The rain had begun to fall in heavy sheets by the time Samuel Harker reached the edge of the woods. He stood at the tree line, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart hammering against his chest. His clothes were soaked through, clinging to his skin, but he barely noticed. All he could feel was the wild, desperate pounding in his skull, urging him to keep moving, keep running.
Ashgrove was close now. He could see the faint glow of its streetlights through the trees, like distant fireflies in the dark. The town was peaceful, quiet—oblivious to the storm that was coming. And in the heart of that town, Dr. Isaac Mercer waited, the man Samuel knew was responsible for so much death and pain.
The world thought of Mercer as a saint. But Samuel had seen the truth. He had witnessed firsthand the horrors lurking behind that kind, fatherly smile.
They had called him mad when he tried to tell them. They had locked him away in that institution, pumped him full of drugs, and thrown away the key. But Samuel had never forgotten. He had kept the memories alive, even when the drugs dulled his mind, even when the doctors tried to convince him that it was all a delusion.
Now, he was free.
The thought sent a surge of adrenaline through his veins. He hadn't planned the escape—at least not consciously. It had all happened so fast, a blur of motion and panic. One moment, he had been sitting in the sterile white room of the institution, staring out at the gray world beyond the barred windows. The next, he had heard the distant rumble of thunder, felt the electricity in the air, and something inside him had snapped.
The storm had provided the perfect cover. In the chaos, he had slipped through the cracks, moving like a ghost through the corridors, avoiding the guards and the nurses. The rain had come down hard by the time he reached the outer fence, soaking him to the bone. But he didn't stop, didn't hesitate. He scaled the fence, cutting his hands on the jagged wire at the top, and dropped down to the other side.
He had run without stopping, without looking back.
Now, standing at the edge of the woods, Samuel felt a strange calm settle over him. The storm was still raging, the wind whipping through the trees, but in the center of it all, he felt… clear. For the first time in years, the fog in his mind had lifted, and he could see his path.
He had one goal: to stop Isaac Mercer. To end the monster's reign of terror.
Samuel pulled the hood of his jacket tighter over his head and began walking toward the town. His body ached from the long run, his muscles screaming in protest, but he pushed through the pain. Each step brought him closer to his target.
The woods thinned out as he approached the outskirts of Ashgrove, and soon he found himself on the cracked pavement of a side road leading into town. The street was empty, the rain driving most people indoors. Only a few cars passed by, their headlights cutting through the gloom.
Samuel kept his head down, his face hidden beneath the hood, as he walked toward the heart of the town. His thoughts were sharp, focused. He had to be smart about this. He couldn't just storm into Mercer's office and confront him. The man was protected—by the town, by the police, by his carefully cultivated image. If Samuel made a wrong move, he would be back in the institution before he even got close.
He needed to gather information; find a way to expose Mercer for what he truly was. But that wouldn't be easy. Mercer had been doing this for years, covering his tracks, manipulating everyone around him. The people of Ashgrove adored him. They wouldn't believe Samuel's accusations without proof.
Samuel clenched his fists at the thought. He didn't care if they believed him. He wasn't here to win hearts and minds. He was here to stop a killer.
As he walked, his eyes scanned the buildings, looking for a place to lay low for the night. He couldn't stay out in the open for too long; it wouldn't be long before the police started searching for him. The institution would have already reported his escape, and they would assume he was dangerous. In their eyes, he was nothing more than a madman on the loose, a threat to society.
But Samuel wasn't mad. Not anymore.
He spotted an old, dilapidated motel on the edge of town, its neon sign flickering weakly in the rain. The building looked like it had seen better days—its paint was peeling, and the windows were dark and grimy. But that suited Samuel just fine. It was the kind of place where people asked few questions, where he could blend in and disappear for a while.
He walked up to the front desk, keeping his head down. The clerk, an older man with thinning hair and a cigarette dangling from his lips, barely glanced at him as he handed over a set of keys.
"Room 12," the clerk muttered. "Cash only. No trouble, understand?"
Samuel nodded, slipping a few crumpled bills across the counter. He had stolen some money from one of the guards during his escape—just enough to get by for a few days.
The clerk pocketed the money without a word, and Samuel headed for his room. The hallway smelled of mildew and stale smoke, but Samuel barely noticed. He unlocked the door to Room 12 and stepped inside.
The room was as shabby as he had expected: a single bed with a threadbare blanket, a small table, and a flickering lamp. The wallpaper was peeling, revealing moldy patches underneath. A musty odor hung in the air.
It wasn't much, but it was a place to rest, to think, to plan.
Samuel sat on the edge of the bed, his mind racing. He knew that confronting Mercer directly wouldn't work. The man was too powerful, too smart. Samuel needed to be strategic, to gather evidence that would prove Mercer's guilt. But where could he start?
As he stared at the flickering lamp, a memory surfaced—something one of the other patients had said during a group therapy session back at the institution. The man, Martin, had been in and out of Mercer's care before being committed. He had spoken of nightmares, of strange, vivid dreams that felt too real. He had claimed that Mercer had done something to him, something dark and twisted, but no one had believed him. They had dismissed it as paranoia, a symptom of his illness.
But Samuel hadn't dismissed it. He had listened.
Martin had mentioned a place—a cabin in the woods, just outside Ashgrove. He had said that Mercer took some of his patients there for "special treatment." At the time, Samuel hadn't thought much of it, but now, it seemed like the only lead he had.
If he could find that cabin, maybe he could uncover what Mercer had been doing to his patients. Maybe he could find proof of the doctor's monstrous experiments.
Samuel lay back on the bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling. He had a plan now, a direction. Tomorrow, he would find the cabin. Tomorrow, he would begin the hunt.
And Isaac Mercer would learn that even a town's savior couldn't hide forever.