A tremor ran through Elara’s voice, a fragile thread woven with feigned gratitude and immense relief. “Thank you, Dr. Hemlock. Truly, thank you.” Dr. Hemlock held the receiver a moment longer, a faint frown creasing his brow. The abrupt shift in Mrs. Ashwood’s demeanor – from anxious dread to what sounded like giddy reprieve – struck him as peculiar. He replaced the earpiece into its cradle, the click echoing in his quiet study. Such fervent thanks for news that, while positive, remained unsettling. Weeks prior, Arthur Ashwood had miraculously roused from his vegetative state. Weeks of diligent care had ensured his limbs retained their pliability, his muscles, surprisingly robust, ready for rehabilitation. His initial awakening, though brief, had shown promising signs of recovery. Yet, the miracle had been fleeting. For the past fortnight, Mr. Ashwood had succumbed to a profound, unwavering slumber, as if addicted to the very act of unconsciousness. The initial head injury had been severe. Dr. Hemlock had never anticipated a full recovery, least of all a complete restoration of his memories. This new, prolonged sleep felt like a cruel irony, a cruel after-effect. He had considered it a peculiar form of stupor, a residual fog clinging to a mind grappling with trauma. Still, a gnawing unease persisted. He’d visited Arthur that very morning. The room was dim, the air heavy with stillness. He had bent close to the man’s ear. “Mr. Ashwood,” he murmured, his voice low. “Can you tell me your name?” No response. Only the steady rhythm of breath, a phantom presence. “Can you hear my words?” he pressed, perplexed. “Speak anything, if you can.” A guttural sound, barely audible, rasped from Arthur’s throat. “El…” A small, encouraging smile touched the doctor’s lips. “Yes, good. Just so.” He waited. He leaned closer. What followed chilled Dr. Hemlock more than any medical anomaly. Arthur’s voice, a dry whisper, repeated a phrase, again and again, even in his hazy consciousness. “Please… don’t wake.” Dr. Hemlock walked the deserted corridor, the words a lingering chill. He rubbed his chin, a deep furrow appearing between his eyes. Lord Caldwell, Arthur’s elder brother, had insisted Arthur return to Ashwood Manor. A sprawling, isolated estate, ill-suited for the meticulous, continuous care a patient like Arthur required. A curious directive, indeed. Yet, the generous stipend offered by the Caldwell family silenced any professional quibbles. It was not his place to question. Pausing at the archway, a sudden snap of his fingers broke the silence. He had forgotten to tell her. A crucial detail. The sequelae Arthur suffered was not merely an excess of sleep. It possessed a name, though rarely invoked in respectable medical circles: The Somnolent’s Affliction. In more clinical terms, Klein-Levin Syndrome. This grave condition often accompanied by profound behavioral aberrations: an uncontrollable, voracious hunger, bouts of aggression, and an unsettling increase in primal urges. “Ah, well,” he yawned, the thought dissipating like smoke. “He will be quite well for this day.” What harm could possibly arise within a mere twenty-four hours? --- Elara hummed a tuneless melody as she ascended the grand staircase, her relief a vibrant, almost dizzying bloom in her chest. She had outmaneuvered a predator. Her desperate lie had bought her time, perhaps even salvation. Arthur’s relapse into slumber felt like a miraculous rescue from a trap of her own making. She reached the closed door of her chambers, the heavy oak a tangible boundary. A sense of déjà vu prickled her skin as she pushed it open. She was stepping into a new, precarious freedom, but the manor felt different, heavier now. A sudden, distant clang shattered the fragile peace. *Dang. Dang. Dang.