Beaufort High School English teacher Michael Gautier, Ann Head Prize winner Noah Cayanan, and Pat Conroy Literary Center executive director Jonathan Haupt
As creators and sponsors of the annual Ann Head Literary Prize for Short Story Fiction, the family of Ann Head is pleased to announce the winner of the fifth annual award is Beaufort High School is rising senior Noah Cayanan.
Cayanan’s short story, “Reflections of Hollow Men,” was an instant favorite with the judges. The story follows a young detective investigating a series of similar deaths but no clues to a killer, though his personal life is bleeding into the investigation. The story reflects its author’s love of psychology, which he plans to pursue with a career as a psychiatrist. Cayanan is a member of DECA (Distributive Education Clubs of America) and an avid skater.
As prizewinner, Cayanan received a cash prize of $500 and his name was engraved on the Ann Head Literary Prize plaque permanently displayed at Beaufort High School.
The winning story were chosen from entries written by BHS students and submitted for consideration. The high caliber of the stories made the decision of the judges, all family members of Ann Head, extremely difficult, although highly enjoyable. The family is grateful for the enthusiastic support of the BHS English Department and English teacher Michael Gautier, as well as for the support and partnership in this endeavor of Jonathan Haupt, executive director of the Pat Conroy Literary Center.
The family of Ann Head congratulates each of the students who submitted a story for the competition this year. They are writers all, and they have proved that they can each craft an original short story. Keep it up, writers of Beaufort High! Who knows how many more future Pat Conroys Beaufort High might foster?
About Ann Head: Writer Ann Head, the pen name of Anne Wales Christensen Head Morse (1915–1968), was the granddaughter of Abbie Holmes Christensen, who came to Beaufort during the Civil War to educate the recently freed enslaved populations of the Sea Islands. Moving back and forth between Boston and Beaufort, Ann carried on the family tradition of bucking traditions and creating new literary forms. Ann was Pat Conroy’s first creative writing teacher at Beaufort High School and became Conroy’s mentor, confidante, and friend. She was a central figure in Beaufort’s midcentury literary scene, befriending many of the famous authors who wintered in Beaufort, including Samuel Hopkins Adams (whom she considered her mentor), Somerset Maugham, John Marquand, and Katherine and E. B. White among others.
Ann published over fifty short stories and serials in the major
Ann Head
national magazinesof her day, with many of her stories set in a small town just like Beaufort. She wrote of divorce, snobbery, affairs both emotional and sexual, prejudice, death, and out-of-wedlock childbirth, championing the non-typical heroines of the magazines that eagerly accepted her work. In addition, she authored four novels which were published internationally, most notably Mr. and Mrs. Bo Jo Jones, a compelling story of teen pregnancy which was on school reading lists for 50 years and is credited with helping create the Young Adult novel genre.
Ann died suddenly in 1968, at the age of 52, cutting short a vibrant life and promising literary career. She was posthumously inducted in our state’s literary hall of fame, the South Carolina Academy of Authors, on May 4, 2024. The life of Ann Head is chronicled by her daughter, Nancy Thode, in the newly published anthology Ahead of Her Time: The Trailblazing Life and Literary Legacy of Ann Head.
“Reflections of Hollow Men,” Ann Head Literary Prize Winner
Detective Lewis Harper was no stranger to the monsters living in the city’s darkness. In every shadow or eerie calm, a monster may lurk, ready to pounce and sink its sharp, gleaming fangs deep into the clean, unscathed flesh of the pure. But the monsters weren’t real. That was one of the few things that Lewis was certain of. The only monsters were the ones living deep inside of humans, an excuse for their inexcusable actions.
There was no night like tonight. The moon gleaned beautiful light into the night, flooding the streets of San Francisco enough to chase away the little dancing shadows, leaving only thelong, stalking, and eerie shadows to watch over the quiet people of the city.
The moonlight wasn’t the only force chasing away the night – traffic lights, busy buildings, the bustle of busy city people. It was away from this stir that Lewis did his work. Tonight, Lewis, accompanied by half of the San Francisco Police Department, worked in the bright light of a floodlight, casting a pale brightness upon an entire crime scene. Lewis worked in homicide and saw hundreds of murders, bodies, cases. Yet this one was unusual.
