Boston, Massachusetts, Monday, October 6th, 1958.

car parked in the shadow of a massive structure. The sudden stop caused the Seagram bottles to clank together, making the man inside tense at the sound. This place looks more like the medieval bastille than a mental health facility, thought Dr. Keys. His lips curled around the cigarette that hung from his mouth, and with a deep exhale he let out a sigh of smoke-filled frustration. He removed the keys, and placed them in the center divide. He reached for his black leather briefcase made, well worn and covered in scuff marks. Without looking he rolled the combination on the briefcase, sliding his thumbs on the gold-embossed latches. The case came open and he pulled out a thin file. Familiarizing himself with the contents of the file, Keys took the case and put it back on the seat, tucking the file under his arm.

He opened the door and turned his collar up to brace against the cold. 

Dr. Keys was a lengthy man with striking features held together by a thin mustache. His sunken eyes were hidden in the shadows of a brown hat covering his cheap haircut. The structure was made from large gray bricks—square, devoid of imagination. The door was made of glass, worn and dirty like the rest of this place. Dr. Keys placed his hand reluctantly on the handle, and pushed it open. He entered the waiting room. It was different then the rest of the building. Clean, and symmetrical. But hidden in the symmetry was something macabre, something...almost maddening. Looking across the room he saw the reception desk.

“Anybody here?” he shouted out, then shrugged at the silence.

From under the desk a man rose.

“I’m Doctor Bernard Keys,” he said as he walked across the room. “I was called to see a patient, a mister...” He looked at the paper in his hand, “Mr. Carlton Stottlemeyer.”

The clerk looked at the list, checking the name. He was a short and gawky man, with a smile that didn’t seem to fit the picture of the place.

The clerk laughed. “Yes, we have you here with Mr. Stottlemeyer, 37-year-old, Caucasian male. He’s being held in Room 27. Hmm. An interesting case, that one.”

“What did you find interesting about it?” asked Keys, raising an eyebrow.

“It's not everyday we have someone checking themselves in, saying they’re a psycho murderer.”

The smiling clerk lifted himself from his seat behind the marble desk. “Right this way.”

He led Keys to a cell door at the end of the hall. A large orderly stood on the other side of it.

“The doc is here to see patient 27,” the smiling clerk said.

The orderly nodded and unlocked the door.

“Right this way,” said the orderly without looking at him.

“Hey.” A voice spoke from behind Keys. He looked over his shoulder.

“Be careful there,” said the smiling clerk. His eyes were wide as he stepped back, engulfed in shadows.

espite its horizontal design, the long hall was maze-like. Loud clangs and moans echoed in the passageways from behind the barred cell doors. Dr. Keys looked to his left. From the deep shadow of a cell came a naked man, his hands grasped the bars like he was trying to pull them apart. The inmate shoved his face between the bars, pulling and contorting, teeth exposed, chomping like a crazed, hungry animal. 

This is truly where society throws away its unwanted.

In the wild when a wolf is wounded, the others kill it for the good of the pack. For nature's law that made sense, but they were men, was humanity in this place?

After walking a ways, and Keys was bored looking at the orderly’s bald head, they came to the next wing. The cells here were different—there were no bars, just staunch metal walls. This is where they kept the dangerous wolves.

“Why is he in this wing?” asked Keys.

The orderly stood blank and unfazed by Key’s inquiry. He stared at him, turned, and slid open the view hatch looking into the room. Light poured through, piercing through the dark cell, illuminating a small square of the stone floor.

“Why are the lights out?” Keys asked.

The orderly looked at him. “Something about the light being dangerous, he says.”

Keys turned back to look into the hatch. His expression changed from its usual harshness to the friendliest one he could muster.

 “Mr. Stottlemeyer? Mr. Stottlemeyer?” he called out.

“Sh...shut that.” A timid voice sniveled from the dark room. Keys could see the outline of him, just outside the light.

 “My name is Dr. Bernard Keys, I’m here to help you.”

 “Are you really here to help me?”

 “I’d like to try,” Keys said, trying to seem empathetic.

“Can you make it stop?”

“Before I can stop anything, I’d like to know why you came here telling everyone that you did something gruesome.”

“I didn’t do it! But then...then, I also did.” Stottlemeyer said confusedly.

“What do you mean?” Keys asked.

“I...I wouldn’t do something like that...I mean, I couldn't,” Stottlemeyer said with hopelessness.

“Let’s talk a bit about what happened. Walk me through it.”

“I don’t really want to talk.” Stottlemeyer backed away. 

“But talking may help you.” Keys put his face closer to the hatch, blocking the light into the cell.

“May help? It never helped me before. It didn’t help with her.”

“Your wife?” Keys asked, raising his eyebrows.

The silhouette of Stottlemeyer flinched at the mention of his wife and stepped back, now almost fully invisible.

“Oh god. Why ask about her?”

“What is your wife like?” Keys asked with interest. “What is your relationship 

like?”

