The Dark Shadow Of The Fiend

"The world is all a carcass and vanity, the shadow of a shadow, a play, and in one word, just nothing."—Michel de Montaigne

It was the spring of 1839 when I arrived in Amsterdam by train from Haarlem. I was in Holland to attend an international conference hosted and presented by the esteemed doctor and professor, Hendrik Van Hassel. He was a highly reputable scientist, whose studies and discoveries in the field of phenakism had galvanized the scientific world.

His advanced theories promised to change the course of phenakism, but I would soon alter that course anew, reshaping the general pattern of thought that had been deduced before — steering it into my own unimaginative and apocalyptic glimpse of the future. I listened attentively to his eloquent speech, which detailed his studies and discoveries concerning phenakism —the study of the human mind through the skull. I admired his brilliance and his dedication as a perceptive man of science.

Once the conference had concluded, I waited in the foyer, hoping to speak with him at length. When he finally appeared, I introduced myself, though I was not certain he would have the time to entertain my inquiry—he was a very busy man.

"Dr. Van Hassel, pardon the bold intrusion—if you have a moment, I must speak with you at once. I am Dr. Joseph Van der Burg of New York, sir, and the matter is both urgent and delicate."

He responded, "From America, you say, Dr. Van der Burg? You are very far from home. I can hardly believe you travelled all the way to Holland merely to attend my conference—or simply to speak with me."

I smiled and chuckled. "No, sir, I was in London previously, before my arrival in Amsterdam."

"Then, my good American doctor, what is this pressing matter you need to speak to me about?" Dr. Van Hassel asked.

"What would you say, Professor Van Hassel, if I told you that I am currently investigating a theory— one that could not only cure madness, but also sever every terrible nexus tied to this so-called incurable mental disease?" I replied.

At first, his reaction was a mixture of doubt and bewilderment. Then he appeared completely intrigued.

"And what exactly is this investigation you're proposing, Dr. Van der Burg?"

I answered, "Perhaps we should discuss this matter elsewhere, in private, Professor."

He looked into my eyes and said, "This must be a very important matter, Dr. Van der Burg."

"Indeed, Professor."

"Come, follow me, Doctor. We can speak as we walk. I am heading towards the Blauwbrug Bridge, by the River Amstel. That should give you enough time to disclose your significant revelation."

"You mean the river that flows through the heart of the city?" I asked.

He nodded in affirmation and said, "Yes."

I proceeded to elucidate what I was investigating at the time.

"I am a man of science, Professor, and I consider myself a champion of the cause of genetic evolution. My entire life has been dedicated to the advancement of science and invention—even more so since the death of my late beloved wife, who succumbed to the horror of madness. I have devoted endless years to preserving her memory. For years, I have studied the components of human physiognomy, including the brain, and I have reached a conclusion based on my inference—one that has formed the basis of my theory: that the cure for diseases imposed or caused by mankind lies within the study of the human body itself."

"Theory? Exactly what theory have you surmised, Dr. Van der Burg?" He asked boldly.

"Although it remains an unproven theory for now, it is, beyond a doubt, feasible in the end, Professor," I interjected. "The possibility of eradicating not only madness, but eventually diphtheria, cholera, typhoid—or any plague, for that matter—is of immense significance."

As we continued walking steadily, my discourse seemed to arrest his interest even more, captivating his heightened perception. We spoke at length about my theory, sharing our audacious opinions and observations privately. We were both receptive to each other's interpretations on the subject, and both extremely eager to further the advancement and cause of science.

Not all of my concepts were shared or accepted by Professor Van Hassel. Yet what we ultimately agreed upon had superseded our trivial disagreements and allowed for the possibility of continued correspondence abroad. Our fascinating parley abated once we reached the street that led to the Opera House ahead. He mentioned that he had a personal engagement with his wife and amicably excused himself. Indeed, he was a man to be respected, and his contributions to scientific research were equally to be revered.

Afterward, we shook hands, and I noticed progressively that his earnest impression of me was more propitious than unpleasant. This proved to be an inspiring benefit to my important trip to Europe.

The following morning, I boarded a ship from the dock of Amsterdam to New York, leaving behind the Dutch city that had enamored me with its abundant beauty and rich history.

During the voyage, I pondered wisely and thoroughly the enlightened conversation I had shared with Professor Van Hassel. His extraordinary words continued to resonate within me, compelling me to further explore my studies and hypothesis regarding the strong possibility of a veritable cure for madness, as I had contemplated many times before.

Upon my return to America, I was welcomed by my fellow compeer of science and loyal friend, Dr. Charles Chadsworth—an Englishman whom I had met at Princeton while he was traveling from England. He had since relocated to America and become a noble citizen of the country.

I had invited him to join me for dinner, so that we could discuss my trip to Europe—particularly my journey to Amsterdam, which he was impassioned to hear about. His dear wife, Emma, had been an intimate friend of Violet's, and our families had been well embedded in New York society for decades. They were frequent visitors to the estate and had often enjoyed the picturesque landscape of the remote area.

My quaint home was a solitary mansion situated behind the Hudson River, in the small town of Tarrytown, New York. The house was known as the Tarrington Mansion. It was a Gothic structure of limestone, adorned with impressive turrets and a four-story tower that rose above the small, ornately designed windows below.

There was a magnificent garden of blooms, with linden trees and rolling lawns accented by protruding shrubs, within the estate. Inside, the house featured a glass-walled vestibule, two bedrooms, servant quarters, an office, a library, and a dining hall complete with a warm fireplace.

It was in the dining hall where we found ourselves after returning to Tarrytown. Around the dinner table, we began to converse on the one subject that most excited us—science. Despite the wearisome train journey from New York to Tarrytown, I still possessed enough vim and verve to carry on an extended conversation.

There was much of my memorable experience in Europe—and in Amsterdam in particular—that I wished to share with my good friend from England, but the conversation I had with Professor Van Hassel interested him the most. After all, we were both scientists and arduous adventurers.

"Thus, you discussed his recent discovery at length?" Dr. Chadsworth inquired.

