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Eldritch Horror? No, I'm A Doctor
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Ren stared at the red door at the end of the dark hallway. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, a feeling he was becoming far too familiar with today. The red mist continued to curl out from under the door like fingers reaching across the floor.
Should I take him in now?
He glanced back toward the operating room where the Colonel waited. The old soldier had just agreed to pay two million dollars for an experimental procedure. A procedure Ren had never performed before. A procedure that would take place in whatever horror show waited behind that blood-red door.
Well, fuck it. I'm gonna do it.
Ren turned and walked back to the operating room, his footsteps echoing on the tile. He pushed the door open. The Colonel was still lying on the examination table, one hand resting on his stomach while the other touched his empty eye socket absently.
"Hey," Ren said, then paused. "What's your name again?"
The Colonel sat up, his military bearing returning despite the undignified position he'd been in moments before. "It's Colonel Steven Bright to you, Doctor."
"What should I call you?" the Colonel asked, his tone respectful but curious.
Ren considered for a moment. His real name felt too personal, too exposed for what he was becoming. Dr. Nox had a better ring to it. More professional. More distant.
"Call me Dr. Nox."
"Sure," the Colonel replied with a small nod.
"Well, let's go." Nox turned and began walking out the door without waiting for a response.
"Huh?" The Colonel's eyebrows furrowed. He swung his legs off the examination table carefully, wincing as his broken ankle touched the floor. He stood up slowly, testing his weight. Pain shot through his leg immediately. "Are we not gonna do it here?"
Nox turned his head to look back at the Colonel while still walking forward. The black beak of his plague doctor mask caught the light. "There's a room for that specially."
They continued to walk down the main hallway. The Colonel limped behind Nox, his gait uneven and painful. Each step sent a jolt up his leg, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving. His boots made uneven sounds against the tile, the rhythm broken by his injury. Nox's footsteps were quieter, almost soundless. The clinic felt larger than it should be, the hallways stretching longer than the building's exterior suggested.
Then the Colonel stopped walking.
The pain in his ankle was bad enough, but what he was seeing ahead made him forget about it entirely.
Nox continued for a few more steps before he noticed. He stopped and turned around.
"What is it?"
The Colonel was standing completely still, favoring his good leg. He stared past Nox toward the end of the hallway, his face pale. His good eye was fixed on something, unblinking.
"Wait, Doctor!"
Nox tilted his head slightly, waiting.
"We aren't going in that, right?" The Colonel pointed with a shaking finger toward the red door at the far end of the dark corridor. His hand trembled as he held it up.
Nox cocked his head in question, genuinely confused by the concern. "Of course?"
The Colonel's inner voice was screaming.
What the fuck is that? Am I gonna get disemboweled? Is he gonna chop me up and use my parts for some ritual?
His eye darted over the door again. The red mist. The bleeding walls. The ominous glow. Every instinct he'd honed over decades of combat was telling him to run. This wasn't a medical facility. This was a slaughterhouse.
I fought the Skinless King today. I watched my men die. I lost my eye years ago and lived with it. I've seen things that would make normal people lose their minds. But that door? That fucking door looks like it leads straight to Hell.
The Colonel's hand unconsciously moved to his side where his weapon would normally be. But he'd left everything in his inventory. He was unarmed, injured, barely able to walk properly, and standing in front of a doctor who could sprout tentacles from his neck.
Maybe this is how I die. Not in glorious combat. Not protecting my country. But on a sacrificial altar in some horror clinic because I was too desperate for power.
His thoughts spiraled further. I survived thirty years of gate diving. Thirty years of watching comrades fall. I climbed the ranks through blood and merit. I killed an A-rank boss today with my bare hands and ice magic. And this is how it ends? Gutted like a fish in a back-alley clinic? Can't even run away properly with this fucked ankle.
The Colonel shifted his weight, his broken ankle protesting. My men are waiting outside. If I don't come out, will they even find my body? Or will I just disappear into whatever nightmare is behind that door? And I'm too injured to fight back if things go wrong.
"Oh, about the atmosphere, right?" Nox's voice cut through the Colonel's spiraling thoughts. "It was kinda scary, but don't worry. Everything is normal."
NORMAL? The Colonel's mind screamed. WHAT PART OF THAT IS NORMAL? THE BLOOD-RED DOOR? THE MIST THAT LOOKS LIKE IT'S ALIVE? THE WALLS THAT LOOK LIKE THEY'RE BLEEDING?
But his mouth said something different. "I see."
His military training kicked in. Never show fear. Never show weakness. Even if you're walking to your death, you walk with your head high. The Colonel's jaw clenched, and he forced his injured leg to move forward.
He followed Nox unwillingly, limping with each step. The pain in his ankle was constant now, a sharp reminder of his vulnerability. Each step felt heavier than the last. The dark hallway seemed to stretch longer as they approached. The red glow grew brighter. The mist reached his boots now, cold and wet against his ankles.
At least make it quick, the Colonel thought grimly, his limp becoming more pronounced as the pain intensified. I've lived a good life. Mostly. My daughter will get my pension. The men will remember me as someone who died with honor. Even if the truth is I got murdered in a horror clinic while barely able to stand.
The Colonel's broken ankle throbbed with each step, forcing him to lean against the wall occasionally for support. His palm pressed against the cold black surface as he struggled to keep up with Nox's steady pace.
Nox reached the door and grabbed the handle. The Colonel noticed it was red too, the same blood-red as the door itself. He limped up behind Nox, breathing harder from the exertion of walking on his injury.
Nox pulled the door open.
And froze.
The Colonel watched Nox's body go completely still. The doctor's hand remained on the door handle, but he wasn't moving. Wasn't speaking. Just standing there like he'd been turned to stone.
