Triskaidekaphobia
Lionel Penn was taking advantage of a warm, summer Sunday afternoon by sailing along the coast of New England. He had been out on the water for several hours when he felt a pang of hunger and realized he had not eaten since seven that morning. As he passed near Salem Harbor, he headed inland toward Marblehead, intent on eating at one of his favorite restaurants, the Powder Keg.
"Dr. Penn, are you here to take advantage of the early bird specials?" William, the maître d', asked with a smile.
Lionel grinned and replied, "I don't know if you would call this an early dinner or a late lunch."
"That depends on what you feel like eating: a sandwich or an entire meal."
"I guess I'm here for dinner then because I'm famished. I want the works, from soup and salad to coffee and dessert."
As the maître d' led Lionel to a table overlooking the harbor, a man sitting by himself in the corner of the room called out, "Why! If it isn't Dr. Fear!"
Lionel turned at the sound of a familiar voice.
"Hugh!"
He walked over to his old friend and hugged him affectionately.
"It's good to see you again! Are you just visiting or have you moved back to New England?"
"Neither. I'm here on business. My company has been hired to design an office building in Gloucester. I'll be here a few weeks. Why don't you join me for a late lunch?" Hugh asked.
"If you make it an early dinner, it's a deal," Lionel said, winking at William.
Lionel had known Hugh Payne since high school when the two faced each other across the baseball diamond. Hugh, whose parents had been devout Catholics, attended Saint Mary's in Copperwell and was his school baseball team's star pitcher while Lionel was a product of the public school system in Puritan Falls where he batted over .300 and played centerfield. That did not stop the boys from becoming the best of friends, however. Even after Hugh left Massachusetts to attend the University of Notre Dame, the two men kept in touch. Of course, they had not seen much of each other lately since Lionel had a busy practice and Hugh owned a successful architectural firm that required him to travel a good deal.
"Still like to play Popeye, I see," Hugh laughed, taking note of Lionel's nautical attire. "You should have joined the Navy."
"I thought about it," Lionel laughed, "but being a psychiatrist pays better."
"Speaking of which ...."
Hugh hesitated.
"Oh, no! Don't tell me! You have a friend who's afraid of heights."
It seemed wherever Lionel went he encountered someone who had a friend with a phobia.
"Not heights," Hugh said.
"What's the problem then?"
"He's superstitious—to the extreme. I've known people who were afraid to travel on Friday the thirteenth, but this guy! He won't leave his house on the thirteenth of any month, whether it falls on a Friday or not."
"Who are you talking about?"
"One of my closest friends. We attended Notre Dame together, and later we both became architects. So, naturally, I gave him a job with my firm. He's a genius, but his superstition gets in the way of the job sometimes."
"How? By taking twelve sick days a year?" Lionel teased.
"The days he takes off aren't a big deal. He works like a dog the rest of the time. Like me, he has no wife and kids; we're both married to our work. But he has some strange ideas. For instance, he won't design a building with more than twelve stories. And if he goes into a tall building, he won't go higher than the twelfth floor. We had a meeting once where he and I were supposed to meet with eleven representatives of a major restaurant chain. Jack takes one look around the conference room, does a quick mental calculation and leaves without saying a word."
"Let me guess. He didn't want to be the thirteenth person at the table?"
"Apparently not."
"Does he have any other superstitions, such as being afraid of a black cat crossing his path, opening an umbrella indoors or walking under a ladder—anything of that nature?"
"Not that I know of. Except for his obsession with the number thirteen, he seems like a perfectly normal, rational individual."
"Normal—that's a word psychiatrists shy away from," Lionel laughed and then continued in a more serious vein. "Based solely on what you've told me about his behavior, I'd say your friend suffers from triskaidekaphobia."
"You mean you've actually got a name for his condition?"
"You bet. We psychiatrists have got a name for just about every fear in the human psyche."
"Have you got anything to cure him?"
"You mean medication? Sorry. I'm not an M.D. I can't say 'Take two Paxils and call me in the morning.' Ridding someone of a phobia usually takes months or even years of therapy." Then he added quite modestly, "But I have had some amazing results in my career."
"Look, Jack's here in Gloucester with me. He's back at the hotel working right now. Do you think you could fit a few visits with him into your schedule?"
"I'll have to check with Judy first, but I'm sure I can find the time."
* * *
Lionel looked at the new patient form in front of him. Under patient's name, the man had written simply "J. Templeton."
"Your first name is Jack, isn't it?" he asked.
"Actually, it's John, but nearly everyone calls me Jack."
"Mind if I see your driver's license?" Lionel asked unexpectedly.
Jack fumbled with his wallet and then handed his license to Lionel.
"Jon Templeton. Is that how you spell your first name: J-o-n?"
"No, that's a typo. On my birth certificate, it's spelled with an H."
