Chapter 5: Chapter 5: The Psychiatrist Part Two

Hunter slowly got up from his bed, unsure at first if he was mishearing. But after a few more soft taps that were barely audible, he knew someone was on the other side. In the dim moonlight, Hunter felt a slight shiver down his spine, which he, in the next moment, dismissed as the workings of an overactive mind as he walked over to the light switch. After flicking it on, Hunter slowly turned the knob and peeked outside. In the pale light that half-illuminated the hallway, he could make out the silhouette of a woman that stood just in front of his room. Hunter raised his eyebrows as he opened the door wider and caught a glimpse of her face. It was a familiar sight, for it was the plump, creamy face that he had seen earlier this afternoon near the reception, Shaw's daughter. Seeing her standing near the doorway caused Hunter to glance at the clock, which showed it was half-past eleven. "What does she want?" Hunter wondered to himself as he waited for her to speak. Instead, she remained quiet, staring at Hunter's chest, which suddenly made him realize that he had forgotten to put his shirt back on after getting out of bed. He rushed towards the table and quickly put on the clothing before walking over to her and calmly asking, "Yes?"

"James?" asked the girl.

"Yes...?" said Hunter, slightly confused.

"How long will you be staying here?" asked the girl, her blue eyes softly glimmering in the dim light.

"Why?" said Hunter.

The girl did not reply, instead of turning her head sideways and looking at what seemed to be Shaw's door. Hunter understood that this was perhaps Shaw's way of letting him know that he was not welcome for long, although it seemed a bit strange sending his daughter in the middle of the night to ask such a question. Seeing Hunter quiet, the girl said, "Papa is gonna go to town tomorrow to get some things, so if you are staying for long, then we need to know."

"He could have told me that himself," said Hunter.

"Well, he leaves early in the morning, so he wouldn't want to wake you," said the girl. She spoke with faint traces of a French accent, hinting that she might be from across the channel, which was unusual, considering Shaw was as English as one would expect to find in these parts of the country.

"Well, tell him I plan to stay the week. Three more days," said Hunter.

"Oh... okay. I'll tell him." said the girl.

"What's your name?" asked Hunter.

The girl gave him a surprised look for a moment as Hunter stared at her with resting eyes. Then, after a while, she just said, "Genevieve." Hunter smiled, for he was vaguely expecting the response to be somewhat French; why he did not know, but there was something about her that gently brushed his mind.

"You need anything else?" asked Hunter.

"No," said Genevieve as she walked towards the stairs. Hunter quietly turned off the light and took a step back; however, all the while watching Genevieve from over the banisters. She padded across the wooden floor and walked towards the room next to Shaw's. As soon as she reached the door, she stopped and swiftly turned in Hunter's direction, who, even though had almost receded into the dark, could still feel her gaze. Realizing he had been caught, he quickly pushed the door shut, but not before managing to get one last glimpse at her face.

The rest of the night was uneventful as Hunter thought about his next move. He had not made any tangible progress, and the day seemed even longer than yesterday. However, even under a fog of dread, paranoia, and anxiousness, his mind had unexpectedly decided to focus on Genevieve, who, in her few seconds of presence, had highly captivated him. The following day, Hunter was awakened yet again by the rooster. Although it was already light outside, the clock showed it was only half-past six. He washed his face with cold water as he mapped out the day's plan in his mind. He knew that the answer to his mystery was in the murders themselves. The three killings, which, although seemingly random for he had committed them in different parts of the country, had to be weaved through some string of reason.

He walked over to his bag and pulled out the map of England that he had purchased the day before. "Standfield, London, and Southampton," Hunter muttered to himself as he pinned the locations where the incidents had taken place. He then took out the envelope that had contained the woman's photograph. Not paying attention to that, he took out two pieces of paper, one of which had another picture in it, though Hunter did not look at it, rather placing it inside the back pocket of his pants. He then tucked one of the papers back into the envelope and put it in his bag.

Unfolding the yellow-tinged note, he read the five lines of sentences that were written in blue ink. "Angela Dawson. 14, Razor Street, Standfield. Observe and silence. Has to be carried out within six days. No witnesses.... for your safety's sake. Remember, I am watching your every move." Hunter's heart sank every time he read the last line. Even after wandering so far into the woods, he could not shake the feeling that someone was out there, eyeing him at all times.