"Indeed, and I, in turn, shared my own concept concerning the research I am presently undertaking," I replied.

His response was swift. "You don't mean that elusive cure for insanity you have spoken of ever since we were students studying medicine, long ago?"

"Exactly so. And the most compelling thing is that he did not wholly dismiss my theory. On the contrary, he was enthusiastic to know more. We cordially agreed to exchange our opinions and collaborate through continued correspondence," I rejoined.

"Really?" was all that he uttered.

"If Edward Jenner was able to create immunity to smallpox, then why should I not create a cure for madness? Just imagine how much better the world would be, from now into the future!" I ejaculated with fervor.

"I doubt I shall live to see that day, my friend," he said with a wry smile. "Nevertheless, as a man of science myself, I look forward to it, whether dead or alive."

He sighed, with a token of regret, before adding, "Unfortunately, I must take my leave. And I am certain you must be fatigued, after such a long and fastidious journey." He grabbed his top hat and departed.

Just before he crossed the threshold, I called after him, "Charles, that day shall be sooner than you think, my friend. You will see!"

That night, I was pensive, though my body was utterly wearied by the arduous journey across the Atlantic. Thus, I slept soundly until the early afternoon, when I was roused by the cheerful chirping of sparrows gathered near the window sill. Upon awakening, I busied myself with collecting the notes I had compiled in Amsterdam, intent on commencing the advancement of my research and theory.

I was deeply committed to the fulfillment of science in its purest and most ascertained form. My resolution was unwavering, and I was convinced that my solution would, in time, become incontrovertible. I had always been mindful of my critics and the ever-present specter of potential failure. Yet, I was absolutely determined to achieve my ultimate aspirations.

The day was to be occupied wholly with the satisfaction of my singular obsession: to discover the unthinkable cure for madness that I had long sought. The eventual answer would be gained only through the marriage of intellect and tireless diligence. Though my theory remained unproven, I was thoroughly convinced that I could manifest the crucial elements necessary to realize this elusive remedy.

All that remained was to ascertain the precise method that would enable me to bring my prognosis to fruition.

I deemed it prudent to keep a diary, recording both the progress of my experiments and the evolving precept of my theory. Even though I was fully aware that such records might expose me to presumptuous criticism and undue circumspection, I proceeded with conviction.

In the laboratory situated within the cellar of the Tarrington Mansion, I embarked upon the daunting task of implementing my elaborate experiments. If I could but trace the origin of all common illnesses and diseases to a singular pattern, I could, by experience and deduction, establish a precedent that would expedite a clearer and more efficient understanding of their function.

The source, I believed, lay hidden within the intrinsic nature of biology and anatomy.
The unique properties of the cell—long studied since the seventeenth century—were the keys. Since their discovery, scientists had endlessly debated the mysteries of cellular regeneration and the very notion of cells as the fundamental components of life. I was determined to decipher this mystery fully, and thereby, forge a new path toward the salvation of the mind.

The difference in structure between animal tissues and plant tissues was significant, as was the fundamental understanding of why red cells agglutinate in the first place. I had studied the complexity of the rete in human anatomy during my student days. The question now was how reliable this theory, combined with my own assertion of cell reproduction, could be when applied to pathology.

For weeks, I was entirely engrossed in my ongoing research and experiments, but every time I perceived progress, I was hindered by uncertainty and logic. I was resolute in my refusal to accept failure or omission. The days and nights were marked by frustration and exhaustion, and gradually, I could only grasp the visible tangibility of the cause and effect of illness, along with its lingering capacity.

Yet, this proved ineffectual and insufficient to achieve scientific relevance. It was essential to establish the sequence of progression and regression at intervals. To accomplish that, I would require a specimen.

I had previously studied the evolution and adaptation of plants to their environment, but this alone would not suffice for this endeavour. Despite that reality, I was prepared and fully aware of the difficulty I would face. My expectations were high, and I felt the goal was within reach. I focused on the disease that was most perilous and deadly at the time: phthisis. I recalled the words spoken by Professor Van Hassel daily, and the truth of what was known about phenakism. I was aware of treatments such as homeopathy and allopathy.

One day, I awoke to the idea of examining a dead corpse infected with consumption. I had desired to study the state of the body once dead, before complete decomposition and putrefaction. It was imperative that the contaminated corpse belong to someone of no prominence, so as to avoid any unnecessary inquiries or attention. The foreseeable challenge was the immediate procurement of such a body.

Where could I find a corpse without delay? I knew, as a physician, I could examine a living patient suffering from consumption at my discretion, but a recently deceased corpse was another matter entirely. A macabre idea had taken root in my mind and persisted relentlessly throughout the day.

I thought of the morgues in New York City. Thus, I instructed Peter, my faithful carriage driver, to travel into the city and visit the morgues until such a body could be located. I gave him money, enough to handsomely pay the mortician for his cooperation. I entrusted him with this significant task, confident that he would handle the matter with utmost discretion.

Fortunately, New York City was rife with pestilence and death. It took Peter but one day to find a recently deceased corpse at a local morgue and to return with it, as I had hoped. Upon his return, I directed him to carry the body, carefully wrapped in heavy cloth and a plastic covering, to the cellar at once. Afterward, Peter retired to his servant quarters, while I remained alone in my laboratory.

After preparing for my own autopsy, I set about discovering the probable cause of death and the severity of the illness that afflicted the unfortunate soul whose corpse now lay before me. I perfumed the body thoroughly beforehand, to keep the stench from pervading the laboratory. Then, with a steady hand, I made the necessary incision into the cadaver with my scalpel.

When I reached the region of the lungs, I discovered the severe deterioration that confirmed my suspicions: the man's lungs were utterly ravaged by infection. The damaging bacteria had consumed the tissue almost entirely. It was clear that the poor devil had been in the final, most devastating stage of his illness—beyond any hope of recovery.

The lips were dry and the corpse stiff, but preserved. I was extremely focused in my precision and deliberate in my accuracy. I carefully placed the lungs into a wax-sealed container, preserving the vital organ of the deceased individual, and meticulously identified the specimen I now had in my possession.

