"Do you hear the whisper men, the whisper men are here. If you hear the whisper men, then turn away your ear."Bethlam Royal Hospital: An asylum for the insane, the pinnacle of psychiatric aide in the year of eighteen-ninety-three. The first of its kind, dedicated to curing with science the illnesses of the mind. The terrors that crept up in men's minds, the shadows of fear that haunted them- These were the festering wounds that this place would attempt to heal, with the most modern of techniques. But as time passed, the asylum would gain another name. A name more fitting with how it had transformed from bright beginnings to dark circumstances. At every hour, patients screamed or begged indeterminably. The workers were jaded, jeering at the freaks in a nightmarish ruckus turning it from a hospital to a zoo. By night, the screams if anything rose up higher. The crackle of electric therapy and the howls from the ice cold dunks was enough to get on anyone's nerves. Bedlam now ruled the asylum, from its doctors to its patients.
And so Bedlam it became, in name and in purpose.
For patient no. 2378, it was far more preferable to what he knew to be out there. Every night, whispering the same stanza under his breath as he huddled in his corner away from the door. He had not seen natural light for well over a month. His eyes were shot and red, his hair torn out by the roots in his fits. In form, he was gaunt and looked like a living skeleton. But it was always the eyes you returned to. They flicked around his cell, like a rat in a trap who expects the cat to return any minute.
He knew what was coming for him.
"Do not hear the whisper men, whatever else you do. Do not hear the whisper men, for they'll stop...And look at you."He paused and strained his ears. Something had gone wrong and he realized what it was. The asylum, all the background noise.
It was gone.
He looked up and screamed, pressing himself in the corner.
The Whisper Men were here. He whimpered and hid his gaze, clutching his hands over his ears.
"I don't have it. I don't have it! Tell your masters that!"
To no avail, he could hear them. A slithering, sinister voice that seemed to hit directly into his brain like a snake sliding down his throat.
"The Box was yours, you had before. Return the Box, we'll say no more."He wrung his hands and looked up pleadingly, to those merciless pale faces. He began to sob, heaving as he shook his head.
"I don't have it! Not anymore! Its gone, gone for good! I don't want to see it again! I don't want to see you! Why can't you leave me alone?!"
Silently, his tormentors looked down before seeming to glance at each other, with eyeless sight as they came to an agreement.
"The answers lie within his mind. We'll wring it out, if it takes all time."They turned back to the man and slowly, stepped forward in unison. The man shuddered and tried to press back into his corner.
"No- No, stay away! NO! HELP ME! SOMEBODY, HELP ME! NO!!"
Before long, his screams split the night to join in twisted harmony with the rest of the tormented souls.
Just another night in Bedlam.
-------
"Dead."
The director rolled his eyes behind the coroners back.
"Thank you doctor for that professional opinion. But what we want to know, is what killed him?"
The Coroner shrugged and spoke, gesturing all around.
"Well, there's no sign of a suicide weapon. No poison from what I can surmise. Nothing he ate seemed to disagree with him. My opinion?"
He brushed his hands and rose from the corpse, prompting a shudder from the director, who was no stranger to gruesome.
Death had rendered this living corpse into a twisted mockery, rigor mortis fixing the patients face into a deathly mask of fear. The coroner shrugged again.
"He died of fright. Any next of kin? Who was he?"
The Director waved irritably.
"Just some pawn shop owner. Came in a month ago, blabbering about demons. Wanted us to lock him up. Well, he seemed genuine enough so we did so. Never got better, so we took him down to solitary."
"I'm still going to need a name." The coroner said patiently. An aide presented a file with a meaningful cough and the coroner brightened. "Ah, thank you."
He flicked his gaze over the name and chuckled, writing it up.
"Seems damn disrespectful to chuckle at a time like this. But really."
The coroner looked down at the corpse cheerfully, watching as it was removed before asking aloud.
"What sort of a last name is Lemarchand?"
