Lanterns along the street glimmered at intervals, casting elongated shadows over the deserted road. A chill wind gusted through alleys, bringing with it a suffocating aura that only grew heavier with each breath.
The clatter of hooves against cobblestones echoed through the hush of the night as Charles urged his horse onward, bound for Humphrey's home with mounting anxiety. His heart pounded, haunted by the image of Roland's body hanging from that great tree—an image that refused to leave him, a waking nightmare looping in his mind. The same silent plea repeated in his thoughts: 'Let me be in time... let me be in time...'
Buildings rose on either side, steeped in darkness. The echo of the horse's stride reverberated off high walls, nearly drowning out his own frantic heartbeat. His gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead, stretching into the gloom.
Memories of that underground laboratory beneath Saint Margaret's flitted through his mind: the ancient documents recording horrifying experiments, the tangle of connections among these individuals—Roland, Humphrey, Michael, and Henry. A terrible deed had already transpired, something deeper and more menacing than he had initially imagined. Roland was the first to fall victim to it.
As his horse galloped through a narrow lane, shadows fell and lifted across Charles's face in rhythm with the passing streetlamps, revealing the urgency and foreboding in his eyes. Tonight, he would finally uncover the truth behind those wicked experiments.
When he arrived at Humphrey's house, an unsettling feeling took hold. The old but sturdy building stood dim and silent in the dark, every window pitch-black, devoid of any flicker of light or sign of life. Even the wind seemed to whisper more softly here, as though wary of breaking the stillness.
Charles dismounted and tied his horse to a wooden post beside the house. His right hand slipped into his coat pocket, fingertips brushing the special "handkerchief"—his shape-shifting self-defense item—ready for anything. Then he climbed the wooden steps, knocking three times on the door. Each knock reverberated hollowly in the empty silence.
...No answer.
"Humphrey?" he called, knocking again, louder this time. "Humphrey, are you in there?"
Silence remained the only reply. Charles tried the door, but it was locked.
'Strange,' he thought. 'At this late hour, he should be home. Why is it so quiet?'
Sensing something was wrong, he stepped back from the door, weighing his options. Humphrey's life could be in danger—there was no time to delay. He backed up two steps, braced himself, and prepared to kick the door open.
Just as he leaned forward, about to hurl his weight against it—
"What do you think you're doing?"
The sudden voice behind him nearly sent Charles tumbling headlong. He whirled around to find a man standing unsteadily at the foot of the steps—Humphrey. His face was flushed, his clothes rumpled.
Charles was about to speak, but the stench of alcohol wafting from Humphrey told him everything. Clearly, the man had just come from some local tavern.
"Humphrey..." Charles said quietly, watching the older man wobble his way up the steps.
"What are you doing here at this hour?" Humphrey asked, slurring his words. One hand gripped the rickety banister, the other clutching a bottle of liquor. "If it's about work... come back tomorrow."
The glow of a nearby streetlamp shone on Humphrey's reddened face, his gaze bleary and muddled. Yet beneath the alcohol-induced haze, Charles glimpsed something else—fear? Guilt? Perhaps both.
"It's about Roland," Charles stated plainly, noting how Humphrey froze momentarily. "I need to talk to you."
"Why?" Humphrey muttered, fumbling for his keys in his pocket, the bottle in his hand trembling.
"Roland is dead," Charles said flatly.
Humphrey paused, keys in hand, then gave a short, hollow laugh. "Is that so..." He resumed trying to find the lock, as if his former colleague's death were inconsequential.
But before he could turn the key, Charles spoke again. "I know about the basement at Saint Margaret's," he said coldly. "You, Roland, Michael, Isaac, and Henry Blackwell—those potion experiments and the people you used as test subjects. I know everything."
Humphrey went rigid, hand hovering over the keyhole. Slowly, he turned, the flush of drink draining from his face in an instant.
