BRAIN HOOK

BRAIN HOOK

© 2025

By Gerard Thornton

 

The man’s eyes opened with a flutter.  It took him a moment for his surroundings to register.   His vision focused on an overhead fan that was spinning lazily in the heavily shadowed room.  He was lying flat on his back on some type of bed and wondered if he had fallen asleep.  Although the room was familiar to him, he struggled to associate his surroundings with his immediate predicament.  Before he was fully lucid, he was greeted by a woman who walked over to him. Her expression looked somewhat impatient, as though she had been waiting for some time for him to awaken.  She was instantly recognizable to the man, although he was having difficulty placing the name at the moment.

“Well, hello there, nice of you to join me,” she said, the mirth in her voice not quite matching the somber, cautious look in her dark eyes.  The man attempted to rise, but an unseen force kept him supine.  He only had sufficient mobility to turn his head to face the woman.  His vision was blinded by a single, powerful light, suspended on an adjustable mount that had been standing beside him. 

He attempted to speak but found his mouth impossibly dry.  Acrid.  He swallowed hard and found the action to be performed only with great difficulty.  It was as if he had tried to swallow a chunk of gravel.

“W…wha… what’s happened to me?”  His voice came out as a hoarse croak.

“Why, nothing’s happened to you. Not yet anyway.  You’re just recovering consciousness from the Secobarbital I administered to your drink.  Don’t worry, you should be fully cognizant shortly.”

The woman’s smile faded, and she turned away from the man, busying herself at a table that stood just out of view in the dark reaches of the room.  The man now recognized the woman as Dr. Gloria Westervelt. He tried to draw together his thoughts.  He only had the vaguest memory of the evening.  He knew he had been invited to meet with the head of the museum where he worked.   Splinters of activity began to reassemble themselves.  He had been curious about the lateness of the hour when he had arrived at the museum.  The darkness and utter quietude of the building.  The sound of his solitary footsteps as they echoed in the polished stone corridor leading to the office.  He remembered the Dr. Westervelt’s smile as she greeted him at the door, welcoming him into the small, cluttered office.  What else had happened?  She had offered him a glass of wine.  The wine.

With only extreme effort, he was able to crane his neck around to catch a glimpse of the woman.  She had tied a brown leather apron around her and had donned a pair of shoulder-length rubber gloves.

“Let me up!” the man barked, not used to being unable to move.  He tugged at his arms, but they would not budge.  He turned his head down and realized that he was restrained with straps to a gurney.  The sight of the heavy bindings and buckles suddenly jump-started his heart, which began to hammer in his chest.  What was going on here, his mind demanded.  He had no answers.

The woman stood in silence, watching the man as he began to twist against his restraints.  He grunted with each attempt to break free but found that his efforts were fruitless.  After several more tugs of his arms, the man’s body slowed, exhausted, his chest heaving from the sudden exertion.

“Let me up.  Set me free dammit!”

The woman drew nearer until she was once again at his elbow.  The man was surprised that she was now wearing a surgical mask.  The woman surveyed the restraints, making sure nothing had come undone during the man’s struggles.

“Are we done here?” The woman motioned with one hand, moving it side to side, as if chiding a child who had just thrown a temper tantrum. “Can we continue?”

The man found his anger being quickly replaced with trepidation.  It was the onset of fear.

“What do you want from me?  Just tell me what you want.”  His voice had taken on a tone of cautious concern, like someone who was trying to strike a last-minute deal with someone who was no longer interested in purchasing his wares.

The woman leaned over him, adjusting the lamp with one arm, her motions now slower, more controlled, deliberate.  She had grown comfortable with the realization that she was in complete control.  She placed one gloved hand on the man’s forehead, brushing a sweat-streaked lock of his hair away from the temple.  It was a slow, almost tender gesture.

“I just want you to stay still now.  I know you’re probably confused and maybe scared.  I’m sure you have questions, and I’m going to explain what’s going to happen, because I’m not someone that believes in surprises.”

The man’s mind scrambled for some semblance of order. It needed to find a rational explanation for all of this. 

“Please…” The man began to protest, but the woman placed a finger to his lips.

“Shhh,” she cooed, the tone of her voice gentle, reassuring.  “I told you I would explain everything.  Now I need you to remain still.”

The woman placed two blocks on the stretcher, one against each side of his face.  She ran a rod through each and tightened them with a large wingnut that she screwed tight underneath the gurney.  With this, the man found he could no longer turn his head.  He was completely immobile now.  His heart was beating furiously again, the pulse of his blood thudding in his temples.

“You see, I explained to you when you were hired that you would be instrumental in one of the greatest studies in Egyptology.  Your work would be heralded by the coming generations as being revolutionary.  You would be regarded as one of the most crucial components of my studies.  Do you remember when I told you that, when you were nothing but a wet-behind-the-ears, excretion of the university?”  Her voice had grown harder as she spoke, the tone becoming caustic and taunting.

