In the year 1792, during the peak of bloodletting as a common medical practice, young Catherine Miller was sent to apprentice at the St. Healer's Infirmary, a grim, candlelit place known for its peculiar successes—and even more peculiar failures.
Catherine, 14, was eager to learn. Her mother had died of fever, and her father believed that sending her to the infirmary would secure her future. But from the moment she stepped into the building, an uneasy feeling clung to her. The air reeked of iron and decay, and shadows seemed to move in the corners of her vision.
The head surgeon, Dr. Elijah Voss, was an imposing man with a severe face. His eyes seemed hollow, his voice like the hiss of escaping steam. He welcomed Catherine with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You'll assist me in the bloodletting room tonight," he said, his voice sending chills down her spine.
Catherine quickly learned that the infirmary had a dark reputation. Patients whispered of the "red tide," a mysterious ailment that struck those who entered the bloodletting room. They would vanish shortly after their treatment, and no one ever found their bodies.
That night, Catherine stood beside Dr. Voss in the bloodletting room. The walls were darkened with stains, the floor sticky beneath her shoes. On the table lay a frail old man, trembling as Dr. Voss prepared his tools.
"Observe closely," Dr. Voss said, slicing a vein with practiced precision. The blood poured into a basin, dark and thick. Catherine tried to steady her nerves, but she couldn't shake the sensation that the room was breathing—walls pulsing in and out, as though alive.
As the man's blood flowed, the air seemed to shift. A low humming sound grew louder, vibrating through the room. "Do you hear that?" Catherine whispered.
Dr. Voss didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the basin, where the blood began to ripple unnaturally, as if disturbed by invisible fingers.
Suddenly, the old man sat upright, his eyes wide and unseeing. His lips moved, but no sound came out. The humming grew deafening, and the candles flickered violently. Then, with a final gasp, the man collapsed back onto the table, lifeless.
Dr. Voss leaned close to Catherine, his face twisted in an expression of almost manic glee. "It's working," he muttered.
"What's working?" Catherine demanded, stepping back.
He didn't answer. Instead, he scooped the basin of blood and poured it into a small glass vial, sealing it with wax. "You'll see soon enough," he said, handing her the vial.
Over the following nights, Catherine's fear grew. Patients continued to disappear, and the humming sound lingered in her ears long after she left the bloodletting room. She began to suspect that Dr. Voss wasn't curing anyone but was instead feeding something—or someone.
One evening, Catherine couldn't resist her curiosity. She crept into the bloodletting room alone. In the dim light, she noticed a trapdoor beneath the table. The wood was warped and damp, and strange symbols were carved into it.
Her heart pounding, Catherine pried the trapdoor open. A gust of foul air escaped, and she gagged. Below was a dark pit, its depths obscured by swirling shadows. The humming sound rose again, louder than ever, as if calling to her.
"What are you doing?"
Catherine spun around to see Dr. Voss standing in the doorway, his eyes glinting with anger—and something else.
"You weren't supposed to find this," he said, advancing toward her.
"What is it?" Catherine demanded, backing away.
Dr. Voss smiled, his teeth gleaming unnaturally in the candlelight. "The blood isn't wasted, my dear. It sustains them."
Before she could react, a long, skeletal hand reached out from the pit, grasping the edge of the trapdoor. Another hand followed, and then a head—a grotesque, elongated skull with hollow eyes that glowed faintly red. The creature hauled itself up, its body impossibly thin and dripping with what Catherine realized wasn't shadow, but congealed blood.
"Help me!" Catherine screamed as the creature lunged at her, but Dr. Voss didn't move. He simply watched, his face serene.
The next morning, the staff at St. Healer's Infirmary found the bloodletting room empty. Dr. Voss was gone, and so was Catherine. The only sign of their presence was the overturned table and a pool of blood on the floor.
The infirmary was abandoned shortly after. To this day, locals claim that on quiet nights, you can hear a low humming sound coming from the ruins—and see a young girl wandering, her hands stained red.