But he had no choice, for the die was already cast, and it had now become a game of cat and mouse. "London, Southampton, then Standfield." Looking at the points, Hunter decided that starting from the place of the first murder and working his way consecutively would be the most ideal for he would have the benefit of time. Since each subsequent death had a rough time difference of four months, the London police were most likely to have given up on James Wicker's case. But before he embarked on his cross-country trip, he would need more money which he had hoped to raise by doing some odd jobs in Sylvania, but if the doctor's words had any truth to them, then that may not be the best option. Yet, he had to manage something. For now, his target was London. Thumping his forefinger in London on the map, Hunter placed the letter back into the envelope. He then walked out of the room and went downstairs, where he found Henry sitting by the table, sipping coffee from a cup.

"Morning, Mr. Hunter," said Henry, with a hearty smile on his face.

"Sleep well?" asked Hunter.

"Better than I have been for the past few months," said Henry.

Hunter nodded before taking a look around the room.

"Are you looking for Shaw?" asked Henry.

"Yeah," said Hunter.

"He went to town this morning. Should be back before noon," said Henry. He said he left some eggs and toast in the kitchen."

"Oh. Okay," said Hunter as he remembered Genevieve telling him about it the night before.

He went to the kitchen to find a plate lying on the counter. Taking it to the table, he sat next to Henry, who had almost finished his cup of tea and was about to get up but stopped after seeing Hunter return with the dish. As Hunter picked a piece of the egg, Henry rested his right hand on the table and said, "Did you know that the pine forests were renowned for occult practices?"

"This again...." Hunter thought to himself, annoyed at the topic of discussion this early in the morning.

"No. Were they people from the town?" asked Hunter as he took a bite of the softened toast.

"Maybe. It was over a century ago, and people say that is where the curse originates from," said Henry.

"Curse?" asked Hunter.

"Yes. The one that people think made everyone sick in the first place," said Henry.

"Hmmm. Do you believe in that? I thought you were supposed to treat people who thought things like that were true." said Hunter. The response seemed to slightly nettle Henry, who furrowed his eyebrows and remarked,

"Well, just because something cannot be explained does not mean that it must be baseless. Have you never encountered anything that was beyond a logical explanation?"

Hunter did not say anything, instead of focusing on finishing his food, for it was already cold.

"Haven't you?" stressed Henry.

Not wanting to get drawn into an argument, Hunter just said, "I guess you could say that. But I tend not to think about these things as always talking about them can make me come across as..."

"Insane?" Henry interrupted.

"Hmm." Hunter nodded.

"Funny how quickly we attribute the existence of something that does not fall under the human category as absurd, insane, or hallucination when in reality what we define as "normal" can seem perplexing considering the passage of time. If someone made a telephone or a radio a few centuries ago, they'd have burned them at the stake. God knows people have been burned for lesser crimes." said Henry.

"I guess people are afraid of what they can't understand. Knowing that something like that is out there would make them feel weak and helpless," said Hunter.

Henry looked at him with curious eyes as he seemed to contemplate what Hunter had said.

"You are right. Fear is a nasty thing to live with. Only those who do live with it can understand," muttered Henry.

Hunter did not say anything, just silently nodding in agreement to the truth the last statement bore. Henry looked at Hunter again, seemingly trying to say something but once again restraining himself. Hunter found Henry intriguing, for it was evident that the man wanted to say something, but no one was there to listen. Maybe a mind doctor talking about the existence of ghosts was laughable at the least and deranged at the worst, kind of like how letters from a mysterious person had forced Hunter to kill three people. It was a strange world; that was all he could say to himself as he finished eating and went to put the plate back in the kitchen.

By the time he returned, Henry had left the table and walked upstairs. Hunter decided that it would be best to look around the lodge, just out of curiosity. He walked out the door, which was left open. Outside he could see Henry's Vauxhall, parked a few yards from the door. Shaw had left Henry and Genevieve to look after the place in his absence, Hunter thought to himself as he walked around the building towards the wooden shed. The walls were worn out, and the lock prevented Hunter from exploring further. It was a strange place to build a lodge, especially if someone wanted visitors.

A plethora of thoughts ran through Hunter's mind when he suddenly heard, "There isn't much to look around."

Hunter turned around to see Genevieve standing in front of him, her violet skirt catching his eye.

