The town of Ashgrove awoke under the blanket of a low-hanging fog, as it always did in the late fall. The cold gnawed at the edges of the old houses, slipping through the cracks of the wood and stone, making the mornings feel slower, heavier. For the people of Ashgrove, this was simply the way life was—quiet, ordinary, and unchanging.
Dr. Isaac Mercer stood by his office window, his back stiff as he stared out at the gray morning. From this vantage point, he could see the heart of the town: the modest square, the cobblestone streets, the old clock tower looming above like a silent sentinel. His office, nestled inside a large brick building that had once been a courthouse, was a place of solace for many. People came to him in broken states, seeking comfort, healing, a way to make sense of their troubled minds.
To them, Dr. Mercer was a man of profound wisdom and compassion, a healer in a world of invisible wounds. His calm demeanor, the way he listened intently, and his ability to say exactly what his patients needed to hear earned him a place of reverence in Ashgrove. He had become something of a local hero, not just for his work, but for the countless troubled souls he had saved.
But the man who stared out at the fog this morning did not feel like a hero.
Mercer's hands tightened on the sill of the window as he watched a couple walk down the street, their faces hidden beneath wool scarves. He imagined their lives—their struggles, their vulnerabilities. He could see, with the clarity of a trained eye, all the fragile pieces that made them human, made them weak. He had spent years learning to exploit those weaknesses, but not in the way the townspeople believed.
He turned away from the window, walking back to the center of his office. The room was meticulously arranged: bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes on psychology, human behavior, and anatomy. On his desk, papers were stacked neatly, patient files organized by name. But beneath this veneer of order, there was something darker lurking—a meticulous madness hidden in plain sight.
His latest patient had left him a gift of sorts. A young woman, early twenties, plagued by anxiety and depression. Mercer had promised to help her, but what he had truly done was peel away the layers of her mind, exposing the raw nerve of her fear. She had cried during their sessions, begged for answers, for relief, but Mercer had only smiled and continued his work, pushing her further into the abyss. She was his project now, a mind he could break and reshape in the image of his choosing.
And she wasn't the first. There had been others. Many others.
He sat behind his desk and opened her file, his eyes scanning the notes. Patient exhibits increased anxiety in controlled settings. Current treatment suggests deeper psychological intervention. The words felt clinical, detached, but to Mercer, they were more than that. They were a roadmap to her destruction.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He glanced at his watch—8:30 a.m. His first patient wasn't due for another hour. He hadn't expected anyone so early.
"Come in," he said, his voice smooth, practiced.
The door creaked open, and his receptionist, Martha, stepped in. "Doctor, there's someone here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment, but he says it's urgent."
Mercer raised an eyebrow. "And who might this urgent visitor be?"
Martha fidgeted with her hands. "I don't know. He didn't give his name. But… well, you should see him for yourself."
Curious, Mercer nodded. "Send him in."
Martha disappeared for a moment, and then the door opened wider to reveal a man standing in the threshold. He was disheveled, his clothes tattered and stained, his hair wild and matted. His eyes, bloodshot and frantic, locked onto Mercer with an intensity that sent a ripple of unease through the room.
The man took a step forward, his hands shaking. "You're Dr. Mercer?"
"I am," Mercer said calmly. "And you are?"
The man didn't answer immediately. He closed the door behind him, his eyes darting around the room as if checking for hidden dangers. "I need help," he muttered, almost too low to hear. "I don't have anywhere else to go."
Mercer leaned back in his chair, regarding the man with professional detachment. "Well, that's what I'm here for. Why don't you take a seat, and we can talk about what's troubling you?"
The man didn't sit. Instead, he paced back and forth in front of the desk, his movements erratic. "You don't understand. They're after me. They think I'm crazy, but I'm not. I see it, I see what they're doing. What he's doing."
Mercer folded his hands in front of him. "Who is 'he'?"
The man stopped pacing and turned to Mercer, his face pale. "Samuel Harker."
The name jolted through Mercer's mind like a spark. He had heard of Samuel Harker—everyone had. The escape from the mental institution two nights ago had been all over the news. The authorities had warned that Harker was dangerous, a man with a violent past and severe psychological issues. He had been locked away after an alleged murder spree, but he had always claimed innocence, insisting that the people he had killed were evil.
Now, Harker was loose, somewhere out there, and it seemed this man had crossed paths with him.
"He's coming for me," the man whispered, his voice cracking. "And when he finds me, he'll kill me. I don't know why, but he thinks… he thinks I'm like them. Like the others."
Mercer stared at the man, his mind whirring. He could see the fear in the man's eyes, the desperation. And for the briefest of moments, he felt something stir within him—excitement.
"I see," Mercer said slowly. "And you believe that Samuel Harker is… hunting you?"
The man nodded frantically. "Yes. I don't know why. I'm not like the others. I'm not—"
Before he could finish, Mercer rose from his chair, his movements smooth and deliberate. He walked around the desk, coming to stand before the trembling man. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder, a gesture meant to calm, but in truth, it was to steady the trembling pulse he could feel beneath his palm.
"Don't worry," Mercer said softly, his voice like a lullaby. "You're safe here. I'll make sure no one hurts you."
The man sagged with relief, unaware of the predator standing so close.
And Mercer smiled.