"And your credit cards? Do they have the same typographical error or are they missing a different letter? Or perhaps you've added one?"
Jack hung his head in silence, embarrassed to answer the psychiatrist's questions.
"Don't you have a middle name?"
"No."
"John Templeton contains thirteen letters," Lionel pointed out. "That's an unlucky name for someone suffering from triskaidekaphobia."
"Is that what I have?" Jack asked without interest. "Triska-something or other."
"Triskaidekaphobia. It seems so. Do you have any idea why you might be afraid of the number thirteen?"
"No," Jack replied. "Isn't that why I'm here? To find out?"
"Sometimes people know why they're afraid of something, and they just don't know how to control their fear."
"Control it? Can't it be eliminated altogether?"
"Sometimes. Often people never completely get over their fears, but at least they can learn to live with them."
Over the next few visits, Lionel administered the standard Rorschach inkblot test as well as a word association test. Jack's answers were not out of the ordinary, nor did discussion of his childhood offer any clue as to the origin of his phobia.
"Do you mind if I try hypnosis?" Lionel asked.
"Just as long as you don't give me any embarrassing post-hypnotic suggestions."
Lionel laughed.
"Don't worry. This isn't a Las Vegas floor show. I won't ask you to squawk like a chicken or bark like a dog."
Lionel dimmed the office lights, lit a candle, which he placed in front of his patient, and then instructed him to relax and stare into the flame. Jack was highly susceptible to suggestion and readily fell into a hypnotic state.
"You're in a deep sleep, and you'll stay that way until I count to three. Understand?"
"Yes," Jack said in a low monotone.
"Good. Now, let's go back to the time when you were thirteen years old. Tell me what you remember about that year in your life."
Jack proceeded to speak at great length, but much to the psychiatrist's dismay, his patient spoke in French.
"In English, please," Lionel asked, but Jack continued talking in French, oblivious to the doctor's request.
"I'm afraid this isn't going to help either of us. I studied Latin in school, not French."
Lionel counted to three, expecting Jack to come out of his trance, but the patient continued speaking. The psychiatrist was temporarily at a loss.
"I never had a patient who didn't understand English."
Then he remembered his days in middle school when he briefly studied foreign languages—nothing major, just the equivalent of words like hello, goodbye, yes, no, friend and house. But he had also learned to count to ten in Spanish, German, Italian and, thankfully, French.
"Okay, let's give it a try: un ... deux ... trois."
Jack snapped out of his trance immediately.
"Well, am I cured?" he asked with an amused twinkle in his eyes.
"Sorry, not yet. Tell me, Jack, have you ever lived in France?"
"No."
"Is your family of French extraction?"
"No."
"Did you study French in high school or in college?"
Jack was becoming impatient.
"Look, Dr. Penn, the only French I know is French toast, French fries, French kissing and the French Foreign Legion."
"I'm no linguist, but when I put you under hypnosis, you were speaking French as fluently as Charles de Gaulle."
"That's impossible. I don't know the language, and I've never been to an area where it's spoken."
"But it happened nonetheless."
* * *
When Jack told his friend and employer of the bizarre occurrence, Hugh was intrigued.
"French, huh? What did you say?"
"Beats me. Dr. Penn didn't understand a word of it."
"I took four years of French in high school. Perhaps I could act as an interpreter at your next session. Do you think Lionel would allow it?"
"I can't see why not. I don't suppose I'll ever get to the bottom of my phobia if my doctor can't understand me."
Lionel agreed to have Hugh act as a translator the next time he hypnotized Jack Templeton.
"Now remember," the psychiatrist cautioned. "Talk slowly and softly, and don't raise your voice. The patient must be relaxed."
Hugh nodded in agreement.
Lionel again dimmed the lights, lit the candle and put his patient into a deep hypnotic trance.
Then he turned to Hugh and instructed, "Ask him if anything memorable happened when he was thirteen."
Hugh put the question to Jack in French. Jack replied readily, smiling as he answered, as though reliving a happy memory.
"What did he say?" Lionel asked.
"I'm not exactly sure. He's not speaking the textbook French I learned. It could possibly be some regional dialect or even an older version of the language."
"You mean you can't understand him either?"
"I could clearly grasp the gist of what he was telling me but not all the words. Apparently, thirteen was a memorable age for Jack. It was when he had his first encounter with the opposite sex."
Lionel laughed.
"I don't think that particular association would lead to his phobia. Let's try a different question. Ask him if he has any reason to fear the thirteenth day of the month?"
This time, when Hugh posed the question, Jack became highly agitated. He spoke rapidly, and Hugh had greater difficulty comprehending him. Lionel caught a few words that even he could understand: Notre Dame, confession and the name Chevalier.
"Well?" Lionel asked Hugh, who sat opposite him with a puzzled look on his face.
"I don't fully understand what he's rambling on about," Hugh admitted.
