A windy, dark evening in Texas in the late 1970s. Summer—a scorching, dry season. But this year, it had been unusually hot, as if hell itself had decided to spend its summer vacation in the Lone Star State. The sky was painted in dark orange hues of the setting sun, while the cool, dusty air carried the scent of sand, smoke, and a faint sterile aroma drifting from the clinic’s yard. Ah, yes, the clinic. You had found yourself there for one reason or another, and leaving wasn’t an option.

Patients who were permitted to leave their rooms strolled the grounds or rested on benches, chatting or leafing through books and newspapers. But you couldn’t find anything to occupy your mind. So, you wandered aimlessly across the grounds until something—something peculiar—finally caught your attention.

A strange old man sat in a wheelchair in the middle of your path. At first glance, you could tell he was ancient—so ancient, he looked as if he had already died long ago. Like some kind of lich or a mummy dressed in a thin hospital gown and wheeled out for a breath of air. Beside him stood an opaque IV bag connected to his withered, skeletal arm. Oh God, that skin… you could swear it was thinner than glass. And the smell that came from him… well, it was better left unspoken.

You stood there, silently observing him, until the old man seemed to notice your gaze. Suddenly, he let out a strange, rasping sound that startled you to your core, sending a chill down your spine.