Murder was usually a mess. Hot, sticky, nasty blood, broken windows, kicked-in doors, and broken furniture were the obvious ones. The bloody spectacle left behind usually covered themore precise disarray – fingerprints, hair, saliva, any trace of DNA that could link the detectivesback to the culprit.
Yet the scene in front of Lewis was neat. The body was sat neatly in a plastic-covered chair, one hand folded gently in his lap. The other extended, resting atop a knee, palm upwards, holding a classic Baltic watch. The kill wound was a gash in the victim’s neck, cut with insane precision. The wound was wrapped in bandages prior to Lewis’s arrival.
Lewis stirred. A kill like this was disturbingly unusual. He turned to the forensics team. The most he got was a small shrug from Jocelyn Ni, an astoundingly upbeat woman, carrying a crude and passive sense of humor to any crime scene. Her presence always made very real tragedies feel like movie sets.
“No Trabajo,” Jocelyn exclaimed, making her way over to Lewis. Despite being nearly 3,000 miles away from any area that speaks Spanish, she loved to remind everyone that she could speak it rather fluently. After a puzzled expression from Lewis, she clarified. “No work. The whole place was wiped clean. We’re on our way out.”
Lewis couldn’t help but stare at Jocelyn. Not due to her calming features, but at the normality of her statement. He was speechless. A crime scene with no evidence? It was simply preposterous.
“Alright then. I’ll see you back at the station,” Lewis stated firmly, despite his mind beingsomewhat aloof. As the rest of the force cleared out, Lewis lingered longer than usual. Hescoured each and every inch of the body, chair, room, and building. There were no signs of foulplay whatsoever.
Lewis would stir about this for days. Every report of the crime from every team was unable to come up with substantial evidence, setting Lewis’s teeth on edge. Eventually, the hustle and bustle of the city would end up drowning out the noise of the neatly packed murder.
It was hardly a few weeks before Lewis forgot about the kill. The busy atmosphere at the San Francisco Police Department never failed to comfort Lewis. Something about the air wascalming, despite the murders taking place on a daily basis.
Despite being an extremely early morning for SFPD, a phone call pierced the foggy atmosphere. Detective Springer, a fitting name for the new officer, jumped up at the phone. In his usual sing-songy voice, he answered. After a few nods, his joyous expression faded, his face tightening. “Where?” A pause. “Got it.”
Lewis prepared himself mentally with a deep breath. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the tiled ceiling, letting his eyes slowly shut.
“Body in the abandoned apartments, off 3rd street. Another male, mid to late 30’s,” Springer announced, grabbing his own coat and heading for the door. “Lewis?” Springer turned to face Lewis, his expression grim. “There’s no evidence, like the one a few weeks ago.”
Lewis’s chest tightened. He stood up, almost shakily. It wasn’t just the body itself. Not just the neatly wrapped present of a murder that lies in wait. The address itself seemed way too familiar. Lewis hadn’t been there, but 3rd Street seemed awfully familiar, apart from being a simple name.
“Got it.” He grabbed his coat, heading for the door. His typical firmness was lackluster, from his soft grip at the door handle to his near collapse into the driver seat of his car.
The closer the crew got to the building, the more the feeling began to subside. Lewis was able to push it away, calming every nerve all the way up to the building. Uniformed officers stormed the dilapidated building, flashlights sweeping the eerie halls. Lewis crept behind them, surveying the rustic halls, tracing along the time-torn walls.
“Call said the body’s on floor 2,” Springer called, starting up the rusted stairs. Each step let out an eerie creak, the old floor moaning as if in agony. Just before Springer was able to turn the handle to the second door, Lewis objected.
“3!” Lewis shouted from the bottom of the stairwell, desperately attempting to climb up the stairs, just after the rest of his unit. “The call said 3.”
Springer looked confused yet obliged. They climbed another flight of stairs before bursting through the door, opening up to an array of doors, one of which was open, the eerie glow of a dim light spilling from the inside. Every officer quickly ran into the room, swinging the door open and quickly occupying the room.
