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From the Office of Doctor Albert Melencoch,

Nephew,

It is with a trembling hand that I type these words out, in hopes that my message reaches someone, anyone. I fear it is too late for me, let alone what remains of my sanity. I shall try and relay my words as best as I can recall from these past months, in hope that you may be able to not make the same faults I have.

As you know, I am a doctor of psychiatry that specializes in aiding Schizophrenia patients. The following words may seem to counteract all sense of reason and sense, and for you or anyone who you choose to show this to, gander upon these phrases and call me mad outright, I shall not blame. It is hard to tell the difference anymore.

For those unaware of me or the pursuits that I have passionately penned over my many years, I have tended to and aided many of those who have lost sense of right and wrong due to illusions of their own mind. Sanity, reason, logic, they are the core of my profession and along with formal medicine, are the products that I sell.

I shall recall my latest patient, D-0094386, or Seth Andersson, a short, stout, bald human man in his mid-forties. He was by far the most trouble of patients that I have had in my entire career. When I first met him, he was shivering in a room completely dark, terrified of even the faintest hint of light touching his form. I will add that light did not physically harm him, it is more that he had a form of photophobia, a fear or sensitivity towards light.

Upon speaking to him first, I had to engulf myself into the black abyss that was his holding cell for all intents and purposes. It was a solid box, with no windows or lanterns, and little furniture beyond the bed and the few soft objects that were retained in the room--per his request and for safety measures.

He spoke of his life, and where his troubles began, where he started seeing things. I was quite encapsulated in his story that I dare say I had forgotten to turn the recording device on for most of the initial interview. His words were... Troubling for a sense, leaving a faint chill down my spine of piercing depravity, the dank cell dripping a trickle of dirty water from the roof to the floor, where it drained through cracks in the darkened floor.

His words were chilling to me, beyond my own, I am rather fortunate to say--for I do not wish to inflict the same sensation upon the denizens of this galaxy, or others.

I would, of course, visit him time and time again, his words becoming more lucid as he repeated them over and repeatedly, almost as if it were a core of corrupted memory scalded deep within his very being.

I shall relay, in the best terms that I can, a summary of his troubling tale, which at the time seemed like a relatively trifle affair--musings of yet another patient that I, myself would have to go notes over with several other professionals in psychology to delve the true meaning and manner behind them.

He spoke of shadows, and the blend of light and dark that permeates thoroughly throughout life, speaking of those without them and those in which had many stalking them. He, himself noticed his own ghastly ghost groping his shuddering form, making images that he himself was not reflecting off any source of physical light.

At first, he told me he did not believe his eyes, that it took him months before something dark happened, in his home, by the fireplace nearing eleven at night. I remember distinctly that he had went into a thorough spasm and had passed out from something that seemed rather unusual.

His words haunted my dreams, like some patients' do from time to time, however the lucidity and luscious details that he gave me allowed my mind to run wild with the concepts that he portrayed.

During the fateful eve he spoke of, he saw his own shadow, standing in front of him, staring into his blackened pupils. Perhaps, it was a fantasy of his own in that regard at the time, but I know better than to question his words now of all times.

Dozens of devious denizens of the twilight, trickled upon his abode, surrounding his ghostly apparatus, piercing it with their many shadowy forms, slashing and shredding it consistently without much reason that he could detail.

It was days later that he was admitted to the sanitarium where he now resides, found near the end of his days in the chair with a dead fire before him, scratches, scrapes and claw marks engrossed over his entire form, which no biologist was able to discern the dastardly creature which had engraved such foul, unworldly markings upon his body.

I had visited the poor, unfortunate soul for several more sessions, each moment that I was with him, I introduce a slightly more luminescent light, keeping it far away at first, but slowly making him more adjusted to it.

It was an agonizingly awful process, but he did make progress to the point in which he was able to walk out his cell door for several moments, before noticing that a lamp was on and darting back inside.

I had taken him out, along with several guards, on a stroll in as pitch black of a night as I could think possible at the time, the only light being the luminescent lantern of the great Luna above. Each night he became slightly more of ease, and each night, I became warier, seeing the form behind him with rips and shreds in its terrible presence.

My tenureship had ended, and my time with D-0094386 had gone, yet the memories of each session burned into my immortal being. Each night robbed me of sleep as the details became more and more alive, fervent with lucidity that ate at my desire to continue my profession, and to do anything in general with slow, measured paces.

I had, it seemed initially, come down with a minor case of depression--a standard for anyone in the profession, that often-required medication and a counselor in order to handle post-haste. However, something minute in me... Something minuscule had kept me from going. To this moment, while my form is shaking, and my mind is racing, I still am not able to come up with a conclusion as to why I had conceded the normality of this.

After months of tortuous nights and sleepless days, I proceeded to call the facility in which my patient had resided. It seemed, at least to me, that I was beginning to suffer a symptom of his delusions and I wanted to check up on his well-being for my own sake. He... No longer breathed, for his esophagus was shredded like the fangs of a demon shredding the corpse of its prey.

I wanted to check up on his health for my own sake. He... No longer breathed, for his esophagus was shredded like the fangs of a demon ripping into the corpse of its prey, without a shred of dignity or respect for the poor soul.

This brought chills to my very heart and mind, noting that the facility was world renowned for its rehabilitation and care for its patients. Weeks without more than a few hours of complete darkness for sleep ailed me, hearing whispers of the damned and soon to be damned around me.

I feared, at the time, and perhaps... Even still now, as I do not know how sane my words are, that I had fallen victim to a similar disorder, plagued by the posthumous thoughts about the deceased prisoner in the facility.

It was around such time, that I noticed my own ghastly figure do things that I had not done myself.

For weeks, I saw, and, I am still unable to believe my vision, the shadows dancing, mocking me. Not only of just my own, but of others that I passed by. I became warier of the light, like the one patient I attended to almost a year ago.

I resolved to resign from my position, citing mental health as a reason for my time away. The condition was worsening to the point that it frightened me to go to even my front door, in fear of seeing the ghostly apparatuses of others near me.

The whispers that came, became clearer. The tale that was told, became more truth. If a deity does exist, and has any shred of mercy, I beg of that entity to never allow another soul to suffer from this sickness that now permeates my form.

And now, we reach the present time, and present space, where I hope my final message reaches someone, anyone, for I have isolated myself and long became a hermit in hopes that the plague of shadows that surround me ceases its assault on my mind, for every day I wander about, I see the mists of the forgotten shades stalk me forevermore.

And even as I write this, dozens, perhaps upwards of even a hundred, are around me. I can feel them. Their chilling stares, their icy hatred for sentience that is unlike their own, if they are in fact sentient.

I fear that tonight will be the last for me, for their wretched whispers and wicked claws scrape against the wooden floors and metal walls of my abode. They are closing in, ever so slowly. I just hope that my letter reaches you, nephew, for I feel that I shall no longer be myself soon.

Yours,

Uncle Al