* The great bell of the stable gate tolled, vibrating through the thick walls, sounding like a death knell in the midnight air. A chilling sensation froze Elara mid-step. Her breath hitched. The back service door, usually secured with a heavy bolt, had been splintered, torn from its hinges as if struck by a battering ram. “Arthur…?” The whisper caught in her throat. For more than a half-hour, Elara wandered the winding, overgrown paths of the manor grounds. The moon, a sliver of silver, cast long, distorted shadows of ancient yews. The rough, dirt road, slick with dew, offered no comfort. A primal fear clawed at her. Should she send a telegram to Lord Caldwell? The very thought made her stomach clench. To offer him any excuse, any vulnerability, would be to hand him a weapon. She clenched her gloved hands, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. Her long, dark hair, typically held in a severe chignon, began to unravel in the damp night air. She hastened her pace, her silk slippers sinking slightly into the soft earth. “Arthur!” she called out, her voice thin against the rustling leaves. From the distant kennels, the estate hounds, usually slumbering, erupted into a cacophony of agitated barks. Elara peered into the dense shadows, her eyes straining, searching the narrow pathways, the tangled rose arbors. Then, she saw it. A grotesque trace in the dewy grass. A furrow, wide and deep, as if a monumental serpent had dragged itself across the lawn. She laughed, a dry, humorless sound that fractured the silence. “He truly is… something abhorrent.” Following the monstrous trail, she moved closer to the disused fowl house. A fluttering sound, frantic and desperate, reached her ears. Her heart pounded a terrified rhythm against her ribs, sensing something deeply ominous within the shadowed structure. “Arthur! Put that down!” she cried, the words torn from her lungs in a gasp of shock. But Arthur, bathed in the faint moonlight filtering through a broken window, was already tearing at the raw flesh. A pheasant, its brilliant plumage now matted with gore, hung limp from his hand. His eyes, fixed on some unseen point beyond her, were blank, unseeing. The muscles of his jaw worked with a gruesome efficiency as he chewed. When he groaned, a guttural sound, and spat a ragged piece of sinew from his mouth, Elara nearly retched. She pressed a trembling hand to her lips, stifling the urge to vomit. The pheasant, its neck twisted at an impossible angle, was quite dead. Her hands trembled violently. She was profoundly terrified of this man, who stood there, blood streaked across his lips, utterly indifferent to the horror he presented. This grotesque display, she dimly understood, was merely a symptom of his affliction. His unfocused gaze betrayed his disengagement from reality; he was a primal force, unaware of his own monstrous actions. “It must be difficult for you to move, after such a long rest,” Elara said, her voice strained but carefully modulated. She forced a facade of gentle concern, despite the terror coiling in her gut. “Why have you come out here?” She desperately needed to gauge his mood, to understand if her earlier deception about their marriage had taken root, or if this new, savage state had erased it. “Let us go back to the manor, Arthur. You should not be out in the night air.” Arthur dropped the mangled bird carcass. His head slowly lifted, his gaze, devoid of recognition, fell upon her. The vacant stare sent a chill through Elara, colder than the midnight air. He stood in the deepest shadow, where the moonlight failed to reach, and in that gloom, he appeared taller, broader, his figure more imposing than she remembered. He moved, not walked, but a low, lurching crawl, towards her. His tweed jacket, his trousers, his shirt – all were covered in dust, clinging to him like a second skin. A sudden gust of wind swept through the fowl house, stirring the dust motes. His soiled clothes billowed, revealing the sharp, lean lines of his body beneath. A chilling memory flashed in Elara’s mind – a twisted, ancient oak, said to grow in the deepest parts of the Ashwood forest, its branches gnarled like skeletal fingers, its sap a dark, viscous red, as if it bled. A primordial, almost savage strength emanated from him. Two years ago, she had seen Arthur for the first time, a man confined to his bed. A month ago, he had stirred, a flicker of humanity. Now, he was splattered with blood, a living testament to a darker, older world. “Arthur…” His voice, a low rumble, broke the silence. “Name…” “What?” Elara’s voice was a barely audible squeak. “What… is your name?” His cold, unblinking gaze rested upon her, utterly unreadable. Elara’s mind raced, a frantic scramble for words, for a coherent thought. She was at a complete loss. What could she possibly say?

Chapter Ten: The Somnolent's Affliction