"You... already know," he whispered, voice barely audible. The bleary look vanished from his eyes, replaced by sheer dread. The streetlamp glow revealed the transformation in Humphrey's expression; the outward drunkenness disappeared, leaving only guilt-laced terror. His shadow merged with Charles's on the weathered wooden wall behind them, forming a strange silhouette in the darkness.
"Would you like to come inside?" Humphrey asked, his voice trembling as the keys rattled in his grip.
"Of course."
The older man unlocked the door, the aged hinges creaking in the silence. Charles hesitated briefly before following him in, his right hand still touching the "handkerchief" in his pocket.
Inside, the house was dimly lit. Only faint light from outside filtered through the windows, casting strange shadows across the furniture. Humphrey walked over to light a small lantern on the table. Its soft orange glow gradually brightened, becoming the sole source of illumination in the room.
Charles sat down on an old wooden chair without waiting for an invitation. Humphrey collapsed into the chair opposite him, eyes fixed on the lantern flame as the effects of alcohol began to fade, replaced by profound weariness.
"About Roland's death..." Charles began calmly. "The authorities say it was suicide, but I don't believe it."
Humphrey looked up but remained silent.
"When I met him at the Master's hideout, he was a man terrified of dying, showing no signs of the fatal illness mentioned in his suicide note. And if he was truly ill, why choose now to end his life?"
The lantern flame flickered, casting dancing shadows across both men's faces.
"Tell me the truth, Humphrey," Charles said, his voice hardening. "From the beginning. I want to hear it from you."
Humphrey sighed heavily, raising the bottle for another large swallow before speaking.
"Ten years ago..." he began, his voice ragged. "I was just an ordinary doctor. Then Henry Blackwell approached me, offering an enormous sum of money to conduct research for him." A bitter laugh escaped him. "That amount was enough to make me ignore any suspicions I had."
"He had me work at his new clinic along with three other doctors. Our job was to study potion formulas from ancient texts."
He shook his head slowly. "At first, we thought it was all nonsense, but the money... it made us willing to do whatever he asked."
"But then..." Humphrey paused, his eyes distant as if lost in memory. "What we thought impossible proved real." The lantern flame reflected in his eyes.
"Those special potions... they actually worked. Every property recorded in those ancient texts was accurate, without the slightest deviation."
He stood and walked to the window, staring out into the darkness. "Success became like a drug. We all became obsessed, consumed by the research."
"Each person had their own reasons... Some hoped to help people, some craved fame, and some just... wanted to see how far we could go."
Humphrey turned back, the lantern light deepening the lines on his face. "Eventually, the clinic gained reputation, attracting more patients. Henry hired additional staff to maintain appearances, while the five of us took turns working upstairs, rotating shifts so no one would suspect anything, as the real research continued in the basement."
He sank back into his chair, his hands beginning to tremble. "But things got more difficult over time. Many ingredients required for the potions had gone extinct. Henry ordered us to breed or resurrect them. Some attempts succeeded. Some failed. Some..." Another bitter laugh. "Some worked, but the price was far too high."
He stopped, his expression changing to one of dread. "Until we decided to resurrect one particular primordial creature."
"The Black Parasite," Charles said, as the lantern flame wavered.
"Yes..." Humphrey nodded. "The ancient texts described it as a black, fatty, blob-like parasitic lifeform. We... we thought bringing it back would be our greatest achievement."
"But being a parasite, it needed a host. We began experimenting with various animals, but..." He shook his head. "None survived. Not a single one."
"Until..." Humphrey's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Until what?" Charles pressed, his voice low.
"Until we discovered it thrived best in beings with highly developed minds... creatures with complex brain structures..." He looked up at Charles, his eyes filled with unmistakable shame. "And the ideal host... was a human."
"With that revelation, our group split into two opposing factions," Humphrey's hand tightened around the bottle as he recalled the tragedy that would follow.
The evening breeze whispered through the window, a soft mournful sound that seemed to echo the horrors that had taken place in the clinic's basement. The truth, buried deep for so long, was gradually being revealed through the confession of an old man who had carried his sins all these years.