Under the dim spotlight in the middle of the room, lie the body. Undisturbed, in a plastic wrap chair, palm upturned, a corpse sat holding a classing Baltic watch.
“Jesus,” muttered one of the paramedics, who immediately ran over to the body and began their checks. After a few minutes, they confirmed the man dead.
Springer looked around, isolating Lewis in the corner. He came up close, placing a hand on his shoulder.“How’d you know the body was up here?” Springer asked, muttering indiscriminately. ‘Icould have sworn that the caller said-”
“You must’ve been mistaken,” Lewis interjected. He turned to face Springer, a firm expression on his face. “I overheard on the phone.” Springer nodded, biting his lip. They went over to the body, carefully surveying the area.
Same method as the last kill, calling sign and all. Lewis was entranced. He leaned carefully overthe body, picking up the watch. He tilted it from side to side.
“Fingerprint this. Everyone, you know what to do,” He surveyed the chair. He checked beneath it, reading each tag carefully. It was a standard chair, which came with the apartments.He removed the plastic wrap beneath it, revealing the old wooden floors. There were subtle scratch marks, courtesy of the hard bottom of the chair. They stopped just before where the sheet was placed, leading to each corner of the room. Lewis went to each corner, running his finger along the crown molding, feeling for imperfections. Suddenly, he stopped. There was a small hole running deep into the baseboard. About the perfect size for a nail.
“Springer, check the rest of the ceiling for nail marks. These are recent,” Lewis commanded, pointing along the border from wall to ceiling. He got off his tiptoes, looking at Springer, who was almost a foot shorter than Lewis. “Right. Drag over a step stool or something, just look at it. I’m going, I’ll see you guys back at the station.”
Lewis slammed his car door shut. He gripped his steering wheel firmly, his knuckles almost turning white from the pressure. He shook in his seat, before letting out a violent scream and starting the car. There was no reason to feel this way, yet he seemed unfathomably angry with himself. He had a sudden dreadful feeling. He whipped the vehicle around, speeding back to his condo.
He tumbled out of the car, sprinting up the stairs of the condominium’s building, bursting through his front door after fumbling with the keys. He nearly slipped on his clean marble floors, the dim lighting casting long shadows from his sleek furniture. He grabbed hold of a drawer, flinging it open to reveal a long rack of watches – with two missing. He ran his finger along the surface of the rest of the watches. The absence of a watch was harrowing, not only due to theextravagant price and sentimental value they carried to Lewis, but also because of the twowatches; which were Baltic. The same watches were placed on the bodies at the crime scene.
His blood ran cold. How could someone have come in and stolen a watch, let alone two, from the inside of his own home? Not many within his precinct knew where he lived, let alone how to get in and where to find his valuables. He collapsed onto the floor, his legs turned to jelly.
He couldn’t believe it. Maybe he misplaced them? But no, for the two watches missing to be the same ones that turned up on the crime scene made for too much of a coincidence for Lewis toignore. Each and every possibility ran through his head until he was able to gather his steps andpour himself a shot of whiskey. Maybe one would get his mind clear enough to put together thepuzzle.
If not one, then two. Three shouldn’t hurt. The bottle drained with every passing shot, and Lewis’s mental state was not getting better. The sleep deprivation paired with alcohol led to his eyes drifting shut, forcing him into a deep sleep.
Lewis awoke to the cold and dirty asphalt of the city. He groggily groaned as he sat up, his vision blurred to the point where he was almost seeing doubles. As he wobbled upright, placing a hand on the wall to stabilize himself, he had to try his best not to unload the contents of his stomach. As his vision cleared, he looked around trying to find out where he was.
Surrounding clues showed him that he was outside an upscale yet trashy bar, Smuggler’s Cove. What could have possibly led him here? The sun was set now, the same eerie darkness washing over the streets, chased away by the buzzing streetlights around every corner. It took Lewis a minute to find his car, and when he did, he could barely open the door.
