NOTUM: Study Of A Nightwalker ✔️

Why?

The ceiling fan was spinning overhead when the drug's effect took hold and a yawn escaped Neil. He had been trying to remember the last page he read from the medical guide, but he felt himself slipping.

It must have been page hundred. The syndrome, what was it called again?

When the soft padding of two feet across the carpets did not trigger panic in him, he realized that he had fallen asleep, yet he was somehow awake. Wood creaked as the table was lifted off and the blood flow happily warmed his legs. The hands that helped him returned, this time holding his feet with an iron grip.

The smooth wooden floor below was cold and the footsteps progressed into silence, broken only by the person's occasional wheezes. There was an abrupt transition of wood to stone, followed by the feeling of being propped up against a wall. Metal scraped and the stone below him became wet. His captor seemed to have an extremely bad case of whooping cough, as the coughing bout that followed lasted for a full minute or two. Every breath he took in was laced with the smells of burnt bread and petroleum.

Metal creaked and he was flung away like a used rag.

A harsh brushing of fingers across his face finally woke him up from his drowsiness. The face that greeted him however, made him back away in disgust.

His companion was a rather old man, with thick matted hair crowning his forehead and eyes gleaming with madness. His breath smelled of stale food and for some very odd reason, of frankincense.

As he gasped for a lungful of air, the man frantically mumbled something in a language resembling French and shook Neil by his shoulders vigorously. Neil pushed the old man away and yelled at him,

"What do you want from me, let me be!"

The old man did not bother him further and retreated to a wall. His shaking fingers immediately traced the number of his wife and he placed it close to his ears, the static matching his pulse. When the call finally connected, the voices almost made him jump. It was Tessa alright, but she seemed to be crying. Neil's voice cracked as he said,

"Honey, it's me!"

"Tell me, tell me where he is!"

Neil stared at the rusted metal bars, as he heard his wife weep. She whispered,

"Talk to me plea. . .where is my husband?"

"Honey can you hear me?"

"What has he done to you?" She sobbed, "Why are you so silent?"

He took the phone from his ear and checked the screen. The range was at its fullest with five bars, and so was the charge.

"I'm sorry that I was late to answer. Tell me, how much is his ransom? I'll do anything. Anything. Please don't hurt–"

The call was cut abruptly. It was clear that the police had been trying to trace the kidnapper, and Neil hoped with his whole heart that they succeed.

His eyes fell on one of the walls of the cell, on which the man had been scrawling with a piece of fallen plaster. It was a mural of a farmer with a sickle, returning home after a good harvest with his wife and son, holding hands and smiling. The old man was a pretty good artist, and his age did not stop him from drawing. He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair thinking for a while. He asked, with a voice extremely refined and deep,

"Bill was your boss?"

"If he were my boss, why would he drug me and put me in this hellhole?"

"Touché, but you did not answer my question."