“I always thought I was a bit too timid for her. She’s a strong woman, lovable too. Why did she ever pick me? I thought that meant something. But I guess it really didn’t,” he rambled.

Keys wrote on his pad. Low self esteem.

“What made you think that?” Keys asked, looking back into the cell.

“Maybe that’s why she...” Stottlemeyer trailed off.

“Was it something to do with your boss?”

Stottlemeyer grunted from the impact of those words.

“About him—what was your relationship like?”

“It was, um...” Stottlemeyer muttered in anger.

“Well I would be angry. If someone did something like that with my wife.” Keys said, looking at his notes.

“Your wife?”

“Yes.” Keys looked away. He hadn’t intended to mention he was married. Putting his hand on the back of his head, he ran it through his hair under his hat. “But it’s complicated. All relationships are complicated. I get the feeling yours was. How did you find out?” Keys tried to get back to the point.

“That my wife and boss were having an affair?”

“Yes. Go on.”

Stottlemeyer took a breath.

“One night when I was working late, I went to give him some reports I had finished. The door was cracked open. I didn’t know it was her at first, I never heard her...”

“That must have made you mad.”

Stottlemeyer shivered. “Yes,” he whimpered.

“So mad that you could...?” Keys asked and Stottlemeyer went silent. Keys collected himself, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. The flash of the match cascaded through the cell. Stottlemeyer flinched. Keys saw the timid frame of the man as he recoiled.

“Alright.” Keys took a deep drag of his smoke. “You said before that you didn’t do it. But you turned yourself in. I believe you. And I want you to trust me. I want you to trust me enough to tell me what really happened.”

“You believe me?” Stottlemeyer’s eyes looked towards the light, then he continued. “It was....my...shadow.”

“Shadow? What do you mean?”

“I mean it was my shadow.”

Keys raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think it was your shadow?”

“I would never do anything like that, I would never kill anyone....I’ve seen it...I’ve seen it moving.” he said in a low tone.

Keys wrote on his pad. Possible multiple personality, and hallucinations.

“Mr. Stottlemeyer....”

“Carlton,” Stottlemeyer interrupted.

“Uh?”

“Call me Carlton, please.”

 “Carlton. How does a shadow kill someone?” Keys asked nicely.

“Please don’t do that. Don’t talk to me like I’m crazy. I’M NOT CRAZY!” Stottlemeyer shouted, his voice ringing out from the darkness that shrouded his cell.

 “I don’t think you're crazy.” Keys said in a soothing voice. “Did you actually want them to die?”

“Haven’t you ever wished someone was dead? A terrible thought doesn't make the man who thinks it terrible."

Keys was intrigued.

“But you’re not terrible, Not like me anyway. What do people say about you?” Carlton asked, his voice echoing.

“Does a thought really make you insane? I’d like to know.”

“Carlton,” Keys waved his hand slowly. “We’re just talking. So let me ask you this—why would your shadow do that, if you never would?”

Stottlemeyer retreated into the dark, now completely out of Keys’s sight.

“Don’t try probing my head. I may not be smart, but I’m not stupid. This is just your job, and you don’t even like it. Yes I can tell—I’m an expert at showing up to work hungover. But if you want to know, here is the answer. All my life I’ve been weak. Too weak to stop my father beating my mother, too weak to stop the teacher from torturing me, and too weak to stop him from taking my wife. I hate him.”

“You mean hated,” Keys corrected.

“That’s why, it's things I could never do, what I still can’t do,” said Stottlemeyer. “Fight for myself, or take revenge as much as I may want. All those things, they swelled inside me, anger turned to rage, and the rage turned into darkness and followed me everywhere. Now it's been unleashed, without my choosing. It's better that I’m in here. Those things that we deny about ourselves are often the most true. That’s why it's best I sit in this dark room.”

Keys, with a somber expression on his face, abruptly stood up. “That will be all for today, Carlton.”

Once again he pulled out the packet and held it up to the viewing window, a cigarette sticking out as an offering.

“Would you like one?”

“That doesn’t seem professional,” said Stottlemeyer.

“Maybe. Let’s keep it between us. One drunk to another.” He touted the cigarette again.

Stottlemeyer’s hand came into view as he reached out, almost for help. Keys thought, standing here in the kiln of madness, that this man was no wolf, but a victim—not only of the world, but of himself.

And isn’t that the worst kind.

Stottlemeyer took a deep breath of the cigarette, smoldering crimson light shining in his eyes, lending them an eerie glow. Stottlemeyer's shadow flickered like the flame of a candle.

“Don’t think about me too hard,” Stottlemeyer said, almost to himself. “Some things are better left in the dark.”

Keys slowly closed the viewport, like closing a window of hope. He walked down the hall. His time with Stottlemeyer had been brief, but he couldn’t stop thinking about those words. 

Don't think about me too hard.

The smoke from Keys’s cigarette trailed behind him dancing with the ghosts that walked these corridors.

A fluorescent light flickered.

Some things are better left in the dark. 