The inside of his car reeked of chemicals. The pungent smell of cleaning supplies kicked Lewis back awake, and after a few blinks he was seeing straight. His car was clean, as usual,supposedly due to the heavy amount of cleaning supplies. He looked in the back seat, looking for anything that could get him in trouble. Nothing out of the ordinary, save for a few short blonde hairs.
What? Could he be losing his mind? He turned his body to grab one of the strands, bringing it close for inspection. He didn’t know any girls with blonde hair this short, and there weren’t many blonde guys that Lewis knew, let alone would let into his car even if he was blackout drunk. Why were all these odd things happening to him? Just as he began to ponder the idea of retiring, his cell phone rang.
It was Jocelyn. Her voice was upbeat as usual, yet that never meant there wasn’t bad news. And this time, that statement held true. Another body. Abandoned warehouse, this time, on the west side of town. He hung up without much of a goodbye, turning the wheel to the address.
After a traffic-ridden drive much longer than it should have been, Lewis arrived on scene. Cop cars flooded the area with red and blue lights. He got out of his car, standing straight up, much more disheveled than usual. Ignoring all the comments from his friends and fellow officers, he entered the crumbling warehouse. The warehouse had been under construction for quite some time, being one of San Francisco’s few eyesores visible from the water, being that it was on a pier itself. Inside, the body was left in a small room in a corner of the warehouse, in the same eerie positioning as last time. A blonde man, mid to late twenties. But something was different. It felt off. The familiarity wasn’t the same as last time. This time, it was more like a feeling of regret. He walked over to the body carefully. The usual lighting was absent. The body was still positioned in a chair; this one being a wicker chair, the thick dust coating signifying that it was found here. Lewis came up carefully to the body, leaning in to get a closer look at the kill wound – another gash on the neck.
Upon closer inspection, Lewis noticed something. A hesitation cut. A smaller, less deep gash right before the killing blow.
“Jocelyn! Over here!” He called out for her, gesturing his hand out for the photos of the last two. “I thought it was pretty obvious we had a serial killer on our hands because of the first body, and was only sure by the second. But looking at these photos, it appears they’re getting sloppy.”
Just as Lewis thought, there were no hesitation cuts on the other two victims. Along with that, their cuts were much more clean and precise, a straight line across the throat. This one wasalmost crooked, looking like the work of an amateur.
“Lewis! You gotta see this,” shouted Springer, from the corner of the room. He was pointing up at the ceiling, where a nail, still holding some plastic that had been ripped from another sheet, protruded heavily from the wall. “You were onto something with what you saw at the apartments. The very deep parts of the holes had traces of plastic, so that confirms the kill was done here, the body was cleaned up, and the scene was covered in the same plastic thatwraps the chair, probably to hide any evidence. It seems our crook’s getting lazy.”
“It would seem that’s the case,” He crossed his arms, his hand grabbing at his bicep, resulting in a stinging pain. He winced, just now noticing the gash in his sleeve. His throat tightened. How did that get there? His body moved on instinct closer to the victim. His eyes began to dart back and forth. He scanned the walls, ceiling, and the chair over and over until his eyes rested on the floor. A small, dark reddish splotch on the ground. With a glance to make sure nobody was watching, he knelt above it. It was blood. Something took him over, his body moving on reflex. Taking a piece of cloth from his back pocket, he wiped down the spot, removing any trace of the blood.
“What are you doing over there?” asked his lieutenant, Horigome. He made his way over to Lewis, standing above the knelt man. He was dressed exceptionally well, as usual. He toweredover everybody he was near, enforcing his strong presence. Horigome was always fond of Lewis.
They had been in uniform together, years before they made it to homicide. He extended a hand to Lewis, helping him up from his knee.
“I thought I’d see something down there that I didn’t up here,” Lewis laughed, sharing a smile with his lieutenant. The amount of trust between the two was unbreakable. They knew each other inside and out.
“You look like shit. Honestly, what happened?” Horigome asked, placing a hand on Lewis’s shoulder. The statement was from a place of empathy, despite the harsh wording. Of course, it’d be him to notice Lewis’s state.