"Not all that bad," said Hunter in response to her earlier comment.

"You'll leave in a few days. So, I guess the novelty wouldn't have worn off," said Genevieve.

Hunter said nothing. He was never good at making conversation, especially with the opposite sex. A few moments passed as Genevieve's eyes wandered around before resting back on him again.

"Well, it's quiet. That's something you don't find often. For some of us, that's more than a novelty." said Hunter.

"When you have lived here for over a decade, the quietness can make you go mad," said Genevieve.

"You've been here that long?" asked Hunter.

"Yes. Papa and I have been here for eleven years. He couldn't bear to live amongst people. I don't know why." said Genevieve.

"The town's nearby," remarked Hunter.

"Yes. But he doesn't let me go anywhere without making a big fuss out of things. I have only been to Sylvania a handful of time," said Genevieve.

"Hmm," said Hunter as he looked at her closer. She stood by a small pillar beside the shed's entrance, her posture relaxed yet inviting. Although the sudden brewing conversation intrigued Hunter, he could not shake the feeling of an unknown uneasiness, albeit not being able to put his finger on exactly what was off.

"So, where are you from?" asked Genevieve.

"Jersey," Hunter replied immediately, becoming surprised a moment later at himself, for he had never told anyone about his past, mainly because no one had bothered to ask, but also for the reason that almost half of his conversations were him lying to people about who he was, which was also somewhat true in this case.

The response seemed to have surprised Genevieve as well, for Hunter could see her pupils dilate as her gaze became keener. A few moments passed as both of them played with their gazes to convey telepathic messages that neither could ultimately understand.

"What about your mother?" asked Hunter.

"What about her?" Genevieve replied, with her gaze turning noticeably colder.

"you said you moved here with your father. What about your mother?" asked Hunter.

"She...she died a long time ago," replied Genevieve softly.

"Sorry about that," said Hunter.

"I should go. Papa will be here shortly," said Genevieve as she stopped leaning and prepared to leave.

"Go where?" asked Hunter.

Genevieve looked at him with surprise before saying, "I'll be around if you need me." She shortly walked away afterward, not before throwing a smile towards Hunter.

The encounter left Hunter feeling a bit flustered. He found her charming, even though there was a feeling of tenseness in the air. She was considerably younger than him, and it was clear that she did not get to talk to many people. Hunter knew Shaw was strange but living here in the middle of nowhere with his daughter.

"One would at least think about their children." Hunter thought to himself.

What was the point of locking her up like that? But then again, Hunter had seen how irrational people could become, so much so that he often wondered if people did it out of their own sound mind or their will, for that matter. Hunter pondered over his thoughts as he made his way back inside the lodge, seeing that there was indeed not much to see.

Upon entering through the door, he saw Shaw sitting at the table, although Genevieve was nowhere to be seen, probably inside her room.

"You're back," remarked Shaw as he saw Hunter enter.

"Hmm. I plan on staying the week," said Hunter.

Shaw looked a bit surprised as he said, "Well, I got enough for both. Henry will be leaving tomorrow, so it shouldn't be a problem."

Hunter nodded as Shaw and Henry reimmersed themselves into their earlier conversation, hinting at Hunter to leave to which he obliged. He walked upstairs and grabbed his bag and set out.

"I'll be back before evening," he said to Shaw before heading out, to which Shaw just nodded.

After an hour of walking through the listless twisty road, the wooden sign reading "Sylvania" was visible. A few shops near the station had opened, although the place had an air of sombreness, even more than yesterday. However, this time, Hunter walked further into the town, exploring the streets and houses and whatever establishment would offer a chance of short employment. However, as the hours went by, Hunter realized that the doctor's words were true about the people "keeping to themselves". The few shops and two garages had made it clear that they did not want anyone for the time being, but their demeanor was faintly hostile towards Hunter, for they did not seem interested in talking too much or at all, instead of focusing their efforts on chasing him away, in the most nonchalant, polite way possible.

