this police officer came down the road in his carriage. He was going my way, so I hoped he might offer to give me a lift, but instead when he saw me he got a look in his eye and asked what I was doing. I told him I was resting and he said, ‘You’ve had enough of that. Get a move on.’ So I picked up a rock and killed him.”
“You killed him? Because he told you to move along?”
“No, because when he said that, I could tell he had forgotten everything about himself. About being a man. Something has to be done about people like that. For their own good, as much as anyone’s. Do you understand?”
“I think I do. Tell me, did you feel remorse, after you killed him?”
“Well, when he was lying there having his death spasms I saw he had remembered he was a man again, and I suppose I felt sorry that he had only been able to remember then, when it was already too late. But no, not really.”
The Inspector was silent for a moment. Then, quietly, almost to himself: “Yes, I understand.” He reached beneath his jacket, withdrew a small pistol, and fired into the condemned man three times, point blank. Twice into his chest, then once into his head. The condemned man twisted and crumpled and died without a sound.
After the ringing in their ears had receded, the Inspector turned to the Director and shouted, “I trust that you can make arrangements regarding the body. In my report I will direct the courts not to send subjects with criminal profiles similar to this man’s to your facility anymore. Your methods, Director, are clearly not suited to those who have so little understanding of the importance of law and order.”
***
The artist was sitting at a table outside the inn when the Inspector returned. Hearing the approaching carriage, he looked up from his book and watched it pull in. As the Inspector got out, the artist’s eyes widened slightly. “Excuse me,” he said, reaching for his sketchpad as he spoke, “I’m sure an official such as yourself must be very busy, but at this moment you have the most remarkable look about you. I’ve never seen in a man look such a way before…would you allow me to delay you for just a few minutes, that I might attempt to capture it?”
The Inspector smiled. “Of course. Take as long as you need. I have nothing but time.”
______
David C. Porter is a writer and photographer from the American northeast. He edits Keep Planning, and writes Garden Scenery. His work has also appeared in various other places. His first novel, NTTN, is available now from Organ Bank Industries. He can be reached on Twitter @toomuchistrue or via his website.
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