What's up with him? Why'd he stop like that?
The Colonel felt a new wave of fear wash over him. If the horror doctor was shocked by what was beyond the door, what did that mean for him? What could possibly surprise someone who performed surgery with tentacles and a chainsaw?
Curiosity and dread mixed together. The Colonel limped forward, wincing with each step. He stood on his toes, trying to see over Nox's shoulder into the room beyond. His broken ankle screamed in protest, but he needed to see what had frozen the doctor in place.
His blood went cold.
It wasn't a room.
It was another hallway.
But not just any hallway. A hospital hallway.
White tile floor stretched forward, each tile perfectly square and uniform. The walls were painted a pale, institutional green, the kind of color that tried to be soothing but somehow made everything feel more clinical and cold. Fluorescent lights ran along the ceiling in parallel lines, their tubes casting harsh, sterile light that left no shadows.
Metal handrails ran along both walls at waist height, the kind designed for patients to hold while walking. Door frames lined the hallway at regular intervals, though most of the doors were closed. Medical equipment carts sat abandoned against the walls. An IV stand stood in one corner, its metal pole catching the light.
It looked normal. Professional. Like something from any hospital in the country.
Except for the blood.
The entire hallway was covered in it.
Not painted red. Not decorated with red accents. Covered. In. Blood.
Real blood.
The walls were splashed with it, great arcing sprays that suggested violence. The patterns were unmistakable to anyone with combat experience. Arterial spray, impact splatter, cast-off patterns from something swinging repeatedly. The Colonel had seen enough battlefields to recognize the signatures of carnage.
The blood wasn't fresh. It had dried, turned dark brown in places, rust-red in others. Some areas were so thick it had dripped down the walls in long streaks, leaving trails that ended in dried pools on the floor. The green paint was barely visible under the layers of dried blood.
The white tiles were stained beyond recognition. Footprints tracked through old blood, creating paths that led deeper into the hallway. Some prints were boots. Others were bare feet. Some didn't look human at all.
Handprints smeared on the walls at chest height, as if someone had stumbled along, using the walls for support while bleeding out. The metal handrails were crusted with dried blood, fingerprints visible in the darker patches.
The fluorescent lights flickered occasionally, making the blood seem to move in the stuttering illumination. One light was broken, hanging by its wires, swaying slightly despite no breeze. The broken tube sparked occasionally, throwing strange shadows across the blood-covered walls.
Medical equipment carts were overturned, their contents scattered. Syringes, bandages, and surgical tools lay in dried pools of blood. An IV bag hung from its stand, the clear fluid inside turned pink with diluted blood.
And the smell.
The metallic tang of blood filled the air, so thick the Colonel could taste it on his tongue. Copper and iron, mixed with something else. Something organic and wrong. The smell of a battlefield after the fighting ended. The smell of death that had been sitting for days in a closed space.
The Colonel's broken ankle throbbed, but he barely noticed now. The pain was nothing compared to what he was seeing.
But it was the middle of the hallway that made the Colonel's stomach drop.
Right in the center, perhaps fifteen meters from the door, was a circle.
No, not just a circle.
A summoning circle.
It was drawn on the floor in blood that was somehow more intensely red than everything else. Fresher, brighter, like it had been painted there moments ago. The circle was perfect, geometrically precise in a way that made it clear this wasn't accidental. This was intentional. This was ritual.
The outer ring was thick, perhaps ten centimeters wide, drawn with careful precision. Inside it were multiple rings, each one nested perfectly within the previous. Between the rings were symbols. Runes. Sigils. The Colonel didn't recognize the language, but he recognized the intent. These were the kinds of markings you saw in forbidden texts. The kinds of things that cultists drew before attempting to bring something through from the other side.
The symbols seemed to pulse slightly in the flickering light, or maybe that was just his imagination. Each rune was complex, composed of multiple lines that intersected at precise angles. Some looked like writing. Others looked like diagrams of things that shouldn't exist.
At cardinal points around the circle were larger symbols, each one more intricate than the rest. North, south, east, west. Four points of power. Four anchors for whatever this circle was meant to contain or summon.
In the very center was an empty space. A space just large enough for a person to stand. A space clearly meant for something. Or someone.
The Colonel's military training finally broke. His composure shattered. His broken ankle nearly gave out, and he had to grab the doorframe to steady himself.
No. No, no, no. He didn't plan to disembowel me. He plans to SACRIFICE me to some old god!
All the pieces fell into place in his mind. The horror clinic. The grotesque healing methods. The offer of power through monster grafting. It was all a setup. A way to lure in desperate hunters and use them for whatever dark ritual this was.
That's why he can heal anything. He's not a doctor. He's a cultist. The tentacles aren't a skill. They're a blessing from whatever entity he serves. The healing is just bait to bring in victims.
The Colonel's breathing came faster. His grip on the doorframe tightened. I'm going to die in the center of that circle. My body will be used to summon something. And no one will ever know what happened to me. And I can't even run. Can't fight. My ankle's broken and I'm trapped in here with him.
His legs felt weak. His good eye was fixed on the summoning circle, unable to look away. The symbols seemed to writhe in his vision, drawing his attention, pulling him in.
Nox still hadn't moved. He stood frozen in the doorway, one hand on the handle, his black plague doctor mask turned toward the blood-soaked hallway.
The silence stretched. The fluorescent lights flickered again. The broken tube sparked, the sound sharp in the quiet.
The Colonel's broken ankle throbbed in time with his racing heartbeat. He wanted to run, but his body wouldn't cooperate. Pain and fear held him in place.
Nox said nothing.