Barter: The Orphanage

The Orphanage

By Ethan Graue

The following is the opening testimony from Ray Carter followed by excerpts from Jonathon Connors’ diary, detailing his experience as one of the residents of the Haroldson Home for Children. During his tenure there, Connors was one of the subjects of Dr. Marcus Haroldson, who stands accused of numerous counts of murder, sexual abuse, and maiming. This diary has been entered into evidence as part of the trial against Dr. Haroldson.

Testimony

I had been at Haroldson as long as I can remember. My mother, whose was Emily so they told me, left me there when I was an infant, or so they told me. When I was five, I began to notice the strange activities of this place. Different children would disappear, and the staff would never ask questions or raise suspicions. We were always told to mind our own business, to never ask questions; that was rule number one, the supreme law of Haroldson. It is in the pages of my diary that I’ve detailed what I’ve experienced in the hope that Har…Marcus is brought to justice.

Date: June 16, 2015

I have decided to record this diary as a means to remember what has happened to me here on the off chance that these activates are discovered. Although I am fourteen at the time of this writing, this memory has been engrained in my head for the last five years.

I was nine years old and have been living at Haroldson since I was born. One of my closest friends was Eric Richardson. He was around my age, wore glasses, and had light brown hair. He was, in my opinion, the funniest kid here; he had a way with jokes and a general sense of fun surrounded him.

As we were in our Mathematics class, Eric whispered me a joke.

What’s the coolest thing about Switzerland?

He wasn’t sure but the flag was a big plus.

I knew it was lame, but it still made me laugh, he was that funny. Our teacher, Mrs. Kurvin, wheeled around from the chalkboard and glared at us. She demanded to know which of us had laughed and interrupted her lecture. Eric, being the clown that he was, claimed ownership of the joke and the disruption. She demanded he get to his feet and dragged him by the ear to in front of the class. She then turned him over her knee and swatted him five times with the paddle she has; all the teachers have them. That was the last I saw of Eric. She sent him to Dr. Haroldson’s office.

Date: June 27, 2019

This is the third day I’ve been without food. I got a D in my History class, and Mr. Benton, my teacher, punished me by ordering the cafeteria workers to withhold my food. He says it will teach me to do better, to improve, so that I won’t be in this same situation again. I hear Rachel Sartob, a girl two years behind us, failed her History class with Mr. Benton, and he authorized her food and water be withheld for nearly three days. I hope that doesn’t happen to me.

Date: July 19, 2019

It was my turn to go to Dr. Haroldson’s office today. It wasn’t even my fault I went. I was sitting in English, and Ms. Murphy suspected three of (Tyler Carver, Emily Vixus, and me) us of passing a note. None of us actually did pass a note, but she didn’t care. When we told her that and refused to change our story, we were sent to Dr. Haroldosn’s office.

We went to his office, and he was waiting in the doorway; Ms. Murphy must’ve told him we were coming. He beckoned us in and motioned for us to sit on the couch in there. Tyler sat between Emily and I; Emily was closest to Dr. Haroldson, who sat down in his chair.

“I hear you three were passing a note in class,” he said. He had a glass of something that he was sipping on, and he would look over at us as he took a drink, through those creepy waspy glasses.

All three of us told him the same thing we told Ms. Murphy, but he didn’t listen.

“this isnt appropriate behavior,” he said. “Families out there...”

He motioned towards the window, indicating the outside world.

“…dont want brat children who lie,” he said. “it doesn’t look good on you or my fine facility.”

We continued to protest, but he didn’t listen. He downed the rest of his drink, and set the glass on the table. He got up, crossed to his desk, and poured three glasses of water from a cantor that he kept behind his desk. He returned them to us, and gave us each one.

“Drink,” he said simply. The three of us looked at each other, wondering what we should do.

“Don’t look at each other,” Dr. Haroldson repeated. “Do as I say, now.”

We drank. For a moment, I felt fine. But the next, the room became blurry, and I felt myself fall asleep.

Note: Dr. Haroldson has confessed that the three victims were unconscious for nearly four hours.  

When I awoke, I didn’t know where I was. It was a large stone room, and I was strapped to a table, like that old Frankenstein movie. My hands were strapped to the head of the table, and the same with my feet. Dr. Haroldson stood in the room, holding a clipboard; he was scribbling furiously and grinned ear to ear when he noticed I was awake.

“Oh, I’m glad you’re awake,” he said, looking at me. “This is where the bad children come when they need to be taught a deeper lesson.”

As he spoke, his hand began to absentmindedly work its way onto my foot, stroking the bottom of my shoe. He slowly began to walk up the table, his hand moving north as well. It paused at my crotch and he began to fondle it through my jeans.

“I must say,” he said, “you and Ms. Vixus, in my years of doing this, are probably the two best I’ve come across.”

He smiled, gave my crotch a light squeeze, and removed his hand. As he did, a streamed of electricity surged through my body, seeming to bring every one of my senses to life. I began to scream as the shocks increased in their power, and I could just barely see Haroldson watching me, writing on his damn clipboard. It was two minutes of shocking before it stopped.

“Are you going to behave now?” he said, still scribbling.

“Y-y—yes,” I panted through my tears of pain. “I promise.”