Soon, I began the painstaking examination of the blood cells from the scarred lung tissue under a microscope. It was evident, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the man had succumbed to consumption. The progression of the disease in his body suggested he had likely contracted it through close, intimate contact with an infected individual.

Further exploration of the samples was crucial—imperative, in fact—to determine with exactitude the nature of the specimen’s state after death. Yet, for the complete verification of my theory, I now required a living entity, a human subject, to prove the other vital aspect consistent with the fundamental principles of science. This individual would need to be not only healthy but particularly robust in both nature and constitution. It appeared to be a dilemma, though perhaps I was exaggerating the difficulty in my mind.

The following morning, I instructed Peter once again to venture into New York City, this time tasked with finding me a living specimen, one fitting the criteria I had set forth. That very night, he returned to Tarrytown with a gentleman who appeared to satisfy all of my requirements. I made few inquiries at first, asking only for the man’s name.

He introduced himself as Robert Sweeney, originally from Canada. He had resided in New York City for approximately five years, a detail he revealed openly without reservation. I provided him lodging for the night and assured him that no harm would befall him, promising to explain everything thoroughly in the morning.

When morning came, I calmly expounded the nature of the simple procedure I intended to conduct. Upon learning that I was a doctor, Sweeney exhibited no wariness or apprehension; rather, he seemed quite composed and compliant. His manner was one of trust and casual acceptance, and he showed no fear at the sight or mention of syringes.

Thus, I carefully drew blood from Robert Sweeney’s arm and thanked him sincerely for his participation, emphasizing that it was for the noble purpose of advancing a vaccine. He seemed indifferent to further details and, after a brief exchange of pleasantries, departed without protest. I then examined his blood cells meticulously under the microscope and, to my satisfaction, found nothing abnormal or unexpected.

Thus far, all was proceeding according to my carefully laid plan, and the contemplation of my experiment seemed within reach, executed with an efficiency I had scarcely dared to anticipate. This realization only deepened my fascination and stirred an intense yearning within me.

What remained as the next pivotal step in the process? I needed to study the brain of a madman. Herein lay a conundrum: a volunteer would be necessary—but who could be trusted? I could not entrust the integrity of my work to a stranger. Moreover, the question of ethics loomed heavily before me, as did the broader inquiry into just morality.

After a long deliberation, I made the conscious and weighty decision to pursue the brain I required. I fully understood the great peril I was exposing myself to, not merely in the act itself but also in the storm of controversy I would assuredly provoke should my experiment come to light within the scientific world. Indeed, it would demand both courage and caution in equal measure. I resolved that no detail, however minor, could be overlooked.

Night after night, I pored over the exhaustive notes I had taken during Professor Van Hassel’s lectures in Amsterdam, extracting the most critical points of his research and integrating them seamlessly with the findings and methodologies of my own burgeoning experiment.

I ensured that I would not be disturbed. Only Mr. Tillman, my faithful butler, would remain in the house during my late hours, tending quietly to the estate while I lost myself in my laboratory pursuits. Often, I would fall asleep among my instruments and notes, exhausted yet invigorated by the promise of discovery.

I was eager—perhaps overly eager—to reveal the progress of my experiment to Dr. Chadsworth the following day. The thought of his reaction, of his considered opinions and possible collaboration, played vividly in my mind as I worked through the night in anxious anticipation.

I told him forthrightly that the next step was, without hesitation, the observation and study of the mind itself in its derangement—that is, to observe the brain of a madman not merely in its post-mortem decay but, if possible, in its living frenzy. This bold declaration startled him, and I could discern a flicker of unease in his normally steady gaze. Yet, his scientific ardor overcame his immediate qualms, and he leaned forward in keen attention.

I explained that I intended to secure, through delicate and discreet means, a subject from one of the nearby asylums or hospitals—a subject whose mind had been overtaken by mania or melancholia. It was not an easy nor a risk-free ambition, but for the advancement of knowledge and the possibility of future cures, it seemed to me a necessary course.

Dr. Chadsworth nodded gravely, recognizing the audacity and the danger inherent in such an endeavor. He spoke of the inevitable criticisms, the ethical dilemmas, and the societal scorn that could result if we were discovered. Despite the warnings his mind must have conjured, his voice was steady when he offered his assistance. His curiosity and commitment to science matched my own, and I felt a singular relief to have a companion in this daring enterprise.

Together, we began to devise a plan. It would require not only careful preparation but also unwavering discretion. Every step henceforth would be critical, and every move could not be left to chance.

Thus began the most consequential phase of my experiments—a phase that would test not merely my intellect and skill, but the very boundaries of human daring and moral reckoning.

I did not know, and I could not give him a reasonable reply. He was thus forced to leave and return to his home. He had to take a train to Boston in order to attend a conference he was giving the following morning. Before his departure, he assured me he would keep this matter confidential and promised to visit me upon his return. He was adamant that I keep him informed at all times regarding my condition and any new revelations. I agreed, as I trusted him implicitly.

That night, I resolved to rest for the remainder of the day. Although I felt generally healthy, I did not wish to risk falling ill. I had been suffering from severe headaches and occasional lapses of memory, and I considered it a prudent measure to be cautious. During that week, as I took my daily strolls through the garden, Dr. Chadsworth continued to visit the house almost daily to discuss the progress of the experiment. Together, we deliberated at length on the implications of my scientific research. I was acutely aware of the potential ramifications of my discovery.

A month had passed, yet no clear path forward had presented itself. Had I truly achieved my purpose? And if so, was I prepared to attempt to cure the uncontrollable affliction that was madness? Was I being realistic in my assumptions—or was I succumbing to irrational optimism? Could a disease as complex and deeply rooted in the mind truly be cured by mere theory?

Much had been written and debated about this illness that had plagued mankind since its earliest days, yet the question remained: could such a profound disorder of the brain ever be fully healed? I needed to discuss this matter in depth with Dr. Chadsworth. Thus, I invited him once more to dinner. However, before his arrival, I sent a private correspondence to Professor Van Hassel in Amsterdam. I was eager to reveal the nature of my discovery to him and to continue our dialogue on the subject of madness.

