"I regret to inform you, but we've failed to crack the code of your condition. You are… a unique case. To put it in less diplomatic terms, you're a walking medical enigma."
The doctor spoke with a dead, monotonous tone. He flipped through a thick stack of papers that felt less like a medical report and more like a death warrant wrapped in hospital bureaucracy.
Edward exhaled a long, heavy breath. It was a breath laden with the scent of cheap disinfectant that permeated the sterile corridors of London's high-end hospitals. Without a word, he snatched the papers from the doctor's hand.
"No solution here either? Fantastic," Edward muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It seems my body has decided to be more creative in its demise than I ever was in my life."
Edward stepped out onto the street, scratching his head beneath a London sky so grey it resembled the face of someone suffering from a severe bout of the flu. He stood there for a moment, a handsome young man whose vibrant features were betrayed by the sickly pallor of his skin.
"This is the twentieth hospital! Twenty medical fortresses, billions of pounds worth of equipment, and not a single soul can tell me why my cells feel like they're throwing a private barbecue party for one another."
He glanced toward Big Ben, shimmering in the distance—a symbol of grandeur, permanence, and a world that would keep spinning long after he was gone. He felt a sudden, childish urge to stick his tongue out at the entire city.
In that moment, the last doctor's words echoed in his ear like the persistent hum of an annoying fly:
"I've heard a rumor about a physician who can cure any ailment. But you won't find him on Harley Street. They say he only appears to those clinging to life by their last fingernails… those who have reached a stage of truly disgusting despair."
Edward shook his head, a dry, cynical laugh escaping his lips. "Am I really expected to believe in medical folklore? Some fairy tale out of the Arabian Nights?"
He watched the passersby hurrying through the drizzle, chasing their livelihoods, and whispered to himself, "The truth is, the free trial for this ridiculous game called 'Life' has expired. Now I'm being kicked out because I can't afford the subscription fee. Heh."
People cast sympathetic yet bewildered glances at him—a well-dressed youth laughing at his own impending doom in the middle of a busy sidewalk. But Edward knew a dark truth: when Death knocks on your door, even the wildest superstitions start looking like a bargain at 90% off.
Days later, Edward stood before a Victorian-style building that looked like a mansion that had decided to commit suicide very slowly.
The walls were suffocated by withered ivy, resembling the veins of a desiccated corpse. The windows were so caked with dust that they didn't just block the light out—they seemed to allow the darkness to leak out from within.
"I suppose this is it," Edward sighed, his breath hitching in his chest. "Who would have thought I'd travel this far to find a doctor who looks like he stepped out of an Edgar Allan Poe nightmare?"
He raised a fist and knocked on the heavy oak door. The carvings on the wood were intricate, forming geometric patterns that, to his tired eyes, looked like faces screaming in silence.
"What kind of senile old fool still lives in a ruin like this?" he muttered, checking his watch.
After minutes of a silence so profound he could almost hear his own strained heartbeat, the door groaned open. The screech of the hinges set Edward's teeth on edge.
A cold, murky fog rolled out from the interior. It carried a bizarre scent—a cocktail of ancient herbs, rusted iron, and something that smelled like meat left in the sun just a bit too long to be fresh, but not long enough to be fully rotten.
Then, a man appeared.
He wore a classic physician's coat—an apron that might have been white during the Victorian era but was now a stained, yellowish ivory. His face was a map of wrinkles, each one carved so deeply it seemed to hide a dark secret. From behind a pair of opaque, circular black glasses, he peered at Edward with an intensity that felt… non-human.
"Oh… you must be here for the cure… hee-hee…"
The old man smiled, revealing a row of jagged, yellowed teeth. He adjusted his glasses, their dark lenses reflecting nothing but the grey sky.
Edward looked him up and down, the sarcasm that had become his shield never wavering. "Old man… honestly, you look like the one in need of urgent treatment. Or perhaps a comfortable coffin."
The doctor laughed, a sound like sandpaper rubbing against stone. "These little ones… they have such sharp tongues these days. And yet, their bodies are as brittle as biscuits."
"So," Edward leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "Are you the legendary doctor who claims to heal everything? Or are you just a con artist with a flair for creepy decor?"
"You are in exactly the right place," the doctor replied, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You look like the type of failure who hates life, yet is absolutely terrified by the prospect of death."
Edward gritted his teeth, a bitter taste rising in his throat. "Who are you calling a failure, you walking pile of wrinkles?"
"Hahaha! Come in… come in… This 'pile of wrinkles' will dazzle you with what lies inside."
The doctor stepped aside, allowing the darkness of the hallway to swallow the space.
Edward hesitated for a fraction of a second. What am I afraid of? he thought. I'm dead anyway. Even if this eccentric old freak has bad intentions, let him try. I'll kick his ass and walk out.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the atmosphere pressed against his chest. There was no modern lighting. Instead, red candles hung from the ceiling, dripping wax that looked disturbingly like fresh blood. Mirrors were positioned at strange angles throughout the hallway, ensuring that you always saw your own reflection from behind—as if a second 'you' was constantly stalking your footsteps.
"Before we begin… what is your name, boy?" the doctor asked.
He led the way with steps that were eerily light. The floorboards didn't even creak under his weight, yet they shrieked under Edward's every step.
"Edward. Call me 'Ed' for short. I don't like formalities, especially with people wearing aprons from the last century," he replied nonchalantly, trying to ignore the chill seeping into his marrow.
"Heh… the young are always in such a hurry. Over here, please. Lie down."
The doctor gestured to a rusted iron bed in the center of a cavernous room. Beside it stood a bolted metal table covered in surgical instruments that looked designed for medieval torture rather than healing. There were glass vials filled with a thick, viscous, dark red liquid.
