IN THE MAGAZINE

Illustration by Jim Krewson

THE SATANIC MODEL OF PSYCHOSEXUAL DEVELOPMENT - PART 1

By Gus Visco

My initial outline for this story was framed around the five phases of Freud’s model of psychosexual development, hence the title. I wanted a story about a child-rearing program designed to create maladjusted sexual deviants. When I was finished I had something else completely, and all the “psychology” used in the story was more philosophy from Joseph Campbell’s writings on Jung. I kept the title anyway.


Ms. Witte doesn’t have any children. She couldn’t if she wanted to, and she does. Her downstairs pieces are all messed up. There is a deforming growth that has created a hole where there shouldn’t be a hole. Blood seeps through the hole, creating infections. Over the years, the infections have made everything too small and deformed to allow the development of a healthy fetus. And now she’s reached an age where—even if she were fully functional—it wouldn’t matter. No babies for Ms. Witte, not in this lifetime. No grandbabies either. No love and no legacy.

Dr. Patricia Witte earned her MA in Psychology at the University of Dayton in 1981 and her PhD in Clinical Psychology, with a subspecialty in Child Psychology, at the University of Southern Mississippi in 1985. Since 1987 she has practiced as a clinical child psychologist, and she has taught and lectured at the university level since 1991. In 2001 she authored the clinical psychology textbook The Satanic Model of Psychosexual Development: Dynamics of Deviant Sexual Behavior in Adolescents. In the years following its publication the text grew in popularity in the academic community and has become required reading in many university-level psychology curriculums.

Recently, Witte received a call from a secretary in the office of Naval Lieutenant General William W. Williamston. Williamston had read her book, explained the secretary, and requested her immediate assistance in a matter of national security. Witte initially declined, but was quickly persuaded by Williamston and his staff through a series of harassing phone calls that it would be in her best interests to assist them in this matter. No details were given. She cleared her calendar and drove to the airport.

At the airport Witte was greeted by members of Williamston’s staff. The staff were dressed in military attire but lacked other military qualities. They were little and weak. Most of them needed a haircut. Witte and the staff boarded a private aircraft and took off in the direction of the setting sun. Witte fell asleep.

When she woke they were on the ground. A photo badge was clipped to her lapel. The photo had been taken while she slept on the flight. The text on the badge suggested a high-level military security clearance. She exited the aircraft into a hangar where she could not see the sky. She didn’t know the time of day, or where she was, and she didn’t ask.

Witte was led directly to Williamston’s office. Williamston greeted her with a smile and a crushing handshake. He looked as she had imagined him, tall and strong with a crewcut. He was a white man, but high blood pressure made him more red than white. Veins bulged in his forehead. He looked like he might explode. “Please, have a seat,” said Williamston.

Williamston explained the situation. They had developed a new weapon, an intelligent machine. It had its own personality, its own thoughts, and they had lost control of the situation. Witte did not understand. “Why don’t I just show you,” said Williamston. “Follow me.”

Williamston lead Witte out of his office through a different door than the one she had entered. They walked down a hallway lined with heavy, windowless doors. As they passed each door Witte heard muffled conversations behind some and the hum of machinery behind others. She was overwhelmed by the smell of industrial chemical cleaners. At the end of the hall they came to a stop in front of a door larger and heavier than any other. Williamston punched some numbers into a keypad mounted on the wall and the door parted in the middle as the two halves dropped into the floor.

Before them was a nervous group of white-lab-coat scientists and uniformed military men with handguns on their belts. They were in a panic, yelling at each other as they pushed buttons and toggled levels on a control console that ran the length of the wall under a large window. The window’s view was of an adjoining room. Witte approached the console and looked through the window. She saw children’s toys scattered across the room. It was a nursery. Then she noticed a scientist dead on the floor, his brains and entrails forming a pool larger than the rest of him. His white lab coat was red with blood.

Witte gasped and covered her mouth. She looked back at Williamston. He smiled calmly and gestured for her to look back into the nursery. Her hand remained over her mouth and her gaze remained fixed on Williamston. She was in shock. Williamston again gestured for her to return her attention to the nursery. “It’s all right,” he said, “look.”

Witte looked back into the nursery. She saw the clutter of toys. She saw the mutilated corpse. She saw a creature asleep in the corner—an adorable baby duckling. The duckling stood up and stretched. Its size, build, and the way it moved reminded Witte of a human toddler. It had shoulders like a human’s, but was clad in a fluffy yellow down. Its face was expressive, like a human’s, but it had the bill of a duck. It was irresistibly adorable to an extreme.