Meanwhile, I discussed the matter with Dr. Chadsworth in the hall, where we had gathered to celebrate my birthday. When I asked for his opinion on the subject of madness, he appeared puzzled yet intrigued, eager to understand what I was contemplating.

It was then that I revealed my intention to further my experiment—finally confronting the subject of insanity. After all, it was insanity that had claimed the life of my beloved wife, Violet.

His reaction was as I had expected.

"Good God, are you implying that a mere concept could cure insanity?" He exclaimed.

"Perhaps it can," I replied. "Why can't we consider phenakism as a possible solution? That is all I am suggesting."

"No one has dared attempt it before. Surely, you are mindful of the complexity of the human mind?" Dr. Chadsworth asked cautiously.

"I am indeed," I affirmed, "and that is precisely the challenge of science and medicine—to explore and discover, as a phenomenon."

"Are you prepared for failure?" he pressed.

"Yes! And that, I am willing to confront if necessary," I answered resolutely.

We left the useful colloquy and debate for another day. I had concluded that I would proceed with the daring new experiment after further reflection. Time was consequential—the key to this evolution.

Subsequently, I stood alone in the main hall, gazing at the beautiful portrait of Violet that hung in the gallery, glistening beneath the faint gleam of the oil lamp. She was depicted in an elegant morning dress, with shirring on the upper sleeves and delicate trimming around the bust.

Her esthetic beauty radiated through her eyes, her smile, and her curly locks of hair, all framed by a muslin pelerine short cape that gracefully covered her shoulders. I was always drawn to her timeless pulchritude. It had been over a year since her untimely death, yet the tremendous guilt of my failure to save her haunted me every single day, with a torrential passion I was forced to accept unwillingly. In the end, she remained my supreme inspiration—the driving force compelling me toward success.

For this incredible experiment, I would require a specimen—not necessarily a living subject, but rather the object of my study: the human brain. Where could I find such a brain belonging to a deranged individual?
It struck me then—the madhouse.

This matter was delicate and would require my direct participation, knowing full well that a brain would not be easily acquired. Thereafter, Peter accompanied me on the journey to New York City. Once there, we located a madhouse tucked away in a surreptitious part of the city, a place I had scarcely known before.

After speaking with the steward of the institution and explaining that I was an influential doctor conducting research on the nature of madness, he agreed to provide me with the brain I was seeking. Although I was not fully apprised of the deceased's mental history, the brain would suffice for the purposes of my experiment. I informed the steward that we would return in the morning to collect it.

That night, we slept in one of the vacant hotels of the crowded city. When morning came, we returned to the madhouse and retrieved the brain that had been so kindly donated to us. Afterward, we journeyed back to Tarrytown, carrying the specimen I required. The brain, along with other preserved organs, was carefully stored in a wax-sealed container for preservation.

All I knew of the deceased was that he had been a man in his early forties—perhaps a foreigner, for New York City was teeming with immigrants. I waited until the following morning to commence the experiment. In the confines of my laboratory, I examined the tissues and cells of the brain through the microscope.

Once that initial analysis was completed, I meditated on the capacity of the brain and the corporeal body. Strangely, there were no immediate signs of abnormality, at least none beyond what I had initially presumed. Perhaps I had miscalculated in my ideal assumptions, underestimating the complexity of the mind’s pathology. For hours, I persisted, searching without discovering any real distinctions of madness. I waited—and yet, nothing revealed itself.

Where had I gone wrong?

In haste, I summoned Peter to fetch Dr. Chadsworth from his home. Upon his arrival, I recounted the experience in full detail. His reaction, however, was vague, much like the results of the experiment itself.

There was little more he could offer; after all, neither of us were true experts of the brain’s intricate workings. My thoughts turned to Professor Van Hassel, the distinguished scholar who had studied both the mind and the emerging theory of phenakism. Perhaps he held the key to the mystery that eluded me.

For now, I resolved to attempt a return to normalcy and reflect carefully on the uncertain days ahead. I had entered an indefinite territory, where only time could unveil what was to come. Though I had previously conducted studies on living patients using phenakism, this endeavor was different—marked by an eerie silence that was both promising and foreboding.

The following week, I received correspondence from Professor Van Hassel, informing me of his impending visit to New York City within two months. He was scheduled to lecture there and had expressed an urgency to meet with me personally to discuss, in greater depth, the analysis of my theories on the mind. I was gratified at the prospect of seeing him and finally conversing about the fruits of my experiments. Until then, I resolved not to conduct any further studies, choosing instead to focus on deepening my understanding of the mind’s intricate nature.

One day, as I washed my face with cold water, I happened to glance into the mirror—and froze. Staring back at me was not merely my own reflection, but a ghastly image of a man who bore a striking resemblance to myself, though twisted by a grotesque smile. He laughed, a soundless, mocking laughter that seemed to echo within the confines of my mind. The sight startled me deeply, leaving me to ponder the nature of the apparition.

At first, I attributed the vision to fatigue or stress. The image had lasted but a fleeting moment before vanishing without a trace. I dismissed it as a mere figment of my overwrought imagination.
I was wrong.

The image would return—and this time, it would not be silent. This was the day the world would meet the fiendish Mr. Randolph Tate, my altered ego.

It was during a visit to New York City when my first, uncontrollable episode of hysteria occurred, unleashing this dark entity within me. I was wholly unprepared for the horrors that followed that dreadful night, and I could not foresee the tragic consequences it would set into motion.

The episode began near a dimly lit street in Manhattan as I walked alone, on my way to call upon a dear friend. A carriage had rushed past me with alarming speed, and I narrowly escaped being struck down.

Still shaken but unharmed, I pressed on—only to find myself drawn into a shadowy alley. A mist began to creep along the ground, thickening with each step I took.

Then, from the fog, a voice spoke—a strange, disembodied utterance that chilled me to my core.

At first, I saw no one. But then, I heard footsteps—soft, deliberate—approaching from behind.