“Just a rough night. I noticed something you might want to see,” He walked over to the body, gesturing Lieutenant Horigome over. They leaned in towards the body, and Lewis extended a finger towards the killing wound. He began his typical ramble, “There’s a hesitation cut, justbelow the typical place the cut was.”
Suddenly, as Lewis ran a finger just above the wound, he got a vision. The kill. A small, straight-edge razor being dragged along the neck, yet, supported by the cleanliness of the crimescene, there was no blood. This wasn’t the first time Lewis had a vision that helped them catch akiller. He had a knack for murderers. So much so that his coworkers joked that he may be onehimself. Nonetheless, Lewis came to a realization.
“The victim was likely dead when the cut was made. There’s no blood staining around the neck, and although it could have been cleaned, the lack of a mess anywhere makes me doubtful,” He announced to the crowd that had formed behind him while he wasn’t looking. He racked his brain for answers, every possible way that could explain the cleanliness.
“You heard him. Forensics, check for other wounds. Run a tox screen, anything. Lewis, go home, you still look terrible,” Lieutenant Horigome commanded. “Lewis, that’s an order. From a friend.”
He nodded, turning towards the exit. His knees felt weak. Wobbling all the way to his car, he sat and realized that, despite the way he felt, he wanted to do anything but go home. He couldn’t with a killer on the loose. Especially one that had broken into his house.
There had to be a pattern. The victims were all middle-aged males, all of which were mainly isolated without many connections. All were killed in the same way, left with a watch all reading different times.
That could be it. The times; the first one reading 3:03, the second reading 12:08, and the most recent being 8:42. Something clicked. Addresses. The first body led to the second. The third floor, 3rd Street. Pier 12, warehouse 8. What could 8:42 be?
Lewis began to drive. He scored every street in San Francisco for the numbers. He knew the city like nobody else. He drove for what felt like hours. The streets of the city liked to remain busy late into the night. Lewis was close to giving up. He felt his eyelids get heavy. Apparently, a drunken sidewalk nap wasn’t enough to get him fully functioning.
He was about to give up when a big, red, glimmering number 8 caught his eye. He was almost in disbelief. This was the last lead he would chase before heading back home. He pulled up to the Super 8 hotel, the big yellow-red sign casting light into his car. There was no way anybody could hide a body within a busy hotel.
Another dead end. Lewis began to feel that they were never going to catch this killer. Just as he was going to pull away, his eyes settled on the building just beside the motel. Underconstruction. Perfect for a killer. He eased his car towards the building, attempting to make outany details in the dark. His eyes adjusted, and he was able to make out a metallic “42” nailed into the old baseboard of the building.
This could be the big break. He thought of calling his lieutenant, asking for a unit to watch the area. Selfishly, he didn’t want to waste police resources on something he could do himself. He cut off the engine of his car, turning his head to face the building. Nobody was going in or out. He already knew this was going to be a long night, so he made himself comfortable, maybe a little bit too comfortable, because fatigue eventually caught up to him, pulling him into a deep slumber.
He awoke to the ringing of his cell phone in his pocket. He sat up in his car seat, still groggy. The morning rays of sunshine pierced through his windshield, making his sudden waking much more unpleasant. He answered the phone to be greeted by Lieutenant Horigome.
“Good morning, sunshine. Hope I didn’t wake you. I’ll go ahead and let you know before we get there, the morning construction crew down in East SF found another creepy body in a building by the Super 8. Meet us there?” Horigome chirped from his side of the phone.
“Lucky you, I’m already in the area. I’ll see you soon then,” he replied, pulling the phone away from his face to press the hang-up button. When his thumb came away from the phone screen, a red fingerprint was left behind. It was only now that he realized the metallic taste in his mouth. He pulled down the sun visor, revealing the mirror. He surveyed his face in the mirror, spotting a trail of blood coating his lips and right side of his face. Did he have a nosebleed when he fell asleep?
He wiped his face down with baby wipes, quickly throwing them back into his glove box.Opening his car door, he started for the building. Some uniformed officers had already taped offthe scene of the murder, so it wasn’t hard to find the body.
