Creedmoor was quite a rundown place for a hospital.

I guess that’s what you get for being a charitable hospital instead of a private one.

Luckily it was within walking distance from the office, so I could let Betsy rest after her journey to Grove Road yesterday.

The hospital’s interior was bleak and simple.

At the reception desk, a young woman with catlike glasses was filing her nails.

“Hello, madam,” I began, “I’d like to know which room George Castus is recovering in.”

With a defensive hand placed on the ledger, she pouted.

“And who might you be to that person?”

“I’m a private investigator,” I fetched my investigator’s license from the inside of my coat pocket, “See?”

She raised her eyebrows upon seeing my license, nodded, and began searching through the ledger in front of her.

“He’s in B0085. If you take these stairs down, you’ll find the wing he’s in,” she explained, using her hands to illustrate the route to me, “Just keep walking until you find the right bed.”

He’s in the basement?

“Is that a new wing here in the hospital?” I asked, perplexed.

“Yes,” she answered carefully, “it’s where the mentally ill reside.”

Mentally ill? Did she just say mentally ill?

“I-I see,” I stammered, surprised, “Has anyone come to see him since his admittance?”

She shook her head, “Not a soul.”

Giving her a curt nod, I bid the young woman farewell, and made my way down to the basement in search of George Castus.

Even to a grown man such as myself, the basement was frightening.

I want to leave, immediately.

The hairs on my neck stood up as I walked.

The atmosphere down here was different, cold and sterile.

There were rosaries and crosses on either side of the walls in the halls, which were poorly lit by porcelain lights.

I heard patients’ cries, wails, and screams as I walked towards bed eighty-five.

Castus was quite a young man, tall, with blonde hair.

He looked pale, he sat upright in a strait jacket in the center of his bed, unmoving, his face downcast.

His patient information board stated he was admitted due to severe trauma shortly after the accident.

Despite standing right in front of him, he wasn’t acknowledging my presence at all.

What the hell happened to him?

“Hello, George,” I spoke carefully, to avoid startling him.

No response.

Great.

Another useless suspect.

He continuously muttered quietly under his breath.

Can this cretin even hear me?

I inched closer to him so I could hear what he was saying, but it seemed to be a different language.

What the Devil is he saying?

“Cthulhu fhtagn,” Castus murmured repeatedly.

“George, can you explain what that means?” I probed carefully.

Once again, I received no response and Castus continued his mindless babble.

For God’s sake, get it together, George.

Letting out a deep sigh and feeling my agitation build up inside me, I waved my hand in front of him.

He craned his neck to face me, which caused me to step back.

His eyes were vacant and clouded.

“C-C-C-Cthulhu fhtagn,” his chapped bottom lip quivered as he spoke, sending a new wave of chills throughout my body.

I’m leaving.

Right now.

“Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn!” Castus screamed with his dead eyes locked on me.

I fled the room as the nurses poured into the room to attend him.