The man tried to remember the circumstances surrounding his employment at the New York City Museum of Egyptian and Assyrian Civilizations.  His mind scrolled back, pausing briefly at each memory of his appointment to the museum.  His interview with Dr. Gloria Westervelt now drew into focus.  Sitting in her cramped and cluttered office, he had fidgeted uncomfortably as he fielded questions about his background, his academics at the university, and about his career path.  He had found the woman to be both brilliant and intimidating.  She was unquestionably the master of her domain, and all who entered it, including he, a young and partially motivated graduate who would have agreed to any conditions of employment, so long as he was paid.

“Yes, I remember,” he said at last, his voice trailing away, unsure of where the conversation was heading.

“Good,” she replied through her mask, her voice suddenly returning to its softer timbre.  With this, she produced a small tray and placed it onto the top of the gurney, next to the man’s head.  She held out a finger, selected one of the instruments and held it aloft so he could see it.  It was a thin-handled hook, the end spun into a curled point that resembled the tip of a corkscrew.

“You see, I’ve been looking for one more subject to complete the exhibit I’ve been working on for the last decade.  As you are aware, the nine mummies that currently make up the Hall of Pharaohs date back to the time of the Old Kingdom, and these days mummies don’t exactly fall from the trees.”  The woman paused just then and gave a dry chuckle as she envisioned the sight of mummies literally falling out of tree branches, only to land in a dusty heap on the ground.  She let the thought pass, then continued.

“Of course, mummies weren’t always held in the high regard as they are at present.  Did you know that in the period during the second World War, some unscrupulous merchants actually engaged in the practice of plundering tombs, and were sometimes found peddling their mummies on the streets of Cairo?” 

The man felt a trickle of sweat run down the side of his face.  He didn’t understand what any of this meant.  Dr. Westervelt took notice and dabbed away the streak with the corner of a white towel that was hung on the end of a steel cart that stood at the foot of the gurney.

“Anyway, I digress.  So, as I find myself lacking the requisite number of long departed Pharaohs to finish the exhibit, I am put in a somewhat compromising position.  You see, the exhibit has been promised to both the museum shareholders and the public for some time now, and every single time I was preparing to proceed with the unveiling of the exhibit, I was threatened by the shareholders that they would pull their grant money if I didn’t deliver on the promise. Every. Single. Time.”  Here she thrust the hook towards the man to accentuate each word, causing him to wince at the sight of the glinting tool.

“Which brings me back to your role in all of this.  There’s a practice in ancient Egypt known as excerebration.  Do you know what that is?”

The man’s eyes grew wide with alarm.  Yes, from his studies he knew only too well the process used by those that prepared mummies for internment.  The woman continued, not waiting for the man to respond.  R. Westervelt picked up a folder from the corner of her desk and opened to a section she had ear-marked with a yellow Post-it note.

“Here, let me read you something from the National Library of Medicine that you might find of interest. It’s from a study entitled The importance of the nasopharynx and anterior skull base in excerebration techniques from KV40, a New Kingdom Egyptian site.”

The woman paused, looking up at her captive with a slight smile, then turned back and began reading.

“The technique of excerebration underwent several variations. With an almost vertical inclination of the chisel to the cranial base, the embalmers created a perforation through the anterior skull fossa in the ethmoidal bone area, where the thin lamina cribrosa could easily be penetrated. This localization is found in a case from the 11th Dynasty of the Middle Kingdom. There is also a preference for this anterior transethmoidal route in the New Kingdom, when transnasal craniotomy was increasingly practiced. If the chisel was inserted deeper into the nasal passage, the sphenoid bone was perforated, which is a more demanding technique than the perforation of the thin lamina cribrosa. However, this posterior transsphenoidal route was often less damaging to the face's outer structures, a criterion, which became more important with time. The posterior, transsphenoidal route was favored from the Third Intermediate Period and throughout the Late Period. Embalming substances could be introduced into the empty skull vault through the artificially created entry, which pooled in the postcranium to form a fluid level. Therefore, even when the skull‐base is not entirely preserved, such a deposit of embalming substances in the rear part of the cranium indicates a performed excerebration. Moreover, not in all cases, the deceased's brains were removed but could also be left to spontaneous mummification. In such cases, remnants of the desiccated brain can often be detected in the skull, and the bony structures of the skull‐base are found intact.”

The woman closed the folder and returned it to the table.  The man swallowed back a lurch of vomit that had threatened to burst forth from his mouth.

“The article sites references but I’d imagine you wouldn’t find them to be of any additional importance.  You see, in order to present to the world a complete exhibit, I need to incorporate the body of one additional mummy that must be prepared in the method performed by the ancients themselves.  First, I will need to create a transethmoidal entrance to the brain cavity.  This will be made possible by perforating the ethmoid bone using this instrument.   It’s known as a cranial crochet, but most lay people call in a brain hook.”  She held the device up in front of her, seeming to admire its simple, cruel design.  Then she held up the tray of tools, each looking more menacing than the other.

“I will need to use these implements to liquify the brain.  Then I will remove the organs, leaving only the heart.  And, in keeping with custom, all incisions will be made on the left side of the body to retain the authenticity of the procedure.  I believe in authenticity for all of my exhibits. I mean, we are not working at Disney World, are we?”  She again chuckled.

