The Melonheads

(Hey, everybody! Unfortunately, the autism essay will need a bit more time in the oven before it’s ready for publishing. Have another college short story instead!)

From the Cincinnati Enquirer article “The Melonheads Live!: Shocking new evidence discovered in woods of Ohio may prove the existence of urban legend.”

It’s a story that has all the classic tropes of a modern-day urban horror tale: a mad scientist, an experiment gone horribly wrong, a tribe of misshapen creatures living in the wilderness, etc. So goes the tale of the Melonheads.

The tales come from several areas in the northeast of the United States. In Ottawa County, Michigan, the stories tell of children with hydrocephalus who were experimented upon by physicians at the Junction Insane Asylum near Felt Mansion (official sources say it was a prison) who were released into the wild after becoming feral.

In Fairfield County, Connecticut, stories about them are widely varying. Some locals say they escaped from an insane asylum that burned down in 1960. Others say they are descended from a colonial-era family banished to the woods for practicing witchcraft. Either way, they became Melonheads through inbreeding and now haunt the woods around Saw Mill City Road in Shelton, better known locally as Dracula Drive. Some have claimed that the locally famous House of the Faceless People in Monroe is their hideout, and the old man who often chases visitors away is their caretaker.

But the legend most relevant to this article is the one that centers on Kirtland, Ohio, part of the Greater Cleveland metropolitan area. Here the legends tell of a nefarious Dr. Crow, who conducted inhumane experiments on orphaned children who eventually killed him and burned his lab. There has never been any evidence to prove these fantastical stories. That is, until last month when two miraculous discoveries brought the legend much closer to reality.

The first occurred on Saturday, October 3rd, when ten-year-old Bob Daniels, who was playing with his friends in the woods near Wisner Road, suddenly fell through a hole in the ground. He was unhurt and soon discovered that he was in the basement of a building that had long since rotted away. He made a far more morbid discovery when he found what looked like cages in the wall before him. Lying on the ground before him were two human skeletons, one relatively intact and the other looking crushed and torn apart. When his friends managed to retrieve him from the underground space, they immediately informed their parents, who contacted the local police. The officers quickly determined that the building on top of the basement had burned down but that the fire had likely not killed the men who still lay there.

The second occurred nearly two weeks later on Friday, October 16th, when local couple George and Agnes Blanchard, who were renovating a 120-year-old hotel, came across a tin box hidden behind a dresser on one of the rooms. The box had been rusted shut by the elements, but when they managed to get it open, they found a diary inside, remarkably well-preserved despite the wear and tear on the box that held it. The diary entries, dated 1916 and 1917, seemed to be written by Andrew Seymour Fairfield, a recent graduate of the UC Berkeley College of Chemistry in California. He had found work near his birthplace of Cleveland at an orphanage run by a Dr. T.B. Crowe and was reported missing sometime in May of 1917.

Forensic analysis was done on the diary, and it was determined that 1) the paper inside was at least 100 years old, and 2) the handwriting samples were uncannily similar to samples of Fairfield’s writing provided by his descendants. As Sally Watson, great-granddaughter of Fairfield’s brother Douglas, put it: “If this is a hoax, it’s a damn good one.” Fairfield’s descendants have given us at the Enquirer exclusive access to the contents of the diary to tell the strange and heartbreaking tale that Fairfield tells in his diary.

Fairfield seems to have bought the diary shortly after returning to Cleveland at the behest of his new employer. The first entry goes like this:

December 13th, 1916 (7:32 P.M.)

It seems strange to keep two diaries, but Dr. Crowe stated in no uncertain terms that I was not to write about any of the activities I perform here in the other diary I have kept since I first moved to Berkeley. Indeed, Crowe seems to be an extremely secretive fellow. None of the townsfolk I have spoken to in this region seem to know much about him. They say he has lingered in the area for about two years now. He rarely comes into town, and when he does, he comes bundled up in heaps of winter clothing with a scarf wrapped around his face, even in the dog days of summer. I believe I am the only one who has seen his face unobscured.

I found out about the doctor through an advertisement posted on the front window of the local drugstore. It had been hand-made by the doctor himself, as he seemed wary about advertising in the newspapers. It said to come to a secluded woodland region on Wisner Road, which turned out to be an old mansion owned by some Civil War-era arms manufacturer who abandoned the house after he lost his only son at Gettysburg. It served as an orphanage until around the turn of the century, when it was abandoned. Sometime around the last few years, however, Doctor Crowe came in possession of it, although I’m not sure if he did so through official means or if he’s just a squatter. With the level of disrepair the building is in, I’m surprised he decided to set up a laboratory here.

When I try to ask him questions, he says he is the only one who asks the questions around here. I admit, it is a very queer situation, but the man is very generous with his pay. He pays me $20 a week for my work here. Maybe if I do as I am told, the doctor will open up and let me into his private world.

The pay would indeed be generous since $20 in 1917 equates to about $408.72 in today’s money. Fairfield continues as he introduces us to the hotel room he is staying in:

January 3rd, 1917 (6:37 P.M.)