Keys put out his cigarette with his shoe. From the darkness in front of him came a woman and two men. The woman had silken black hair that framed her striking, yet vulnerable, features. She wore a white hat with a red band. Her jacket was adorned with a white stole of a fine sable.

One of the men with her was an orderly, the other a police officer.

“Your husband is just this way Mrs. Stottlemeyer," the orderly said as they walked passed Keys. The doctor turned and followed them. 

“Excuse me" he said, “but did I hear right—you're Mrs. Stottlemeyer?"

The woman turned, narrowing her eyes at him. “Yes, I am,” she answered, staying behind while the two men went ahead.

“I’m Dr. Keys. I just had a consultation with your husband. I’d like to discuss his psychological state.”

“Yes, of course.” She nodded. “He seemed fine lately. No more trouble than usual.”

“Why exactly are you here?” Keys asked.

She winced. “Why?”

“Your husband is quite ill. I don’t think it would be a good idea for him to see you just now.”

“I know what I did hurt him,'' she said with a mix of concern and shame, “but he won’t hurt me. I’m not in any danger.”

They heard Stottlemeyer’s cell open. She turned to look.

“What? Wait! No, no!” Stottlemeyer cried out.

The orderly and policeman dragged out a man of medium height. He was thin, with a shock of blonde hair that sat atop a plain, square head. In it were two pale blue eyes, filled with fear.

The doctor stepped forward.

“Easy on him,” Dr. Keys said sternly. “Why are you releasing him?”

“There’s no proof he did it, so we can’t hold him. And his wife wants him out,” said the policeman.

Time seemed to slow down when Stottlemeyer saw his wife standing there. His eyes widened. “No,” he whispered to himself. “No! No!” He shrank away from the men and fell to the floor. 

From under Stottlemeyer a shadow appeared upon the wall, writhing like octopus tentacles.

Dr. Keys and the officers stopped, stunned by this sudden action. Mrs. Stottlemeyer ran toward him. They worked to restrain him, hands clasping him down, enraging him even more. They were so preoccupied they didn’t see the shadow stretching and growing on the walls, massive and terrifying under the fluorescent light. Shapeless darkness encompassed them. Mrs. Stottlemeyer fell to the floor, one hand on the ground, the other around her own throat, her delicate fingers grasping at hands that weren’t there.

“Mrs. Stottlemeyer! Mrs. Stottlemeyer!” Keys shouted, his hands on her shoulders.

Keys turned to call the officer for help. It was then that he felt an indescribable sensation, wrapping around his throat and pulling him back. Into his stomach he felt an invisible blow, so strong that he flew back against the wall. Keys reached out to the struggling woman, his vision blurring, giving way to darkness.

The other two men gaped at the events taking place, oblivious to Carlton Stottlemeyer taking a gun from one of their holsters. Stottlemeyer backed up against a wall and slid down to the floor, revolver clasped in his shaking hands. 

Stottlemeyer and his wife’s eyes met.

“For all my life, which was almost all wrong, I get to do this one thing right.” His finger tightened around the trigger. Tears streamed down his face. “Goodbye, my love.”

The shot rang out and Keys and Mrs.Stottlemeyer fell to the floor in shock as blood splattered around them. Carlton’s bloodied corpse fell limp to the ground. 

In a single moment everything changed from chaos to silence.

s rain fell, the only lights were red and blue police lights. Standing in the rain was Dr. Keys, consoling the widowed Mrs. Stottlemeyer. A young detective joined them.

“Bernard,” he said.

“Nicholas?” Keys said with surprise. 

The detective chuckled and put his hands in his trench coat pockets.

“I suppose you being here's a good thing, doc,” he said. “Makes all this crazy shit make some sense.”

The detective looked to Mrs. Stottlemeyer. He put his hat over her to block the rain. Her eyes darted quickly to his.

“I’m detective Nick Dans. I have some questions about what happened here. A few days ago your husband confessed to the murder of his boss, John Winston. There was no evidence to corroborate, but in light of recent events,” Nick paused and narrowed his shoulders. “We have to call a few things into question now. Can you think of any reason why your husband might have done this?”

Mrs. Stottlemeyer collected herself, but before she could answer, Keys spoke first.

“He was a simple schizophrenic, suffering from paranoid delusions brought on by the actions of his wife, manifesting as a power fantasy in which he killed the adulterer. The guilt was too great, and first chance he got he committed suicide.” 

Dr. Keys knew this wasn’t true, but the truth was too strange. Nick nodded, looking at the both of them.

“Alright then. Case closed.” Nick put his hat back on. “Sorry for your loss.” He walked away.

Past them rolled the gurney with the corpse of Stottlemeyer. The widow turned to Keys.

“Why’d you say that? You know damn well what happened.”

“And so do you,” he replied. “What happened was unbelievable—something foul and wicked. Impossible. I know you want to understand, but your husband said something I can’t help but agree with now.”

Keys faced her, looking at her with sunken eyes.

“Some things are better left in the dark.”