By early afternoon Hunter had explored whatever little there was in the small parish of Sylvania and now headed to the west as it was the last section of the town. The town was already sparsely populated, and as Hunter got closer to the edge, the more aware he became of the absence of any human face. Soon, he found himself walking through a barren stretch of road, with the familiar pine bushes on either side. A few moments later, Hunter knew he was at the Colton Hill asylum or whatever was left of it. The remnants of a charred structure feebly stood in front, the scorched pillars bearing witness to the intensity of the fire so many years later. Hunter had lived in many dilapidated places, but he could not stay around the asylum any longer for a rotten burnt stench made him nauseated. As he walked back towards the town center, Hunter thought about the fate the doctor had avoided by leaving the place.

By the time Hunter got back towards the station, the sky had started to become orange as the clock near the platform showed it was ten minutes to six. Hunter had spent the entire day looking for work, but ultimately, nothing came of substance. Disheartened, he made his way back towards the eastern end of the station and back towards Shaw's lodge. As he neared the platform and was about to cross the tracks, he suddenly heard a voice call out to him.

"Excuse me, Mr....."

Hunter turned around to see a stout man in a dusty olive coat standing in front of him. The man, although not appearing old, had numerous lines and creases on his face. Hunter noticed that the muscles of his face seemed very firmly strained as though he was trying to bite through extreme pain. With his grey eyes and ruffled hair, he appeared tired and weak.

"Mr....could you help me?" said the man, his voice sounding coarse and heavy like a jagged rocky mountain.

"Yes?" replied Hunter.

"Do you know where I can find a place to stay in this town? I just arrived." said the man.

"No. I don't know this place that well. You better ask in the shops," said Hunter as he pointed to the few stores that could be seen from the platform.

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"Well. Thank You. I suppose. You know I came here to meet an old friend, but I don't know where he lives," said the man.

"It's a small town. If you ask around, you can find him for sure," said Hunter.

The man gave him a smile as he turned around and started walking. Hunter noticed that he had a noticeable slouch as he scraped his shoes across the platform floor. However, a moment later, Hunter's eyes were drawn towards the wallet sticking out of the back pocket of his pants. Usually, people kept their purses inside their coats to shield them from prying eyes, but the exception made Hunter's hands tingle. Seeing as the man was only a few yards away, he quietly started following him. As they reached the end of the platform, Hunter was within arm's reach of the man. Without thinking, he clasped the wallet with his index and middle fingers and pulled it out. After swiftly pocketing it, he started walking in the opposite direction, keeping notice if the man turned around. However, the person never looked back or even stop for a second to check or seemingly suspected anything, just quietly walking away with his pronounced slouch. Within a few moments, Hunter was on the road towards the lodge, where he stopped near an old bare oak tree. He brought out the wallet he had freshly picked and emptied out the notes inside. After counting the bills, he saw three hundred and forty pounds, a month's pay. Momentarily his face lit up, as he desperately needed the money, and combined with whatever he had left, it would be enough to visit his three points of interest. However, immediately after the euphoria had waned, he felt a shred of remorse for the man who had come to him asking for help that he had ultimately robbed.

"Helpless," Hunter thought to himself, justifying that his actions were in conjunction with his circumstances. Even though Hunter had done enough to be loathed by anyone with a moral compass and harshly punished by law, he always tried earnestly to explain to himself that deep down, he was not a terrible person, just a victim of his fate. Even though it would not matter much in others' eyes, it was crucial to Hunter that he still had a conscience. Why? He did not know, for it was a feeling deep-rooted within, something with which he had been at conflict his whole life. Therefore, even if his actions suggested otherwise, a part of him was adamant about upholding whatever was left of his morality.

The walk back was an hour-long lonesome hike, and it was night by the time he reached the lodge.

Seeing there was only half an hour before Shaw set the dinner, Hunter took a long shower, trying to wash away his worries. As usual, Shaw set the plates around half-past eight and the slow-cooked beef hinted of an occasion. Unlike yesterday, Henry was not talking as much, instead of thinking about something with his hands on his chin.

The dinner went rather sedately, and there was not much talking. Occasionally Hunter's eyes wandered towards the door next to Shaw's room. He inferred that Shaw did not like his daughter interacting with strangers, which is why she would spend most of the time out of sight, which could be burdensome for a young girl like her. Knowing it would only turn things for the worse, Hunter refrained from steering the conversation towards the topic, rather focusing on the food, which could be described as savoury and delicious. Even Henry, who seemed to struggle with eating meat due to his age, enjoyed the tender dish as he and Shaw occasionally struck up short conversations. However, towards the end of the meal, Shaw said to Hunter that Henry was leaving tomorrow for Plymouth, his home.