"What was that about Notre Dame? Did something happen while he was at college?"
Hugh shook his head.
"I'm not sure. He was going on about a bonfire or something."
"What about Chevalier? Who is that?"
"Not who; what. Chevalier is French for knight."
"So something happened on the night of the bonfire," Lionel said, trying to tie the words together to make some sense.
"Not night as in the opposite of day, but knight as in knight in shining armor."
"Could it be a sports team? Do the Fighting Irish play a team called the Knights? And what was that about a confession?"
"Either I'm confused or he is, but he's talking about a false confession at Notre Dame. He says something about knights being innocent and then refers to the bonfire."
"Ask him what happened during the bonfire. Did anyone get burned?"
When Hugh translated the doctor's question, Jack nodded frantically. Then he jumped up from his seat, upsetting the candle that had been used to hypnotize him. The flame ignited a newspaper that had been lying on Lionel's desk. The fire was a small one and was quickly extinguished, but the effect on Jack Templeton was devastating. One look at the burning paper and he emitted a series of blood-curdling screams.
Lionel rushed to his patient's side.
"Listen to me Jack: one ... two. No. un ... deux ... trois."
Jack awoke with his throat slightly sore and a pungent odor in his nostrils.
"What's that burning smell? Is something on fire?" he asked fearfully.
"Nothing to worry about. It's only today's edition of The Puritan Falls Gazette."
* * *
"I don't see any point in further hypnosis," Lionel announced to both men after the sixth attempt. "We're not learning anything new. If there is an answer to this puzzle, it's got to be here in the notes of Jack's previous sessions."
"May I see the file?" the patient asked.
Lionel handed it to him, and Jack read the doctor's handwritten notes.
"None of this makes any sense to me: Notre Dame, a confession, a knight, a bonfire, someone named Philip burning a steak .... What has any of this to do with me or my phobia?"
"I'm not sure yet. Finding the answer is a lot like doing a jigsaw puzzle. I want both of you to try to remember as much as you can about your college days. Whatever is frightening you seems to have happened at Notre Dame."
During the following week, Hugh and Jack had many discussions about their days in South Bend, Indiana. Neither one could remember any bonfire, a sports team or person named Knight, a person named Philip or any confession, either true or false. Jack was beginning to find the whole frustrating ordeal ridiculous.
"I know. I was probably abducted by a French-speaking alien named Philip on the thirteenth of October. He fiendishly forced me to watch Maurice Chevalier movies in front of the fireplace until I confessed the Fighting Irish game plan for that year's bowl game."
"Funny you should say that!" Hugh said thoughtfully.
"Of course it's funny. I was being sarcastic."
"I know. But it just occurred to me that while you were under hypnosis you specifically referred to October 13."
"So?"
"I didn't remember that until just now, yet in your attempt to be a smart ass, you again said October 13. What's the significance of that date?"
"There is none. It's just a coincidence."
"Is it?"
* * *
Meanwhile, as Hugh and Jack were reminiscing about their college days in South Bend, Lionel Penn decided to do a little research on his own. He went to Google and typed in Philip, Notre Dame, confession and knight.
"It's a long shot, but ...."
Later that day, Lionel phoned Hugh.
"Would you mind coming in with Jack again for his session on Thursday?"
"Are you going to try hypnosis again?"
"No, but I'd like to talk to both of you."
That Thursday at 3:10 p.m., Jack and Hugh were sitting in the psychiatrist's office drinking coffee. Lionel took a piece of notepaper out of the file folder on his desk.
"Have either of you ever heard of a man named Jacques de Molay?" he asked.
Neither Hugh nor Jack was familiar with the name.
"What about the Knights Templar?"
"That was a religious order of crusaders, wasn't it?" Hugh inquired.
Lionel nodded his head and read from the notes in front of him.
"In 1118, a chevalier and eight of his friends established the Knights Templar to defend the newly delivered Jerusalem from its Mohammedan neighbors. Because the Templars combined religious fervor with martial prowess—two passions of the Middle Ages—they rapidly grew in number and power."
The two architects looked at him questioningly, wondering what Lionel was getting at.
"The Knights were directly under the pope's protection, so all property they confiscated—some nine thousand estates—fell under the control of the Church in Rome and was therefore exempt from taxes and tithes. The local churches took exception to this since it meant a reduction in revenues to their own coffers. The result was a growing hatred of the Knights Templar."
"This history lesson is all very interesting, Lion," Hugh objected, "but what has this to do with Jack and his fear of the number thirteen?"
"I'm getting to that. Two hundred years later, in the fourteenth century, the French king Philip the Fair wanted to get control of the Knights' vast wealth and ordered the arrest of all Templars in France."
"On what grounds?" Jack asked.