I moved into my new living quarters at the Main Street Hotel in Chardon Township today. For the past month, I have lived in a bedroom at the dilapidated mansion of my workplace at the insistence of my employer. But it was a miserable existence. The aged building is drafty and uncomfortable, there is no indoor plumbing, and the walls are crawling with rats, squirrels, and other such vermin. At first, Doctor Crowe would not allow me to leave. However, after two weeks in such loathsome quarters, I developed insomnia, significantly impeding my ability to carry out the doctor’s orders. Finally, he permitted me to seek living arrangements elsewhere, provided I purchased a bicycle to transport myself to and from my workplace. Hopefully, with these more comfortable living quarters, I can complete the doctor’s tasks satisfactorily.

The entries for the next two months are sparse and rather prosaic in tone. But as March rolls around, Fairfield starts to become a bit suspicious:

March 12th, 1917 (3:57 P.M.)

While the doctor has been a fair employer as of late, the secrecy surrounding his operation has grown increasingly overbearing. Most of the time, the doctor won’t even tell me what chemicals I am mixing, and I am forced to guess based on what I was taught at UC Berkeley.

Furthermore, I have looked into the records on this building at the town hall. They make no mention of a Dr. T.B. Crowe. It seems like he is a squatter in this building, pursuing pet projects of his own outside of official scrutiny. Of course, that begs the question of where he is getting the money to pay me.

The most he will say about his project is that it is his “magnum opus.” Maybe he is a modern-day alchemist trying to create the philosopher’s stone to finally lead mankind to immortality and heavenly bliss. Perhaps he is an acolyte of that peculiar Aleister Crowley character in Britain. With luck, I can get him to open up for me so I can finally get some answers.

His efforts to get on the doctor’s good side hit a snag, however, when the U.S. entered World War I:

10 April 1917 (8:45 P.M.)

The Doctor and I got into a rather heated argument today after we learned that America had declared war on Germany. I made the mistake of insulting Woodrow Wilson and cursing him for bringing us into a war we had no stake in. The doctor took offense and accused me of being a communist who would let the Hun run all over America and rape our wives while we lay bleeding to death in front of them. This surprised me since most of the other scientific personalities I’ve met tend to be more left-leaning and pacifistic. I told him I was not a communist. I did not tell him that I am subscribed to The Masses and have recently taken an interest in Leo Tolstoy. That certainly would not have helped matters.

I fear my chance to discover the doctor’s secret project has been dashed. I hope the doctor will forgive my outburst if I apologize and keep on his good side as much as possible.

Luckily (or not), Fairfield’s persistence finally paid off.

16 May 1917 (5:12 P.M.)

It has finally happened! The doctor said he would allow me to see the project he has been working on all these years!

He approached the door as I was packing my things to go home for the evening and told me to return after supper at the local tavern. He even asked if he could join me and pay for dinner himself. I readily agreed.

Keep in mind, I am not excited about this because I hold any particular admiration for the man. I merely have a boyish glee at finally pealing into a secret space that had previously been denied my accessibility. I have always been driven by an unshakable and inexorable drive to discover new things, which is why I became a chemist. Indeed, I am halfway hoping the doctor is indeed working on the philosopher’s stone, even if my more rational brain tells me it is impossible. How wonderful it would be if I could complete the great Magnum Opus and use it to create a world where there was no war with Germany, and maybe the brotherhood of man that Marx hoped to create may finally come to pass.

And here we come to the last entry in Fairfield’s diary, where the story takes a turn toward the truly bizarre and horrific:

10:07 P.M.

Scandal! Horror! Devilry! Repulsiveness!

I struggle to think of words to encapsulate the revulsion that came over me when the doctor finally let me into his basement and revealed what he had been working on all this time. But I will certainly try.

The doctor drove me to the tavern in his vehicle, a 1910 Model T. When we returned to the laboratory after supper, he took his keys out of his pocket and opened the basement to my prying eyes. The room had been arranged to look like a stereotypical science lab but with one uncommon addition: a curtain covering the wall on the far side.

As I studied the curtain, a noise came from behind it that startled me. It sounded like a hooting grunt, similar to how the call of the gorilla has been described.

“Behold, Andrew,” the doctor said, “my magnum opus!” And he pulled the curtain aside.

I was forced to swallow back an upwelling of vomit at the sight before me. Behind the curtain lay cages similar to those used by the carceral system to house criminals. And behind the bars of those cages were a group of twenty misshapen humans, ten males and ten females, all wearing white tunics like those you would find in an insane asylum. They looked like normal humans except for one aspect: their heads. Their skulls were massively swollen, some to about the size of a watermelon. They were also heavily muscled, even the females.

“Doctor Crowe, what is the meaning of this?!” I demanded.

“This, Andrew, is how we will win the Great War and all the wars after it. But only if I can perfect the formula.”

“What formula?”

“You see, for years, I have been working to find a serum that will create the perfect soldier, and in some ways, I have succeeded. The serum I have now has dramatically increased their musculature and stamina. But there is a pronounced side effect: hydrocephalus. One of the worst pathologies of it I’ve seen, in fact. That means less room for brain tissue, and a soldier without a brain is no soldier at all, now is he?”