Witte fell in love. Instinct took over. She wanted to approach the duckling.

“Go ahead. Go say hello,” said Williamston. He opened a door to the nursery. The others looked stunned. They backed away, but none of them vocalized any objections. Witte entered the nursery. The duckling approached and extended its wings. Witte lifted the creature into her arms.

“His name is William Jr.,” said Williamston. “I named him.” Witte cradled the duckling in her arms. “You two get to know each other. I’ll be back in a few hours.” Williamston exited the nursery, sealing the door behind him. The lights in the control room went out.

Witte looked down to discover she had been standing in a pool of blood. She moved off to the side, carrying William Jr., when she noticed there was much more to the nursery than a single room. Turning the corner, a vast complex of toys and pillows stretched out before her. It was too much for one little duckling, she thought. She found a small bathroom off to the side. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said.

Witte carried William Jr. into the bathroom and set him down on the counter. “You’ve got blood all over those cute little feet.” She held a washcloth under warm water, then used it to wipe gore off the webbing between his toes. “Did you kill that man?” asked Witte. William Jr. looked up at her, helpless and adorable.

“I wub you,” said William Jr. in a voice so squeaky and innocent it tore out her heart. She wrapped her arms around him.

“I love you too, precious. I’m so sorry I even asked that question.” She fought back tears.


Williamston returned the next day carrying a tray from the cafeteria. He searched the nursery complex for Witte and William Jr. Finally he found them, asleep, in a fort made from cushions and pillows. He carefully set the tray aside and removed a cushion from the roof of the fort for a better view. Witte was cradling William Jr. against her chest. Her blouse was open and William Jr. was suckling at her breast.

To wake them Williamston stepped on a rubber toy that squeaked when compressed. Witte opened her eyes. Buttoning her blouse, she carefully climbed out of the fort.

“I brought you a meal,” said Williamston. Witte noticed how he didn’t specify what meal, which would have given her a clue to the time of day. She lifted the lid on the plate. Steak and eggs. It looked delicious. She was starving, but her thoughts turned to William Jr.

“I don’t think this food is appropriate for a toddler. Do you have any vegetable purée?”

Williamston laughed. “William Jr. is a machine. He doesn’t need to eat, ever.”

“An intelligent machine,” Witte remembered Williamston saying. “You’re wrong,” said Witte, “He’s alive. He needs to eat.”

“That’s right, he is alive. He is also a machine, and he doesn’t need to eat.” Williamston broke apart the fort. He nudged William Jr. awake.

“Why am I here?” asked Witte. Williamston did not respond to her question. He guided a sleepy William Jr. in the direction of the nursery’s entrance.

“Eat your meal. William Jr. needs to go to school. He’ll be back in a few hours.” They turned the corner.

Witte devoured the steak and eggs. She had not eaten since before she left home, and she had no way of knowing how long ago that was. She had not seen the sky since before she landed. There were no windows in the nursery, and she had no concept of how long she had slept. Then she remembered the corpse.

She walked to the nursery’s entrance. The corpse was gone. All of the gore had been scrubbed clean and replaced with the overpowering stench of industrial chemical cleaners. She returned to the pillow fort and sat in its remains. “So many toys,” she mumbled silently. With William Jr. gone the reality of her surroundings flooded her senses. These were not normal children’s toys. They were monstrous. How, she wondered, had she not previously noticed?

At her feet was the mangled packaging of a toy box labeled “Dead Burnt Lesbian.” She read the side of the box—“Ages 3 to 7.” This cannot be a real toy, thought Witte, although the packaging looked real enough. She dropped the box and searched for the toy it had contained. She found it in the remains of the fort where she and William Jr. had slept. The skin on the doll was molded in the form of sores and severe burns. It disgusted her. She pulled a string on the doll’s back. As it retracted, the doll said, “If you were really my friend you would have killed me by now.” Witte was shocked. She dropped the doll.

Toys were scattered everywhere. Her head began to spin. She scoured the nursery for a children’s toy that wasn’t themed in sickening gore and violence, and failed to find one. Board games, sing-along videos, books, tea sets, action figures, dolls, dollhouses, plastic animals, remote-control cars, water guns, and on and on—everything had some strange, horrible, sickening twist. Her mouth and eyes watered. She was about to be sick.

Overwhelmed, she sat down, then lowered her head, then fell asleep.


TO BE CONTINUED
THE SATANIC MODEL OF PSYCHOSEXUAL DEVELOPMENT | 1 | 2 |

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