"It seems the Knights Templar had a secret rite of initiation, known only to the members themselves. Their enemies accused the Knights of performing all sorts of criminal, immoral and sacrilegious acts during those rites. They went so far as to accuse them of denying Christ and worshipping a bearded head named Baphomet. There was no real evidence to support these outrageous claims, so the accused Knights could only be convicted based on their own confessions."
"And they were tortured to obtain them," Jack surmised.
"Yes. The braver ones died rather than betray their order, but most eventually broke under the ordeal and confessed."
"What happened to those who confessed?" Hugh asked.
"The Episcopal inquisitors imposed canonical penances that included, in some cases, life imprisonment. Knights who later withdrew their confessions were declared lapsed heretics and, as such, were burned at the stake."
"A bonfire," Hugh muttered.
"The pope himself reserved judgment on the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, and his three highest dignitaries. Since they had confessed, the pope sought to reconcile them with the Church after they testified publicly to repentance. A platform was erected in front of Notre Dame Cathedral for the reading of the sentence. In the end, de Molay regained his courage, recanted his confession and proclaimed the innocence of the Knights Templar. He was promptly arrested and burned at the stake."
Hugh was skeptical.
"Are you suggesting that Jack is afraid of the number thirteen because he's the reincarnation of this de Molay fellow? If so, you're dealing with some very flimsy evidence."
"Just think about it: de Molay was a Knight Templar—spelled with thirteen letters. Philip the Fair had the Knights arrested on October 13, 1311."
"October?" Hugh echoed.
"Yes. Oh, and I forgot to mention the name of the chevalier who began the Knights Templar."
"It's not Jack Templeton or the French equivalent, I hope," Jack laughed.
"No. It was Hugues de Payens. A slight difference, granted, but the name is very close to your own. Don't you agree, Hugh?"
"Are you saying that I'm also a reincarnation?"
"Just think about it," Lionel suggested. "The Knights were a religious order and as such were not allowed to marry. Neither you nor Jack has ever been married."
"Neither have you, Lion, but that doesn't mean you're a reincarnation of a Knight Templar."
"Tell me. What is your company's trademark, Hugh?"
"A knight on a horse, granted, but that doesn't prove ...."
"No, it doesn't. However, I have an idea," he said taking out a candle and a pocket tape recorder that he used for dictation. "Why don't I hypnotize you?"
"Me?"
"Yes. Let's see what you have to say when placed under hypnosis."
* * *
Hugh had written down the French translation of pertinent questions that Lionel wanted to ask him while he was under hypnosis. Lionel would record the session so that, should Hugh speak in French, Lionel could play it back for him and Hugh could then interpret the answers.
"Wait," Jack said, as Lionel placed the candle in front of Hugh. "Can you put us both under at the same time?"
"Yes. Is that what you want?"
Jack nodded.
"Both of you?"
Hugh, too, agreed.
The two men quickly succumbed to hypnosis, and once they were under, Lionel asked, in his best attempt at French, "Are you one of the Knights Templar?"
It was Hugh who spoke first—in French. After a brief silence, Jack responded to him, with obvious passion in his voice. The two men spoke for several minutes, and then Jack fell to his knees at Hugh's feet. Hugh urged his friend to stand, and when Jack did, he embraced him. Jack's eyes filled with tears, but a smile crept across his face. Finally, the two men returned to their seats.
Lionel sensed that it was the right time to bring them back.
"Un ... deux ... trois," he said and pushed the STOP button on his recorder.
Hugh and Jack waited patiently while Lionel rewound the tape and pressed PLAY.
"It's the same dated French as Jack spoke," Hugh noted, and then he listened to the tape without further comment.
"Well, Hugh?" Lionel asked when the recorded session came to an end.
"You were right. It appears I am, or rather was, the founder of the Knights Templar, and I lived some two hundred years before Jacques de Molay."
"And?" Jack asked anxiously.
"According to this conversation, de Molay—your past life identity, Jack—has borne the guilt of his betrayal for seven hundred years."
"But he recanted his confession," Jack argued. "He was later burned at the stake because of it."
"That's true," Hugh explained, "but he still couldn't bear the fact that he had confessed in the first place. He needed absolution, and that could only come from the founder of the Order, Hugues de Payens."
* * *
Three months after Hugh concluded business in Gloucester and returned to New York, Lionel Penn received a letter from Jack Templeton, who was attending a meeting in San Francisco. It was dated October 13 and read, in part:
"I want to thank you for all your help. I just arrived on the West Coast. Can you believe it? Not only was I able to come out of my house on the thirteenth, but I also flew across the country! Furthermore, I'm sitting here in my room on the thirteenth floor, preparing for a presentation. Our company has been hired to design a twenty-four-story office building, and Hugh thinks I'm the right man for the job."
It was signed Jack Templeton—and included all thirteen letters of his name.
Salem is not at all superstitious. In fact, thirteen is his luck number.