When I stopped to look behind me, there was no one there. Driven by an instinctual unease, I pressed forward, but again I heard the footsteps. They were closer this time, each step echoing with an ominous certainty. I waited, listening, until the figure finally materialized before me.

He emerged from the haze of mist, a shadowy silhouette, clad in an elegant black cloak that billowed about his broad shoulders. Beneath it, a white shirt peeked out, tucked into dark trousers. A black cravat circled his neck, and his boots were polished to a glistening sheen. His pointed shoes, light brown and gleaming, scraped lightly against the cobblestones. Atop his head, he wore a tall, distinctive black hat, and in his hand he carried a gold walking stick, its handle adorned with a grotesque gargoyle, leering with jagged features.

Though I could see every detail of his attire with unsettling clarity, his face remained hidden beneath the shadow of his cloak and the shroud of mist. I called out to him, demanding an explanation of who he was, but there was no answer at first.

Then, through the fog, he spoke my name—clear and unmistakable. The sound of it, hollow and strange, sent a chill down my spine. Without thinking, a primal instinct surged within me, urging me to flee. I turned and ran, stumbling toward the main thoroughfare, my heart pounding in my chest. I looked back, half expecting him to be in pursuit, but the figure had vanished as if swallowed by the fog.

I paused, catching my breath, my mind racing. There was no sign of the man anywhere in the vicinity. Relief washed over me as I realized the pursuit had ended, though a lingering sense of unease remained.

I continued on my way, my steps now hesitant, wary of the city's vibrant activity, which now seemed to pulse with an unsettling energy. The strange encounter clung to my thoughts, gnawing at my mind. Nevertheless, I pressed on, determined to reach my friend’s home. Fortunately, it was not far from my hotel.

When I arrived, I said nothing of the bizarre confrontation in the alley. Instead, I tried to bury the experience, focusing instead on our discussions about old university days. It was a welcome distraction, and the evening passed in pleasant conversation, though the earlier events still hovered in the back of my mind, like a shadow I could not shake.

The tension thickened in the air, and my breath caught in my throat as I stood frozen before him. There was no mistaking it—his face was the same face that had haunted my thoughts ever since that night in the alley. The same sharp features, the same dark eyes that now gleamed with an unsettling familiarity. It was as though I were staring into a twisted reflection of myself. A mirror that no longer reflected the man I knew, but something… darker.

"Dr. Van der Burg—Dr. Van der Burg!" He repeated, his voice deep and cold, as if the words were not meant to comfort, but to mock.

I stood paralyzed, my mind racing. This man, this doppelgänger, could not be real—could he? But the evidence was inescapable. The voice, the likeness, the very presence of him—all pointed to something unnatural, something incomprehensible.

"Who are you?" I demanded, my voice a mixture of anger and confusion. "What is this? What do you want from me?"

He remained silent for a moment, his gaze never leaving mine, his features inscrutable beneath that damned black hat. Finally, he spoke, his words slow and deliberate.

"Ah, Dr. Van der Burg," he said, his tone dripping with a cold amusement. "I am you. Or rather, I am the part of you that you have tried so hard to suppress. The part that you cannot outrun. The part that has always been there."

His words sent a shiver down my spine. "No," I whispered, more to myself than to him. "This is impossible. You cannot be—"

"Do not deny it," he interrupted smoothly, as though he were speaking to a child. "The mind is a labyrinth, Dr. Van der Burg. And what you seek to understand, what you have tried so desperately to control, is beyond your comprehension. Madness is not a thing you can simply study—it is an entity in its own right, an inevitable force. And it has found its way into you."

I recoiled, a cold sweat forming on the back of my neck. He was right. There was no escaping the truth of his words. His presence—this twisted, unholy manifestation of myself—was an embodiment of the very thing I had been trying to understand. Was this the result of my experiments? Had I created him? Or had I merely unleashed something that had always been waiting inside of me?

"What do you want from me?" I asked again, my voice trembling now with a mixture of dread and helplessness.

He stepped down from the carriage, his movements fluid, almost feline, as though he had all the time in the world. "I want nothing from you, Dr. Van der Burg," he replied softly. "I am you. And soon, you will understand that there is nothing more to be done. Your search for answers will only lead you deeper into madness. There is no escape from yourself."

I staggered back, horrified. The implications of his words were overwhelming. Was I truly losing my grip on reality? Had my obsession with phenakism, with unraveling the mysteries of the mind, driven me to the brink of my own insanity? Was I now face-to-face with the very thing I had feared all along?

As he stood there, watching me, I felt a deep sense of helplessness, a cold realization settling in my bones. The answers I sought—if they even existed—were no longer within my reach. They had been replaced by this dark reflection, this twisted echo of myself, a phantom that now seemed inescapable.

And then, as if to punctuate his words, he slowly turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows, leaving me standing in front of the hotel, alone with my thoughts and the unsettling truth that had just been revealed.

I stumbled into the hotel, my mind a whirlpool of confusion and fear. Was it too late to undo the damage I had caused? Was it too late to reclaim my sanity?

The answers were slipping away, and I knew, deep down, that I was not the man I once was.

When I asked why he was stalking me and demanded to know his identity, he simply drove away. I stood there in stunned silence, unable to do anything but watch in disbelief. I quickly entered the house and retreated to my room, still shaken by the inexplicable event. Inside, I poured myself a glass of water to calm my nerves and sat down on the bed, lost in thought. As I pondered, I suddenly heard a voice within the room. I couldn't tell where it was coming from, only that it seemed to echo from every corner. I looked around, but there was no one there.

I briefly wondered if the noise had come from the street outside. Yes, that must have been it, I reasoned, perhaps I had mistaken the origin of the sound. I took a deep breath to steady myself and then gazed into the mirror, checking the gauntness of my face. It was then that I saw it—the face of the fiend. My own face, twisted into a devilish smirk, its eyes locked onto mine. I closed my eyes, desperately wishing the horrid vision away, but it lingered in my mind, a malignant reflection of myself. No, this couldn't be happening. This was merely a product of my weary mind, I told myself—or so I desperately wanted to believe.

Then the voice spoke again, louder and clearer this time.