The woman extended an arm out to the corner of the lab room.  In the half-light was a wheeled stand containing several earthenware jars.  Some were simple dried ones made of red earth, and others were more elaborate kiln-fired jars with Egyptian figures painted on the side

“Over here, you will see the traditional embalming components and herbs, including beeswax, pistachio resin and myrrh.  The larger canopic jars will be used to store your vital organs.  All of the organs except of course, for the heart, which will remain withing your chest cavity.  But I’m sure you remember all of these details from your studies, don’t you?”

The man began to struggle, sensing that the time for negotiation was drawing to a close.

“No, please let me go. I promise I won’t say anything.  Please….”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” she said, shaking her head slowly.  “I’m committed to completing the Hall of Pharaohs exhibit, and to be honest, I’m very disappointed that you’re not taking this as the greatest honor of your career.  In fact, since you will not be alive after I perform the procedure, you should regard this as the single greatest contribution you will make in your lifetime.”

The words assailed the man’s conscience with unmitigated dread.  His frantic eyes studied the woman, looking for some scintilla of doubt in her resolve, some hint of sympathy.  He found none.  Instead, he felt that with each word, Westervelt was thrilling to the prospect of finally finishing her career’s highest ambition.

“You’re insane...” was the only thing he could think to say.  He regretted his choice of words immediately, as it somehow signified the end of any further discussion.

“I thought you’d say something banal like that,” she clucked, as she reached for the rolling table again.  This time she returned with a small mallet.

“Nooooo!!!!” The man screamed as he watched the woman’s hands draw near, one hand holding the hook, the other the mallet.

“You must hold still now.  We don’t want your panic to spoil the sacrifice now, do we?”

“No, I beg…” 

“Okay, you need to be silent and still,” the woman said, her voice mildly exasperated.  “Normally I would suggest at least performing this procedure under Minimal Sedation Anxiolysis, but the time it takes to wait for any sedative effects to take hold would take longer than the process itself.  So, I’ve decided we would just do it with no anesthesia,”             She laid the mallet on the table and picked up a small object. 

“Here, bite down on this,” the woman slid a wedge of soft balsa wood into the man’s mouth and pushed it in as far as it would go. 

The man watched as Dr. Westervelt placed the hook into the nasal cavity and deftly drove the thing home with four sharp taps of the mallet.

A silver spark of pain seemed to split his head in two, as the steel pick worked its way into the man’s skull.  There was a faint cracking sound.

“Mrrrrngghhhh!”  The man’s wail of pain reverberated through the room.

The woman grasped the man’s head with one gloved hand and worried the tool deeper into the nasal passage until she felt it break free on the inside of the skull.

“There we go…” She said with satisfaction.

“Mrrrgnhhh!” The man screamed again, the wooden block preventing him from vocalizing any words.  The woman stroked the man’s forehead and looked at him, her eyes bright, seeming to sparkle.

“Okay, the worst is over now, just lie still.  There are few pain receptors in the brain, so you’ll be spared much more discomfort,” Westervelt said in a clinical, slightly detached tone, as if she were merely reciting the method of programming the remote control for the cable television box.

The woman’s elbow worked back and forth as the hook tore away at the man’s brain, the corkscrew end spinning as it turned the gelatinous brain matter of the cerebral cortex into a type of organic slurry.  He felt a deep scratching within his skull, and his eyes ricocheted back and forth, totally without his control as the nerves controlling his bodily functions were destroyed.  More grinding came from deep within somewhere.  His eyes stopped moving, suddenly bereft of directional control, their gaze fixed on the face of the woman that was killing him. 

Satisfied with her work, Westervelt placed a stainless-steel dish next to the man’s head.  Removing the restraints, she rolled the man onto his left side.  With the last of his senses, he watched as hot, thick gray fluid trickled lazily from his nose, filling the small dish.  A gray filter began to descend over the man’s vision and the man felt a merciful relaxation spread through his body.  It was then that a thought began to float upwards through the tunnel vision of his impending death.   Maybe Dr. Westervelt was correct, and all was for the best.  Maybe his true place was to stand astride the great pharaohs of that lost, great civilization.  Maybe it was truly the honor she had spoken of.  The thought, albeit amorphous and fleeting, gave him a sense of resigned comfort and closure.

Dr. Westervelt’s elbow began working again, driving the hook in, then pulling it out, over and over, speeding up the discharge.  The woman paused and stooped down, so her face was on level with the man’s.  She pulled her mask down and smiled at the man, whose senses had ceased to register any stimuli, except for his hearing.  As the world swirled down and away from him, he heard the last words of his earthly existence.

“You will soon join the pharaohs, so be brave.  You will be with them for eternity.  Now I need you to let go and let yourself drift away.  Drift away.  Drift awaaaay….”  Her voice was all sweetness and solace now.

The examination room became silent.  Dr. Westervelt rose and removed her apron, hanging it on a wall hook.  She turned back to the figure on the examination table and pulled a stiff plastic sheet over the motionless form.  She checked her watch.  It was just past midnight.  She would need to prepare the body for mummification and store it in the reliquary.  She knew she had a long night ahead, but first, it was time for tea.