The Return of Frank K. Mason, Strongman

Photography by Bo Willse

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | The original story of Frank K. Mason

CHAPTER 1: HOME

They came from far and wide. The people. They came to see where he slept. Where he assembled the mask. Where he cared for the pig. They gawked and they speculated. Imagined his life. Pointed and laughed. Even the kids thought it was funny. “He wore the mask of a pig!” And the miller, the awful little man, taking advantage of him, of his “legend”. No one questioned the man who turned a sad horror story into a tourist attraction printing money, which rolled in: after all, the mill would be saved. And ground flour was for the birds. So much work, and the wheel was broken anyway.

And he heard it all. Frank K. Mason, strongman. Every last gawking comment. Every last gasp at his straw bed that was matted down in the barn, where he slept, where he had a small drawing of Millie that he made one night, saddened by his failure to stop the water wheel from drowning and crushing his favorite pig. Where he sat hour after hour in despair.

He tried to leave Manor Mill after it was all over. And he went far, even, up to the deep forested hills of West Virginia, but there was nowhere to really go. He thought he’d just walk into the woods and never come back, but it wasn’t easy and it seemed no matter where he went someone would come upon him, a ranger, a property owner.

“You don’t belong here,” they’d say. “You need to find somewhere else to live.”

He’s not sure how long it was he was gone, trying to make a new home, make a new life – a season or two at least. He didn’t really know how long was long enough, anyway. But when he thought enough time had passed and he returned, things were immediately different. The bangs and clatter of Manor Mill’s gears and lifts and pulleys were still quiet, the water wheel still stuck and broken. Bags of flour that he had hoisted into a pile were still spilling out over each other, laying half empty like dead animals. Heavy beams and tools that he put down one afternoon years ago were still right there, alongside stray bolts, rusty and tired.

But the front door had been painted. A new sign had been added. He looked around again, surveyed the lot and the house. The grass had been cut. There were a few flower beds. There was a path to the barn door where he once lived. There was hope.

He started to open the door to Manor Mill. Maybe he could come back. Maybe his past was his past alone. He too had cleaned up some - his hair was short now. He had lost weight. He was still strong, with huge barrel arms, but he wore long-sleeved shirts most of the time so as not to draw attention to himself.

Perhaps those kids who, long ago, had looked at him in fear had grown up and forgotten about his massive, hulking figure strolling down Monkton Road, with an ax in his hand. Perhaps the neighbors who stopped coming to the Mill because of his silently uncomfortable temperament, like a bomb that might be set to deonate, because they didn’t understand him, what he was going through, his love for the piglets that he saved when the mother died – perhaps they had moved on, like he desperately wanted to. His guilt of the horror he caused flooded him like the head race that long stormy week. He shuddered and for a moment was washed in sadness.

He had started to enter when his stomach sank and then tightly clenched. There in his face was a picture of his mask, and him on a flyer, scary, menacing. And then, while he could barely read, knew it was him: “Take the ‘Pigman’ Tour! Get a first-hand look at his straw bed! See the bones he collected! And best of all try on the mask! $20 per person. Kids under 12 are free!” He stared at the poster as if it were blurry and he was trying to focus on it.

He didn’t understand it at first. What was this for? What hidden tour? These two questions kept swirling about as he glanced about the mill further for answers.

At the moment, Frank K. Mason was dressed well, for him at least, and he barely resembled the crazed man in the poster with tangled hair down to his shoulders, the flopping leather mask of a pig in his hand, overalls that were worn around the edges, and a fearsome, murderous look. He’s not sure where that picture came from, but shuddered as he looked at it. A panic struck him as he tried to connect the picture to the person he was looking at. Was that really him?

READ Chapter 2