"You want to believe I’m not real, that I’m just a figment of your mind at its weakest point, Dr. Van der Burg. But I am real, and I exist within you."

"Who are you?" I yelled in horror.

"I am your altered ego. You wanted to study madness, to cure it, to experiment with the mind. Well, now you have one!"

"No, this can't be true!" I cried out, my voice trembling.

In a fit of panic, I shattered the mirror, the pieces scattering across the floor. In that instant, the image and the voice vanished, leaving an eerie silence in their wake. I was fortunate that no one in the hotel had heard the commotion—had they, they would surely have thought me mad. I sat there, stunned, trying to make sense of what had just transpired. Each episode seemed to be linked, as if all of this was somehow connected to my experiment.

Was I losing my mind? Had I brazenly defied the laws of ethics with my reckless actions? What could have triggered these strange occurrences? Was the relentless weariness I had endured responsible for this horrifying lapse in my conscience? Was I truly witnessing a subconscious manifestation so twisted and erroneous in my mind?

I tried to dismiss the disturbing episodes with the fiend and fell asleep, uncertain of what the next day might bring. When I awoke, it was already early afternoon. I quickly dressed and headed toward my friend’s house once again. As I approached, I saw him at the front door, preparing to leave. He paused when he noticed me and wore a peculiar expression on his face, as though there was something urgent on his mind. I could sense it clearly.

"Dr. Van der Burg, were you aware that my carriage driver, Monty, was killed yesterday?" He asked.

I blinked in confusion. "Killed, you say, doctor?"

"Yes, killed. His body was found two streets away from here," he replied, his voice tinged with concern.

"My God, how did he die? Who could have done such a thing?"

"Doctor, his neck was completely broken. It seems he was beaten and thrown off the carriage."

I felt a chill run through me. "I’m afraid this is a matter for the authorities to resolve," I responded, trying to steady myself.

He asked if I knew anything about the incident, given that I had been taken to the hotel the previous day. I had no idea who the killer was or why the carriage driver had been killed in the first place. It was a shocking revelation, but one I hadn’t been aware of before. There weren’t many details I could provide.

The truth was, I had no conscious knowledge of who had killed him. What about my terrifying encounter with the stranger who resembled me? Could these events be connected in the end? The need to confide in him about what had happened to me was suppressed by the irrationality of the situation. So, I said nothing about the incident from the previous night.

I returned to my hotel, my mind consumed by the mysterious death of the carriage driver. I needed distraction, so I had planned to attend the theater that night. But, I never went. Instead, I found myself involved in an even more dreadful episode, one that surpassed the terror of the previous. On my way to the theater, I encountered a brothel at the corner of the street, where a young woman—an alluring prostitute—stood. She tempted me, and that was all I remembered from that awful night.

When I awoke, I found myself lying on the floor of my room. Slowly rising to my feet, I noticed blood stains on my polished shoes. I had no idea where they had come from or how long they’d been there. A wave of panic swept over me as my thoughts fixated on the fresh blood. Then, I heard the familiar, ominous voice once again. The fiend had returned, taunting me with a wicked, fastidious dissimulation.

The apparition came and went at unpredictable intervals, never staying for long. I closed my eyes, hoping he would leave. For a brief moment, I thought it was just a terrible nightmare, but when I opened my eyes again, he was still there—staring at me with those piercing, evil eyes that seemed unyielding and relentless. At first, he said nothing—he just stared, and stared, until I could take no more of this madness. Finally, I screamed at him.

"What do you want from me? Go away! You are not real!"

"I am as real, as the blood stains on your shoes, doctor! You killed that poor prostitute, and had dumped her body in the water of the harbor. Don't you remember what happened?" He said.

"No, no, this is not possible. I came back to the hotel. I did not murder that poor girl. I am innocent, I tell you!"

"What about the mud on your soles doctor? Where did you get the mud from then, if you did not go to the harbor? Where did you get the scratch on the lower left side of your face?"

I had looked at my soles, and there was clearly mud left as evidence. I was aghast by this discovery, "How did I get mud on my soles, if I only went?"

I had paused before I said, "It is mud from the streets of the city. Yes, it must be this!"

"And the scratch?"

"I must have scratched myself."

"No, you want to believe that, so that your mind can convince you to not accept this unpardonable crime you have committed doctor," he responded in such a facile manner.

I did not know how I got the scratch or who had scratched me. His words abhorrent in nature perhaps had pertinence. This, I could not fathom an instance. This time I did not break the glass of the mirror, instead, I had covered the mirror with a sheet of the bed. It seemed to be the answer, as the voice and the image of the fiend had faded.

I was confounded even more with these insurmountable coincidences. I had to know whether or not the murder existed. How could this be proven? I thought then of the newspapers. I would find my truth in the printed word and it would not be to my enjoyment.

I stepped out of my room and the hotel, purchasing a newspaper from a vendor on the street. Eagerly, I hurried to read through the articles. On the second page, near the bottom, I came across a mention of a gruesome death—a prostitute’s murder. The details were irrefutable, and worse still, the body had been found by the harbor, precisely as the fiend had described. There was no denying that the death of this poor woman had occurred, but how could it possibly be connected to me?

Was I the murderer? Had I lost my mind and failed to recognize the unbearable truth? The only solution, it seemed, was to flee—return to Tarrytown before I became a suspect in the murders of both the prostitute and the carriage driver.

I began packing my clothes, convinced that if I stayed any longer in New York City, I would be arrested or, at the very least, questioned about the recent killings. But as I made my way toward the carriage, an odd-looking gentleman stopped me. He was a witness to the crime involving the prostitute.

His name was Mr. Wilkins, a short and stocky man. He informed me that I resembled the killer and threatened to immediately notify the authorities unless I paid him a large sum of money. It was clear—he was blackmailing me.

I responded firmly, unwilling to acquiesce to his demands. I made it clear that I would not be intimidated. When I stood my ground, he repeated his threat. I told him I would not be swayed by his bluff, demanding that he provide proof or verification. I dared him to give me a clear description of the killer if he was truly convinced it was me.