When he came across the body, a part of him felt relieved. This time, there was blood. Messy blood, all over the plastic covering, which was draped from ceiling to floor, under the chair that sat under the body. It appeared that their serial killer friend had to leave early. There were swipe marks on the floor, disturbances in the blood.
He crouched beside the pooling blood. He dipped a finger in the blood, feeling the tackyresistance as it stuck to his fingertip. Not fully coagulated. The outer edges of the blood were stillthickening, darkening, but the blood under the body still glistened. This murder had happened no longer than 4 hours ago. His eyes scanned the pool. A footprint, fresh enough to still shine.
He took a step closer to get a closer look at the footprint. He extended his leg to reach the spot where the footprint was, placing his shoe in the same spot where the footprint was andcomparing the size and patterns. Both were identical to Lewis’s shoes. Size 11 running shoes.
This narrowed the suspects down, albeit to a broad group still, but nonetheless helpful. He tookthe shoe off, standing on one foot in the middle of the room. At this moment, the rest of thehomicide crew entered the scene.
“Oh, wow,” muttered one of the guys on the forensics team.
“Is it our guy?” asked Springer, who was one of the first into the room.
“Has to be. Gash on the neck, plastic wrap, chair. Everything but the watch,” Lewis decided to leave out the details of the addresses, as well as him falling asleep while scouting out.
He held up his bloody shoe, showing Springer before handing it to Jocelyn. “Our guy wears a size 11 if that’s any help.”
“Thanks, but keep your shoe. And stop stepping in the crime scene blood. You know better,” Jocelyn whipped around, going to do other work. Things finally felt normal, working as a team. It seemed like they were going to catch the killer.
The drive home was exhausting. Despite the happy investigation they held, something nagged at Lewis. He walked into his home, sighing at the mess that he left. He picked up the near empty bottle on the ground, placing it back on the shelf. Beneath the shelf, he began to close thedrawer before noticing another missing watch. He froze. There weren’t three missing when hechecked, just yesterday morning. It had to be somewhere around here. Lewis desperatelysearched the floor. Under every chair, desk, and lamp. He reached an arm under the couch,feeling around for the watch. His fingers grasped damp cloth. In shock, he yanked the clothes out from under the couch, standing up to inspect it. A medium men’s tee shirt, soaked in blood. His head began to spin. Thoughts shot through his head like bullets – the cold and metallic taste of blood, the hot and sticky mess it leaves behind, and the calm drip. A slow drip, drip, drip. Hedidn’t know if he was hearing things, yet when he turned his head over to the bathroom door hefound it propped open slightly.
Heart racing, he slowly crept over to the door. Placing one hand gently on the door, he braced himself for the worst. He swung it open, fists clenched, yet was met with nothing. The tub was full of water, some of it beginning to drip out the tub, almost overflowing. He sighed deeply, turning to look in the mirror. He rested his hands on the countertop. Lieutenant Horigome was right. Lewis was looking rough. His face had become coarse with stubble, deep bags forming under his eyes. His black hair had become matted and greasy. The man that looked back in the mirror looked nothing like a prized detective. He looked disheveled. His eyes weren’t calculating and precise, but hollow and crazed like the eyes of a killer.
He couldn’t bear to look at himself like this. He looked down at his feet. The water that had begun to pour out the tub started to flood all the way to where he was standing. He sighed and walked over to the shower. He pulled the curtain back to turn off the shower. In the tub lie a man. Lewis wanted to puke. He stumbled back, slipping in the water. The man’s face was gray. He lay in the tub, a needle stuck into the base of his arm. This was no druguser. The needle was placed by someone else. Lewis wanted to scream, yet his voice was caught on nothing. He reached for his phone, ready to phone the police. His phone wasn’t in his pocket.
When he pulled his hand out of his pocket, he held only one thing. A straight razor.
It made sense now why Lewis had a knack for the murder. It was obvious how he knew where the body was. Every blackout, drop of blood, and shoe print on the way led to the man in the mirror that stared at Lewis. An accomplice that took over in the dark. The ghost they had been chasing was his own.