"You want me to lie on that? Seriously, are you a doctor or a serial killer going through a mid-life crisis?"
"Don't be afraid, Ed… I simply adore the 'antique' aesthetic. And those tools? Mere decorations to add an air of prestige."
The doctor pulled on white gloves stained with old, brown spots. He donned a surgical mask that further obscured his features. "Unless… you are afraid?"
"In your dreams, Gramps," Ed shot back defensively.
He hopped onto the wooden slab of the bed. As he settled in, he noticed the surface was decorated with splatters of black paint. Or at least, he hoped it was paint.
The doctor picked up a massive syringe and drew the dark red fluid from a vial. He approached Ed with a funeral-like pace.
"Relax, and remember… 'Fear the old blood'…"
He grabbed Ed's forearm with a sudden, violent strength—a grip that didn't belong to such a frail-looking body.
"What do you mean by—?"
Ed never finished the sentence. The needle plunged into his vein. He didn't feel the sting of a normal shot; instead, he felt a wave of liquid ice-fire racing through his bloodstream. A pungent odor filled the room—a mix of musk, sharp rust, and the stench of an open sewer.
Ed's vision began to distort. Colors bled into one another, and the shadows in the corners of the room began to stretch like living entities crawling up the walls. The silence was replaced by demonic whispers—thousands of voices speaking in forgotten tongues directly into his ears.
He tried to scream, but his jaw felt heavy, as if it had been bolted shut with lead nails.
His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he thought it would burst. Damn it, Edward… who trusts a man who looks like a slasher villain? I've actually died this time.
But even the curses in his mind began to fade. Everything vanished. The voices rose to a crescendo of madness—screams, wails—and then…
Sudden, absolute silence.
Ed opened his eyes slowly. The agonizing pain was gone.
He sat up on the bed, feeling a surge of vitality unlike anything he had ever experienced. The crushing weight on his lungs had vanished; the constant fatigue in his limbs was replaced by a humming energy.
He looked at his hands. His skin was fairer, the sickly blue veins had retracted, and his eyes sparkled with a sharp, predatory clarity. He could see individual dust motes dancing in the dim candlelight.
"Impossible… was that ridiculous rumor actually true?"
A childish joy flooded him. He jumped off the bed to test his strength. The floorboard let out a sharp crack, and he immediately smoothed his clothes, trying to regain his composure.
"Anyway, where did that old man go? He really gave me a scare. Not that I was actually scared, mind you. I would've kicked his teeth in if I'd woken up and found a kidney missing!"
He looked around, but the doctor was nowhere to be seen. The room was now submerged in a thick fog, and the smell of fresh blood was beginning to smell… disturbingly appetizing.
"I can't believe it… I'm actually cured," he whispered, still dazed by the transformation.
He decided to leave. Walking through the long corridors, the rooms now seemed more spacious and far stranger than before. Near the main entrance, he spotted a white shadow standing with its back to him.
"Oh, hey, old man! You startled me. Where did you disappear to? Did your senility finally kick in and make you forget where you left your patient?" Ed mocked as he approached, shoving his hands into his pockets with newfound confidence.
Suddenly, the shadow began to expand.
The doctor hadn't been a tall man, but now his frame was growing in height and width at a terrifying rate. The white apron tore at the shoulders, revealing massive, grey muscular tissue.
Was this old man a secret bodybuilder? When did he get as big as Ronnie Coleman?
A sound like boiling water in a copper cauldron bubbled from the doctor's throat, mixed with a savage grunt. His arms emerged—they weren't human arms. They were pale grey, covered in pulsating, puss-filled blisters, ending in long, serrated black claws.
Am I dreaming? Or did the doctor decide to turn into a budget-brand werewolf? Ed joked internally, but his heart was pounding so hard he felt like he might vomit it up.
The creature turned. Its classic shoes shattered as beastly feet covered in coarse hair erupted from within. The surgical mask tore away as a jaw elongated, filled with rows of fangs dripping with a hot, acidic saliva that hissed as it hit the carpet. Its blood-red eyes glowed from behind the black circular glasses—which, funnily enough, hadn't fallen off, adding a touch of dark comedy to the horror.
Ed froze in place. "This is just a dream… right? Yeah, obviously the anesthetic is top-tier. I fell asleep, dreamed I was cured, and now my subconscious is venting my cheap horror movie fears. Makes perfect sense!"
Ed shouted, as if trying to convince reality itself to go away.
The monster—the Doctor—advanced toward him with a growl that shook the very foundations of the mansion. It raised a massive hand, while Ed stood there like an idiot, observing the beast with a stupid, scientific curiosity.
In what world does a sane person wait to be hit by a creature weighing a ton of muscle and spit? Well, it seems our hero is that brand of idiot.
With a muffled sound like a small explosion, the beast swung its claws. Ed was sent flying through the air like a feather in a hurricane. He crashed through antique furniture, splintering a wooden cabinet before slamming into the wall and collapsing to the floor like a discarded rag.
He tried to stand, but his body wouldn't respond. Blood began to pour from his nose. The coldness of death was returning—but this time, it wasn't because of a disease. It was because of a predator.
This isn't a dream… the pain is too real… the smell is too real… he screamed internally. The rosy world he had built minutes ago was utterly shattered.
"Am I… going to die… today… after all?"
Ed couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh as the monster's shadow completely eclipsed him. A drop of hot, foul-smelling saliva landed on his forehead. As he stared up at the claws rising to end his life, one final thought crossed his mind:
At least I'm dying feeling absolutely fantastic.