(Complete)
(Really old work, will contain inconsistencies and errors)
(Work Dated: April 2018)
An old factory stands tall and alone in a barren field. A sprawling family manor was recently renovated into an international hotel. With its quaint stree...
The phone had flashed into life on the first push of the call button. Clutching his stomach, Neil managed to dial Firenze's number, but the small buttons and the smooth cover kept slipping under his fingers, as he fumbled to keep it in his sweaty hands.
Seven rings into the call, he felt his hand cramp up and paralyze. He bit his lip and breathed in heavily, hoping that his hand would hold. A voice, muffled by tiredness picked up and greeted,
"Hello?"
He sighed in relief, as he whispered in reply, "Firenze, is that you? It's me. Listen carefully, there is no time to explain. If anyone other than me calls you, don't pick up. Wherever you are, stay close to the ground and do not, I repeat do not, follow anyone in a white suit."
"Neil?
"Yes, it's me, we're in danger alright? Big trouble is headed our way. There's this psycho on the loose who kidnapped me and wants to kidnap the rest of us for some sick twisted reason. I think he's turning the local fauna into man-eaters by feeding them human meat or something!"
"What–where are you?!"
"I'm in his dungeon or something. Look, he sent a guy in a white suit to track you down or something. I don't care where you are, but please don't follow any one. Contact the police, trace this number, and get out of this hellhole."
"Neil, why's your voice so hoarse?"
"I urgh. . . I'll get to you later. Get help please!"
Neil dropped the cell phone two minutes later. As he lay beneath the table, staring at the ceiling, his brain refused to shut up complaining about how senseless whatever the hell going on was. Thoughts flitted across his mind, each one more disturbing than the last. His stomach settled, much to his luck, helping him manage his thoughts clearly as he tried to push the heavy wooden table off him,
First the werewolf and now this.
I've been kidnapped by a man, who I think is a homicidal psycho and whom I've seen before.
It hit him, then, like a sudden blast of icy cold air, sucking away all the oxygen from his lungs.
It was Milan, wasn't it, Bill?
With Miss Nathan.
I think I remember. You were the guy who forced your way into her room at night by breaking the window. She had hit you with a vase and you were hospitalized. The whole thing was blown out of hand by the news, and lost us shares.
You're indirectly the reason why we're buying the factory. You cost us a lot.
And I guess this is your grand revenge plan, feeding us to your weird mutated pets.
Why though? Why did the creature have to suffer for this?
His fatigued hands gave up the effort to lift the table and fell on the hard cover of a small book, one which had probably fallen from the table. Drawing it closer, he squinted to read the title.
It was an old medical guide; the caduceus on the cover looked worn and had a thin layer of dust on it. Neil wondered why the psycho had a medical journal on his person. Soon, he began to dread that the psycho was a doctor.
Ones who are supposed to give life can take it just as easily as well.
He saw extensive details on most diseases familiar to the people of the 19th century. He saw cholera, typhus, small pox and yellow-fever taking the spot light; with a few caricatures of Edward Jenner turning people into cows with vaccines.
As he flipped the pages, he stopped on a psychological condition that he had never heard of before.
Nightwalker's syndrome.
Between the pages was a small photograph of a man with a phone number written below in red. Neil found himself looking at a familiar face, and a familiar phone number.
"Where did he get her PA's number from?"
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