"Forty years. Long time to be away," remarked Shaw.

"Hmmm. Haven't got much time left. I thought it would be best to enjoy the comforts of my family home and the ocean while I still can," said Henry.

"So, you are not coming back?" asked Hunter, chiming in.

With a slight pause, Henry said, "I don't think so."

"Well, just taking off then? It must feel strange. I know it does to me when I am away from this place for more than a few months, and I've been here for only a quarter of the time as you," said Shaw.

"Not entirely. I did leave Sylvania. Three years actually," said Henry

"You did? Hell, I thought you forgot about the outer world," said Shaw, the look of surprise visible on his face.

"Haha...I left when I got married in '62. We stayed in Hull for two years till it ended. I never thought I would return but seeing that I could not settle in any place, I eventually came back in '65," said Henry.

"You've been married?" asked Shaw, his surprised expression morphing into flabbergasted.

"Twice. I was married for seven years before I came to Sylvania. That was before the war," said Henry.

"Fuck me! I thought you were too busy with the loonies that you had taken a vow of celibacy," said Shaw.

"Just because I am dedicated to my work doesn't mean I cannot enjoy a homely life," said Henry, with a slight smile.

"So, when do you leave?" asked Hunter.

"Tomorrow at ten. I always travel in the morning," said Henry.

"Driving all the way to Plymouth. Seems a bit rough on your bones," said Shaw.

"No, I am taking the train. I already sold the car. They will collect it at the station," said Henry.

"All done then? This is the last time we see each other?" said Shaw.

"Feeling sad?" asked Henry.

"Nah. I have a feeling that someone will soon turn up. People somehow always find their way here, like Mr. Hunter," said Shaw as he looked at Hunter, who said nothing.

After taking away the plates, Shaw returned from the kitchen with a bottle of rum in his hands. He placed it in the middle of the table and proceeded to pour it onto the glasses.

"Do you drink rum, Mr. Hunter?" Shaw asked to which Hunter just shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, I don't touch that stuff, but tonight I can make an exception," said Henry as he put forth his glass.

Shaw filled the glasses and made a toast, "May the sea drown your sorrows, so you can rest under the warm shade of the sun."

The trio drank up, and Shaw went to fill it again when he was interrupted by Henry.

"I have made my exception," he said.

"Well, suit yourself. Mr. Hunter?"

Shaw held the bottle towards him. Hunter would not have minded another glass, but he noticed that Henry slightly shook his head, asking him to refuse.

Hunter obliged and said, "No, I have had my share too."

"Well, suit yourself. I will drink how I always enjoy the most, by myself. I'll be up before six. Don't leave before then." Shaw said to Henry as he walked over to his room, taking his glass with him. Henry nodded and said goodnight.

After Shaw shut his door, Henry and Hunter sat there for a few moments before he said, "I have a bottle of 1924 old forester Kentucky Bourbon. If you don't mind, we can enjoy that in my room. I have been meaning to tell you something if you are interested in listening," said Henry.

"Sure," said Hunter, who always preferred the taste of whiskey to rum but was unable to afford it. Grabbing the glass, he got up to follow Henry upstairs, who told him to leave it behind.

"You can't drink whiskey from that. It will ruin the flavor." Hunter nodded as he put the glass down and followed Henry upstairs, slightly embarrassed.

As Hunter entered Henry's room, the large duffel bag immediately caught his attention. The dark brown leather carry was almost spilled over the table. Other than that, the room was the same as Hunter's, except he noticed that the window was open.

"I have been saving it for the occasion," Henry said to Hunter as he opened the zipper and brought out a sturdy-looking wooden box.

"Well, you should have invited Shaw or at least have a few more pegs, seeing how you are going away tomorrow," said Hunter as Henry put down his bag and proceeded to unlatch the lock on the box revealing a medium-sized whiskey bottle and three glasses. He then took out the glasses and placed the bottle in the middle of the table in Hunter's full view.

"Three glasses?" asked Hunter.

"Yes," Henry said.

"Well, is Shaw going to join us?" asked Hunter.

"No. Only two of us. What I am about to tell you, I cannot share it with anyone else, not even Shaw," said Henry.

Hunter was taken aback by the response and had started to wonder if there was more to this person than met the eye, or his eye, to be specific.

