Book of Horror Stories

The Pain Doctor

I have always wondered what it would be like to stare evil eye to eye as equals. To sit across a table from and break bread with it. This lifelong desire was satisfied some days ago, and the whole experience has left me rather shaken. In an attempt to impose some sense of order on what was, undoubtedly, the most chaotic and confusing experience of my life, Im going to try and write it all down here. Maybe it will make more sense on paper.

A few years ago, as a struggling, new reporter, I had the opportunity, or, perhaps, misfortune, to be sent to cover the war in Syria. It was at its height, and our involvement there was going over in a less than stellar manner at home. Which horse should one back under those circumstances?

While there, I spent a lot of time among the locals who frequently kept me up to date on the gossip and urban legends swirling around the area. One name in particular was brought up time and time again: Tabib Alalam, which meant Pain Doctor. I asked everyone if they had seen this Pain Doctor, and was pointed in the direction of an elderly woman and her granddaughter.

Shes the only one whos come back alive, they told me. So, I sat down with her and asked the obvious question,

Is it true?

The translator took a moment to confirm her answer before relaying it. His eyebrows furrowed.

Well? I asked, the anticipation building to an uncomfortable degree within my chest.

She says that she has seen things that have caused her to doubt her sanity. She says that Tabib Alalam is real, and his laboratory is a nightmare.

Okay, I pushed forward.

No, no, not a nightmare, the translator interrupted. Im sorry. The translation is confusing. What she said was more like The place dreams go to die.

This caught my attention. Ask her what she means by that.

The old woman shook her head and clutched her granddaughter closer to her side.

She says that he steals something from them. The ones who die the ones who die first are a source of envy. Bodies like prisons my interviewee broke down into tears. I put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but in truth I was shaken. I didnt know what to do. The translator said something in a comforting tone. The woman calmed down a bit.

Is she okay? I asked, lamely.

Shell be fine.

I took out my iphone: Does she mind if I record this conversation?

The woman shook her head.

Okay. Could you please tell me, in as much detail as possible about the man known as Tabib Alalam?

Slowly, and in fits, the old womans story came tumbling from her lips. The pace and intensity of her rapid-fire Arabic made me glad of having an electronic recording device. I had learned to transcribe languages I did not understand, but never at this pace.

The womans name was Amani. She had been a merchant at a small shop in Raqqa before the war, and fled her home town after it became the focus of some of the most intense fighting of the conflict. She and her family had lived on the road for weeks, stopping only for food and gas, and then only rarely. But, the human body and mind are not built for constant transit. We require a degree of permanency, no matter how small, as much as we require oxygen. So they settled in a small village in the countryside. This little corner of Syria had not yet been touched by war. Soon, however, a rebel army rode into their midst and declared the village under their occupation. No one had heard of them before.

Life under the rebels was not especially difficult. The everyday rhythm of routine wasnt disrupted in any real sense, at first. But, then, the whispers started. There were rumors of a mysterious man named Tabib Alalam. As it always does, idle gossip filled the gaps left vacant by hard fact and so it was difficult to say with any certainty the degree to which these rumors were true.