"The killer was a dapper gentleman, wearing fine garments just like yours. He was as tall as you, sir, with curled hair parted to one side, and sideburns and a mustache, just like yours. His shoes were as splendid as yours, too. He had an air of excessive hubris and spoke with a distinct southern drawl. He said his name was Randolph Tate," Mr. Wilkins replied.

"A southern accent, you say?" I retorted. "Then surely you are mistaken in your assessment, for as you can hear, my accent is distinctly New Yorker, Mr. Wilkins. And Randolph Tate, you say? Well, evidently, I am not he. My name is Joseph Van der Burg. Now, if you don't mind, please step aside!"

As I started to ascend into the carriage, Mr. Wilkins said one last thing, his gaze fixed on my walking stick. "The walking stick was exactly like yours, sir. It had a hook on the handle. Yes, the hook!"

"You are mistaken, Mr. Wilkins," I replied. "And if you persist in these baseless accusations, I shall have you arrested for slandering my good name."

Without a word, he tipped his hat and walked away. Though I felt a brief sense of relief in avoiding his threat, I knew the menace still lingered. My departure from the city would help alleviate that danger. I finally left New York, returning to Tarrytown, leaving behind the phantasmagoric incidents I had experienced. It was, in a strange sense, a blessing in disguise. I had tried to rationalize those strange events, but no amount of introspection could help me make sense of them.

The convoluted episodes that had been manifesting remained unsolved. What was I to do? Perhaps Dr. Van Hassel would be able to explain the vile nature of these occurrences. He was scheduled to arrive in New York City soon. How could I clarify the lapses of memory and the strange incidents that had plagued me?

As I pondered these thoughts, a knock at the front door interrupted my musings. It was Dr. Chadsworth, paying me an unexpected visit. I had to quickly recompose myself and ensure that Dr. Chadsworth did not see me in my heightened state of paranoia. I knew he would begin to question me meticulously.

I managed to regain my composure and greeted him. When he inquired about my trip to New York City, I replied that it had been a success and that I had thoroughly enjoyed the many fascinating wonders of the city. He did not seem to notice anything unusual in my demeanor or any signs of distress.

Seeing him and being at home for a moment seemed to bring me back to a semblance of normalcy. He asked if I had recently thought about continuing the extraordinary experiment I had been working on. I was careful to hide any traces of instability in my mental faculties. I told him that I had not yet made a final decision on the matter, but when I did, he would be the first to know. I added that I was still fatigued from the trip and needed to rest. He understood and mentioned that he would visit me in a couple of days.

In the meantime, I began to meditate on the vastness of the brain and its incredible potential. For an entire month, it seemed as though the intrusive madness I had been enduring had finally subsided. I thought it was gone for good.

I decided to abandon the experiment for the sake of my sanity. I was determined to rid myself of this despicable reality. Had the ordeal truly ended? I presumed the madness had been temporary, but I was sorely mistaken.

One night, I stood in the main hall, staring at the portrait of my beloved Violet, when the reprehensible fiend reappeared. His nettlesome voice began to echo in my ears, growing louder as he called my name repeatedly, tormenting me with a fervent passion. At first, I could not see him, only hearing his muttering utterances. The intensity of his voice grew until it consumed my every thought.

I demanded to know what he wanted, but the fiend continued to haunt me relentlessly. A deep sense of trepidation gripped me, forcing my ego into regression. My altered state took over, and I struggled with all my might and soul to resist, but it was futile. He was an inseparable part of me, a shadow that I could not escape. The fiend tried to make me believe that I was the true villain, the murderer—not him.

Unable to endure it any longer, I fled the main hall and ventured outside, walking quickly into the garden and through the forest until I reached the Hudson River. Gasping for air, I heard the sound of a carriage approaching. It was Dr. Chadsworth, heading toward the house. I knew I had to return before he arrived—I couldn’t let him see me in this state of despair. I ran as fast as I could, sweat pouring from my brow, until I reached the house.

Fortunately, I made it before his carriage arrived. I dried off my sweat, then stood in the garden, awaiting Dr. Chadsworth’s arrival. To my surprise, Professor Van Hassel was with him. Apparently, he had arrived in America earlier than expected. I was taken aback, a mixture of astonishment and elation filling me as I greeted them both as they stepped from the carriage. They did not seem to notice the symptoms of my hysteria.

I had mentioned to Dr. Chadsworth that Professor Van Hassel had arrived in New York City, but I never imagined he would come all the way to Tarrytown so soon. Dr. Chadsworth explained that he had met Professor Van Hassel at the dock in New York, and upon learning of their acquaintance, he had offered to bring him to Tarrytown.

Afterward, we entered the house and sat in the parlor, conversing about the research and experiment I had been conducting. I wasn’t sure if I should admit that I had no intention of continuing my work. The uncertain status of the project seemed to be in stark contrast with my earlier commitment. In the end, I confessed my inactivity, though their reception was less than satisfactory or plausible. They wanted to understand the truth behind my sudden change of plans.

Our conversation shifted from tentative admissions to outright disbelief. Finally, I disclosed the unsettling truth I had been suppressing. I was open about the strange occurrences I had experienced in New York City and the disturbing figure of the fiend, a presence I still couldn’t fully comprehend.

Dr. Chadsworth, whose friendship I had valued for decades, gave a brief and succinct response. Perhaps it was out of respect for me, but it was Professor Van Hassel who reacted more directly and subjectively. His response was analytical, observant, and deeply engaged. A sagacious man, he had long studied the nature of psychoneurosis. I shared with him the headaches and the pain I had been experiencing in the glabella. He was particularly interested in Mr. Randolph Tate, my altered ego. There was little I could say on the matter, as all I knew of him were his voice and his appearance. I had no understanding of where he came from or who he truly was.

Professor Van Hassel remarked that it was plausible my subconscious mind had begun to merge with my conscious thoughts. He asked me to describe Tate, and I did my best to offer whatever details I could. Then, he asked if he could meet this enigmatic and cold-blooded murderer. It was determined that in order to facilitate such an encounter with the charismatic Mr. Tate, he would either have to be summoned or would need to appear of his own accord. According to Professor Van Hassel, there were two viable options to make this happen.