"What's so special about me?" said Hunter.

"Nothing. Perhaps that is why you are the ideal person for this," said Henry dispassionately.

Hunter remained silent, countless thoughts once again starting to chalk up in the corners of his mind.

"Well, I do not know much about you, and apart from what I told you last night, the feeling is mutual. And since we will most possibly never meet again, in the end, it does not matter. But I need to say what has been on my mind for so long, something I have been carrying with me for a long, long time and best it be to a random stranger than my closest friends and family," said Henry.

"Hmm. What do you have to say?" asked Hunter as they both sat on the ends of the bed.

Henry smiled at the response and opened the bottle and poured the drink into the three glasses. Hunter furrowed his brows but did not say anything.

Henry then picked up two of the glasses and offered one to Hunter. The rich light brown hue gave away its hefty price; while holding the whiskey close to his mouth, Hunter could smell the wooden flavor of the barrel with hints of a smoky tinge. Henry slightly clinked Hunter's glass before proceeding to drink, which prompted Hunter to do the same. As the warm liquid hit his tongue, Hunter could feel a slight burning sensation which swiftly turned into a melted experience. The whiskey was smooth, and the aftertaste of sweet rye was intoxicating. It was the richest spirit he had ever tasted and probably was the only time he was going to. As he slowly finished the drink, his eyes once again veered towards the third glass on the table. Henry did not come off as eccentric but laying a perfect peg of whiskey just like that would be considered blasphemous to many, Hunter thought.

"So, what did you want to say?" Hunter asked again.

"You said you did not believe in ghosts, Mr. Hunter," said Henry.

"I never said that. Just that I never saw one," replied Hunter.

"It is a simple enough proposition. We don't believe in things that we cannot see, with God being an exception, of course," said Henry slyly.

"I guess," said Hunter, keeping his answers short, for he did not want to be dragged into yet another conversation about the topic.

Not because he did not believe in ghosts or spirits but because, deep down, a part of him did. He had been a timid boy all his childhood, and as though having a room facing the graveyard was not enough, during his mid-teenage years, he would often have a washed-out dream about lying on a table, his limbs bound strapped to each corner as he felt a sharp pain in his head. Every time the pain would get intense to the point that he thought his head would explode, it would abruptly end; however, the discomfort persisted throughout the day. The experience was frightening, of course. However, what terrified him most was the two figures standing at the end of the table beside the entrance to the door. In the hazy light of the room, one of the figures appeared to be a woman in robes while the other lurked in the shadows. Hunter dreaded whenever he experienced that nightmare, which was once every couple of months, although lately, it had been coming back quite a lot more. This whole ordeal ultimately made Hunter not want to talk about anything related to ghosts, for a part of him feared that he would experience the nightmare again, which, although was irrational, had enough potency to make Hunter shudder.

"I always thought the same too. After all, I was a doctor, and even before I learned the symptoms of the most common flu, I was taught to always think with a rational mind. But for the past nine years, every night, I have witnessed what has crumpled my beliefs and my sanity. I wish it weren't true; at first, I always convinced myself that I was hallucinating, but I knew after having done what I did, it was the most rational thought of all." Henry paused.

"What did you do?" asked Hunter.

Henry did not say anything, instead of reaching for the third whiskey glass. He slowly picked it up and handed it over to Hunter.

"Go and put it outside; leave the door open," said Henry, his voice ever so faint.

Hunter looked at the glass, confused.

"I know you think I am deranged. But just put it outside the door, and you will see what I mean," said Henry.

Not knowing what else to do, Hunter languidly walked over towards the door, with each step a feeling of restlessness growing inside him. As he put the glass a step ahead of the door frame, Henry signaled him to return.

Hunter sat back in his place and, with a stern look, said, "So... what is going on?"

"You remember Tyler Hashburn? The one I told you about yesterday?" asked Henry.

"Yes. The one who killed the girl?" said Hunter.

"Hmmm. The murder took place at the end of '64, and by January of 1965, he was back at the asylum, a few months before I returned. As I said earlier, people like him were much better on the inside than out, so he stayed there for the next five years. Everything was going well until, in the winter of 1970, he fell ill. At first, it was the same symptoms I saw in the townspeople back in the fifties: cold, lack of sleep, restlessness, and anxiety. But after a few months of treatment showed no progress; it was discovered to be stomach cancer, terminal, of course. By the time you find out what is wrong with you, it is always too late. He was transferred to the county hospital, where he spent a few months before they sent him back because he would often grow violent. They said he had bitten a big chunk of a staff's arm, which made the rest of the doctors terrified of going near him."