“That’s how you justify putting these people through this torment, is it?”

“These aren’t people, Andrew! They are no more than the dregs of our human society. They are orphans. Vagrants. Negroes. Mental retards. I’m giving them a purpose in carrying out these experiments.”

“You are committing crimes against humanity by putting these people through this, Doctor, and I’m going to make sure the proper authorities put a stop to this!”

I turned and rushed toward the stairs. But I stopped cold in my tracks at the sound of gunfire and a glass beaker shattering. I spun around and lay paralyzed with fear on the stairs as the doctor advanced upon me with a smoking revolver clutched in his outstretched hand. I believe it was a break-action Smith and Wesson Schofield revolver like the kind favored by Jesse James. Back in their cages, the melon-headed humans made loud yells and grunts. Some were crying while others tried to comfort them.

“I should warn you, Andrew,” the doctor said in a cold and uncaring voice, “the U.S. government funds my research, so if you try to bring in outside authorities on this, they will come after you.”

The doctor crouched down, still training the gun on me. “I don’t want to have to kill you, Andrew. You’re the closest any of my assistants have come to finally perfecting the serum. The last subject I injected with it showed fifty percent less cranial swelling. I know this doesn’t mean much since you have clearly demonstrated yourself as a pacifist. But you have the potential to be a great help to the war effort.”

He then stood up and holstered the gun as I silently speculated what may have happened to those other assistants the doctor mentioned. “I like you, Andrew.”

“I hope you like me, Doctor,” I responded, meekly.

“Just don’t do anything that might sour that opinion.”

So he let me go free for the night, and here I am writing what may be my last diary entry ever. Even though outside help has been denied me due to the doctor’s connections, I am determined to save those poor souls from their torment at the cruel doctor’s hands at any cost. I have gathered several items to help me in my quest, not the least of which is a small penknife to hopefully serve to pick the locks on their cages and a recently purchased Colt M1911 pistol, in case it comes to that. May fortune be on my side this night.

Sadly, fortune was not entirely on his side that night. After thoroughly investigating the scene, local law enforcement believes they may have a reasonably good idea of what happened in the basement on the night the laboratory burned down.

First, they found that at least one of the cages showed what looked like marks around the lock, consistent with the penknife that Fairfield mentioned. The penknife itself was found buried in the loam that had built up on the basement floor over the following century. Indeed, the same cage door was the only one not to show signs of being forced open, as the others seemed to have been ripped open by force from the outside, likely from the Melonheads that Fairfield had already let loose.

Sadly, it would seem Fairfield did not get to revel in his victory, for his skull showed a tell-tale hole in the back, indicating that Dr. Crowe had managed to get the drop on him with the Schofield revolver. Fairfield’s pistol was found still buttoned up in its holster, all eight rounds still firmly in place in their magazine.

This likely enraged the doctor’s long-suffering test subjects, who likely took brutal revenge on their captor, judging by the condition of his skeleton. His arms and legs were strewn about the rooms, sometimes resting as far as 25 feet away from the rest of the skeleton. The ribcage and skull were pulverized, and the shattered remains of the Schofield were found on the other side of the basement from the cages. As his and Fairfield’s remains were the only ones found in the basement, it would seem that the revolver was not enough to save the doctor from the wrath of his test subjects.

Further investigation will still need to be done on Dr. Crowe before authorities can make a complete determination as to his true identity. While no government records from the period have shown any evidence that a Dr. T.B. Crowe ever worked for the U.S. government in any capacity, there is still the possibility that Crowe was using an alias to conceal himself from outside scrutiny. Only time will tell if DNA samples taken from his skeleton will match up to any currently living persons.

As for the main stars of this tale, the Melonheads themselves, there is only the word of local legends to tell us what became of them. While it is almost certain that Crowe’s test subjects have long since passed on, we don’t know if they may have had the ability to reproduce. Is it possible that there is still a colony of them still dwelling in the woods of northern Ohio? And if so, do they even want to be found? Hopefully, one day, a hunter may stumble across a human skeleton with an oversized head or maybe even living descendants of the test subjects. Then, perhaps, we will finally be able to close the book on the strange and tragic tale of the Kirtland Melonheads.

Author’s Commentary

This story was based on one I composed in the first creative writing class I ever took in college. The professor described it as a "fun gothic horror tale." Sadly though, I lost the flash drive on which I was keeping the original manuscript. I decided to rewrite the story in an epistolary format, framed as a news article based on a diary from a witness of the Melon Heads' creation.

I'm pretty sure I covered all of the plot beats from the original story. I admit that Fairfield's socialist leanings and speculations on alchemy are original to this version of the story, as I wasn't as educated about those subjects when I first wrote the story.

I should note that all of the information in the opening paragraphs about the urban legends that inspired this story is true. Not in the sense that actual melon-headed humans are running around in the woods, but more in the sense that those are the actual stories locals in those regions tell about the creatures.

Let me know if I did a good job, as always. And stay tuned for the essay on my experiences on the autism spectrum next weekend!