One option was that I was in total denial and aberration, unable to accept the truth of my own culpability. The second option was that my altered ego was a mere illusion, and there existed another man—Randolph Tate—whose appearance was identical to mine. This, then, was the twisted reality of the situation. Could there truly be another killer who resembled me so closely as to be my twin? To resolve this, the experiment required me to be completely unconscious for its validity. Despite the heinous implications, I agreed, for I had to know the truth.

I was convinced that my madness was inescapable and that my vexation and guilt had grown unbearable under this disturbing duality. I had faced aversion many times in my life, but never in such a form or to such a damaging degree. The plan, though ambiguous, promised to uncover and confront the truth of the killer’s identity. The experiment would end with a conclusion that would contradict everything I thought I knew.

Within an hour, the daring experiment began, and the transition soon followed. I lay down on the divan in the parlor, and gradually, as the sedative took effect, I began to drift into sleep. The sedative's influence was swift and overwhelming.

When I awoke, my vision was blurry at first, but gradually cleared with each passing minute. To my dismay, the parlor was empty. I was puzzled by the absence of the others. Had I been asleep for hours, or had they simply left? Then, I noticed something that sent a chill down my spine—there was blood on my hands and face. How had this happened?

Clutched tightly in my hand was a sharp knife. Could I have murdered someone and been unaware of it? Panic set in as I stumbled through the dim corridors, but there was no sign of anyone. I made my way to the main hall, and there, sprawled on the floor, I saw a body. I couldn’t immediately tell if the person was dead or alive, but I approached cautiously.

As I turned the body over, my heart stopped. It was Mr. Tillman, my butler. He was unmistakably dead, his neck slit open, and blood was pooled all around him. The brutality of the act was horrifying—he had been murdered with savage intent.

My stomach churned as I continued my search. In the laboratory, I discovered yet another disfigured corpse. It was my dearest friend, Charles. The shock of seeing him in such a state was overwhelming. He had been stabbed multiple times, each wound inflicted with the same viciousness as Mr. Tillman’s.

Two dead bodies, people I held in the highest regard, lay within my own home. A whirlwind of dark speculations assaulted my mind, but the most terrifying thought persisted—had I killed them? Was it possible that I, in my unconscious state, had been the one to commit these terrible crimes?

The suspense became unbearable. I could no longer stand it. I had to find Professor Van Hassel, desperate for some answers, even if they were the most disturbing of all.

The revelation struck me like a bolt of lightning. I stood frozen in place, my heart pounding in my chest, as the full weight of the truth crashed down upon me. The fiend—Randolph Tate—was no mere figment of my fragmented mind. He was I. I was the killer, the monster, the one who had brought terror to my own home, slaying those who I had once loved and trusted.

The fiend—no, I—smiled wickedly, as if relishing the cruel irony of the moment. My hands shook uncontrollably, the bloodstains on them suddenly seeming more real than ever before. The knife clutched in my hand was still warm, still wet with the gore of my crimes.

Professor Van Hassel’s words echoed in my mind as I stared at my reflection in the mirror, his last breath haunting my ears. The fiend had been right. I was Randolph Tate, the very murderer I had sought to exorcise from my life, the demon I had tried so desperately to escape. The realization was suffocating, an abyss I could not crawl out of.

In that moment, I understood—my madness was not temporary; it had been brewing within me for far longer than I cared to admit. Violet’s death, my descent into this madness, the uncontrollable episodes, the murderous fits of rage—I had been living a lie, a lie I had desperately clung to in my futile attempt to retain my sanity. But now, there was no denying it. I was Randolph Tate, and the fiend was a part of me, an inescapable part of my identity.

As I gazed at the lifeless form of Professor Van Hassel, his body now motionless and silent, I felt a deep, gnawing emptiness within me. The horrific truth had been laid bare, and yet, it only deepened my torment. What had I become? Was there any redemption left for me, or was I fated to live out my days as a hollow shell, haunted by the ghosts of my victims?

I turned away from the mirror, my breath shallow, and made my way to the darkened hallway. The house, once a refuge, now seemed like a mausoleum, its walls closing in around me. I was alone. Alone with my madness, my guilt, and my irreversible fate.

The fiend had won.

As I sat there, my mind lost to the fog of my own torment, I could scarcely comprehend the full extent of the horrors I have committed. It is not just the bloodshed, the lives I have taken, but the depth of my soul that has been irreparably torn. The metamorphosis I underwent—the gradual decay of my humanity—has led me to this forsaken place. The island, the dungeon, the abbey—these are but physical manifestations of my own internal prison.

Mr. Tate, the devil I thought I could contain, still lingers in my thoughts like a shadow that will never fully depart. Perhaps it is not so much him who haunts me, but the truth of what he represents. He was my own dark reflection, the part of me I tried to suppress, yet he grew stronger with every sin, every act of violence. In the end, it was not he who consumed me, but I who allowed myself to become him.

The vision of Violet, radiant and distant, is the only thing that offers me a semblance of peace amidst the madness. Her ghost, if it can be called such, reminds me of what I once was—the man who loved, who sought knowledge, who yearned for greatness without losing his soul. That man is gone. And though I have banished Mr. Tate to the farthest corners of my mind, I am still a prisoner of my own making.

I no longer have the luxury of delusion. I know that I am beyond redemption. My actions—horrible, unforgivable—are etched into the fabric of reality, and no amount of penitence can undo what I have done. As I wait for my inevitable end, I am haunted not just by the faces of those I’ve killed, but by the realization that I am no different from the monster I once feared.

Perhaps I am already dead, in some sense. Perhaps the true torment is not in the acts I have committed, but in the unending burden of knowing what I have become.

I pray that in my final moments, when the veil between this world and the next lifts, I will find the mercy I denied so many others. Until then, I remain in this self-imposed exile, where no one can reach me. Not even Mr. Tate.

In the silence of my solitude, I await the judgment that will come, knowing that my sins will be my final inheritance.

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