"Hmmm." Hunter muttered. He had once witnessed a similar thing in an alleyway, a shaggy old man chewing on a dead dog. Perhaps he was hungry, Hunter had not stopped long enough to find out, but that day, he had realized what desperation could do to even the sanest and most civilized human beings.

"After he was back from the hospital, things only got worse. First, the headaches, then the vomiting, and then came the agonizing screams. It went on for six months, and his condition only deteriorated. I would often visit, trying to comfort him, but the staff would often report the shrieks that would give them headaches every night. By the time it was summer of 1971, everyone was surprised that he had made it so long, mind you, he now looked like more skeleton than human, and it was clear that he was not going to live until the end of the year." Henry paused as a nasty silence gripped the room.

"But he managed to make it through until the fire two years later?" said Hunter. Henry did not respond, rather pouring himself another glass of the bourbon and quickly going through it.

"Tyler was an iron-willed lad, possibly the strongest I had ever seen. When I had just started out as a practitioner during the war, I tended to patients who had their legs blown off or half of their faces were burnt or wounded beyond recovery. Often, they would wish for death than suffer through the constant torment and anguish the whole ordeal brought. But Tyler was the first person in my life that I had seen who did not give up, no matter the pain. He would often tell me that if he fought long enough, he would make it. I would do my best to share his enthusiasm but watching him die a little every day, I started hoping for an end to his misery. And as time passed, the hope slowly began to transpire into an obsession."

Hunter sat up firmly.

"By October 1971, it was the final straw. He was vomiting blood four times a day, and the pain only increased. He was on sleeping pills most of the time, so he could get a few moments of peace but mainly because no one could deal with him screaming his lungs out every day. But even still, he wanted to live. Tyler never spared a moment letting me know that he was going to overcome his 'ailment'. But I knew better, and I knew something had to be done." Henry stopped again.

"What did you do?" asked Hunter, his eyes lit up, watching for Henry's response. Henry remained silent.

"What did you do?" Hunter asked again.

Henry turned to him, his face pale and withered as a tundra, and said, "I put him out of his misery." He said it quickly, as though afraid of someone overhearing him.

"You killed him?" asked Hunter, astonished.

Henry let out a long sigh immediately, perhaps a display of relieving his burden. His eyes were now much softer, and with his face relaxed, he said, "I could not bear to look at him any longer as a living dead body. So, I injected the poison with his medicine, it was painless, and he passed away in his sleep. I did the most humane thing. I watched my first wife die of tuberculosis. She was resilient like Tyler, but she had just endured a lot of pain for nothing in the end. Nothing. When I saw Tyler reliving the same nightmare my wife had gone through, I could not bear to let him suffer. But I guess everyone considers it murder. Perhaps even Tyler."

Hunter squinted his eyes at the last statement as he saw Henry walking towards the light switch. He turned the light off, and the whole room sank into darkness. Hunter was about to say something when he heard slow, faint footsteps. Immediately his heart started pounding as the sound became much more audible. In the soft light of the hallway, Hunter saw a figure in a dusty olive coat walk towards the door. As the figure's toes touched the glass, it bent down and picked it up. A second later, it raised the glass towards Henry and drank the whiskey in one gulp. After that, it placed the glass exactly where it had picked it up from and said in a jagged coarse voice, "Goodbye, doctor. We will meet again, if not here, then somewhere else. I will find you."

As soon as Hunter heard the voice, his heart almost sprang out of his body, for it sounded eerily familiar to the man he had encountered at the station this afternoon. The figure seemingly gave Hunter a slight nod before walking out of view. Before moving out of sight, Hunter noticed that the figure had a slouch. As he saw the figure walking away, Hunter quickly turned on the light and saw Henry standing beside the table, still like a rock.

"He has visited me every night for the past nine years," said Henry, his face once again devoid of any emotion, seeming like a man who had accepted his despaired fate. Hunter swiftly went outside into the hallway, hoping to catch a glimpse of the visitor, but there was nothing except a dimly lit corridor that bore no signs of anyone's presence.

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