A heavy rain crashed against the window panes of Dr. Lecter's office. Hannibal sat hunched over his desk, his face illuminated by only a small lamp beside him in the dim room. The world outside was dark, as he decided to stay late to finish his studies after his final patient had left. The date October 31st was written in the corner of the paper.

The rain might have been soothing to most, but the rhythmic pelting on the glass made his nerves twitch. He rose to play some music and drown out the white noise, then returned to his desk for a small break as he sharpened his pencil with a scalpel.

Art seems to validate the existence of most. Creation is the reason for creation. Art is inspired by an inner war to create a product of peace. Life imitates art.

The dimness of the room diminished as an odd green light filled the dark spaces. Hannibal furrowed his brow and carefully set aside his instruments, rising from his chair warily. His door swung open and a dark clothed man stood in the doorway ominously, the green smoke rising and billowing about his ankles.

Hannibal spoke calmly. "I am not seeing anyone right now. I'm going to have to ask to you to leave and possibly reschedule."
"I am not here to converse with you about my problems, sir, but about yours." The man replied.

Hannibal scoffed with displeasure at the stranger's impolite disregard. "Please, my office is not open. Return again tomorrow if you'd like."
The man stepped forward through the fluorescent cloud, taking long, serpentine-like strides and revealing a handsome, smirking face flanked by long, black hair.

"My name is Edward Mordrake," he greeted, "and I have been summoned here tonight."
"Summoned?" Hannibal questioned, raising a brow.
The man nodded. "I suppose you haven't heard of me."
"You've supposed correctly." Dr. Lecter retorted.
"Allow me to tell you my story."
A playful gleam shone from Edward's blue eyes as he removed his hat and turned to expose his second face. Hannibal was taken back for a moment, but kept his expression stoic.

"There is no time for that now, Mr. Mordrake." Hannibal interjected. "I advise you to leave now."
Edward gave a trace of a grim smile. "Oh, there is plenty of time, Doctor. I have all night. My intention is to take someone back with me to the other-side. Perhaps it'll be you."
"Perhaps not. You're being incredibly rude, Mr. Mordrake, and I will not allow it." Hannibal went towards the door to slam it in his face(s), but as soon as he gripped the handle, a ghostly troop of freaks appeared and seized him, dragging him violently into a chair. The group huddled around him, pinning him down against his will.

"Come now, Doctor. Relax for a moment. You're so accustomed to hearing the pains of others. Let me hear your pains. Reveal your darkness to me."
"I have nothing to confess." Hannibal growled, the veins on his neck bulging as he struggled against the hands of the freaks.
"Don't waste your time lying to me, Doctor. I've been summoned here for a reason and my demon knows it. Your darkness is apparent and it's best you tell me now before I have no choice but to force it from you myself."

Hannibal hesitated, glaring at the apparition.
"Both of my parents were dead." He began. "My sister and I were orphans. As the older brother, I was her guardian."
The pressure eased slightly on his body, so he lunged again against the phantoms. He was quickly slammed back down.
"Sit. There is more." Edward urged, "Tell me your story."
Hannibal sighed with frustration then unwillingly continued.
"Her name was Mishca," he began, giving a brief summary of his childhood. Edward analyzed Hannibal's face for a moment. He was completely stoic, yet he noted the mourning light that flickered in his cold eyes. There was a deeper sorrow behind the blank facade he gave.

"I'm not satisfied with that story, Doctor. We both know there is more that you aren't telling me. What is it that causes you to reek so strongly of melancholy, like rotted flesh? What makes your heart so cold? What makes you fearful to confess your sins to me?"

His eyes shifted across the room, reluctant to tell the stranger anything. Realizing that he had no other choice, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, as though a secret film projected under his eyelids, the darkness of his past scratching at his tear ducts. He told him everything.
"I continued my life without her, still reliving it everyday. I became wealthy, educated. I became a doctor. Nothing…nothing was the same. I thought of death often. It seemed to follow me wherever I went."

Edward furrowed his brow with an interested sympathy, patiently listening to his tale. Hannibal continued until he finally, slowly opened his eyes, meeting Edward's gaze. His stare was vacant and his voice was hollow. "I became a murderer. A cannibal."

His expression never faltered. He gave his confession simply and that was all. Edward's expression changed to one of disgust, staring in a revolted shock.

"I eat the rude. I take what I need, and I eat them. I serve them. Holidays. Dinner parties. Whenever the mood strikes me. I create culinary art. Food is an art, is it not?"
Edward did not reply.
"I've had many good reviews of my dishes, perhaps you would enjoy dining with me sometime." He spoke with a biting sarcasm.
"I would never partake in any sort of sick celebration with you, sir."
"Are you satisfied?"
"Yes."
"Do you see?"
He did not speak, but stared in awe at this monster disguised as a man.
"Take me away, then. Kill me. Death is a comforting thought."
Edward lowered his eyes at him for a moment, contemplating, the demon murmuring furiously at the back of his head.

"I do not feel sorry for you. I feel disgusted for you." Edward stated. "You are an intelligent man, well aware of your crimes. You are not deserving of pity. You are not the one." He turned from Hannibal and advanced towards the door. "Release him."
The troop of freaks threw Hannibal back into the seat, leaving his arms covered in red marks. The green mist swallowed the group whole and they disappeared into the night in utter silence, just as quickly as they came.
Hannibal hunched over in his chair and massaged his face gently in his hands. These hands, he thought, are stained so deeply, seared with scars. The veins bulge as though they want liberation from the tainted skin that contains them.