He looked up, his expression blank.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, and the surge began again. This one lasted for nearly three minutes, and I began to cry with the pain. It finally stopped, and I didn’t wait for him to ask.

“I’ll behave!” I shouted. “I swear to God, I’ll behave! Please, no more!”

Dr. Haroldson smiled and crossed over to me. He knelt down and nibbled on my ear, giving me a light kiss.

“I know you will,” he said, “or we can have some more fun.”

I didn’t even notice the syringe he stuck into my left arm until the room was already spinning.

Date: August 19, 2019

Stephen McDonald went to Dr. Haroldson’s office today. When he got back, he told me everything that had happened; exactly the same that happened to me. He vowed to escape, something many had tried but none succeeded.

His plan began last night, three hours after lights, at nine o’clock. The last time our food had been withheld, he began learning to pick the dormitory lock, allowing him to slip out easily to steal food. With the door open, we slipped out of the dormitory and into the hall. As terrifying as this place is during the day, it’s amplified tenfold at night. The halls are empty, and you never know what’s going to be around a corner.

We walked as quietly and as quickly as we could, listening for any sound or sign of a patrolling teacher or, God forbid, Dr. Haroldson himself. We reached the front door and found it locked. Stephen went to work, picking it, until it finally opened. We rushed outside but, in our excitement, ran into something, knocking us to the ground. We looked up and saw Dr. Haroldson looking down at us. He extended his hand, inserting a syringe into Stephen’s arm; he went limp immediately. I tried to run, but Mrs. Vixon, my music teacher, stepped out from around a corner, blocking my exit. I felt the syringe enter my arm and I too went limp.

I woke up in the same room as before, this time completely nude. Dr. Haroldson stood over me, his eyes locked on my penis, his right hand perched on the tabletop; he held a clipboard in his left hand. He looked up at me, smiled, and removed his hand. As he did, the familiar shock ran through my body, and it took everything in me to not scream; I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Five minutes later, the shocking stopped, and Dr. Haroldson began to scribble on his clipboard. He stopped writing and looked at me.

“Do you know why I do this?” he asked. When I didn’t answer, he frowned but didn’t shock me. “I believe people, the human race, has super abilities, and I think they have to be forcibly awakened. If it has to be pain that awakens it, then so be it.”

For nearly an hour, he tortured me, all the while fondling my genitalia. He never did anything more than fondling, but I could tell in his eyes that he wanted more. When he finally released me, he motioned towards the open door. Before I could cross the threshold, he shoved me against the wall and kissed me, hard. It was over in five seconds, I couldn’t even bite his tongue. When I left the room, I ran as fast as could back to my bed, where I broke down into tears, onto my pillow.

When I looked up again, I saw Stephen sitting on his bed. He sat straight up, legs crossed. His face was whiter than a sheet. I moved over to him and sat next to him on the bed; when I sat, he shrank back away from in terror.

“He...” he said in the smallest whisper of a voice, “he put his thing in me. In my bottom.”

He began to cry. I didn’t know what to say.

Date: August 25, 2019

Around noon today, as I sat eating lunch with the rest of my class, several loud bangs today followed by screams. The bangs continue, and they seem to be getting closer. A boy I hadn’t met yet bursts into the cafeteria, his face pale.

“Dr. Haroldson has a gun,” he says. “He’s shooting students and teachers alike.”

It takes a moment before we fully understand what he’s said. When it finally sinks in, I and the others dart under our tables as fast as we can. As I wait under the table, I hear the door of the cafeteria open. The footsteps slowly patrol the cafeteria, and no one makes a sound. At last, spot Dr. Haroldson, blood splattered across his face, stop across the hall from me. As I watch, he kneels down and I hear Janice Martinez begin to sob.

“Please, please no,” she wails but her pleas fall on deaf ears.

“Get up on the table,” he says, his voice calm, “and kneel down.”

Sobbing hard, she does as he says. At first, he seems done with her and begins to leave. I watch him walk to the other end of the table, where he stops. He turns and, without a word, raises the gun and fires. Janice sways for a moment, a look of horror and surprise on her face, before she finally slumps forward and moves no more. At that moment, I hear police sirens outside; someone must’ve heard the shots and called.

I look back to Dr. Haroldson, who has dropped his gun. He sits down at one of the tables and begins to eat as if nothing has happened. The police enter the room and tackle Dr. Haroldson.

 The Harkins Gazette

Date: September 25, 2019

By: Rebecca Kurtison

The “Trial of the Century” concluded today. Dr. Marcus Haroldson, the former head of the Haroldson Home for Children, was convicted today of multiple counts murder of murder, sexual abuse, and maiming.

Police attention was first called to the Home on August 25, when a passerby heard what was determine to be gunshots. After police arrived to the scene, it was discovered that 10 children, ages ranging from 6 to 15, were shot dead. Further investigation revealed a sub-basement. In these many chambers were various torture chambers, where it has been revealed where various “experiments” had taken place; among these was torture, rape, genital mutilation, and murder.

As he was escorted from the courthouse, Dr. Haroldson offered the following statement: “In my long years of medical practice, I have always found children to be the most fascinating subjects. I only regret that I will not be able to continue my experiments, thus denying the world what I could offer.”

Haroldson has been sentenced to life in Barter Psychiatric Hospital, but there has been a motion raised to change the sentence to the death sentence. We will bring more word as this develops.