Here you all go, next chapter. This one's a bit shorter, but the mystery deepens!

The universal equation: HS = Andrew Hussie.

...

Dr. John Egbert hardly looked like the sort of man who who ran a mental hospital. He was young, somewhere around Rose's own age, and entered the room with a broad grin on his face. He seemed the type of person who would be better off working at an ice cream parlor or handing out cotton candy and balloons to children at fairs, and somehow manged to keep his cheerful demeanor all through Rose's explanations of her symptoms. She knew that the information had all been written down and submitted before her arrival, but the good doctor had wanted to hear the words from her own mouth, so she begrudgingly complied. He had sat on the bed next to her and listened intently to every word, nodding occasionally and marking things down on a clipboard. Rose noticed the words dementia and hallucinations, which she recognized easily due to Dr. Egbert's large handwriting, and then one that she didn't and hardly noticed at all. It had been tucked away in the corner of the page, as though the doctor had been ashamed of writing it.

Grimdark. She'd never heard of the word, but could guess at its meaning. It sounded like the sort of expression to have its roots in gothic novels or the odd book about wizards. When she pointed it out, Doctor Egbert laughed and looked slightly flustered.

"I should have known you would be looking over my shoulder, didn't think that you'd catch that if I wrote it small. Of course, Jade - that would be the esteemed Dr. Harley - is always going on about how my handwriting is so chunky you could make soup out of it, she likes her jokes, you know. I'm a bit of a prankster myself, but no need to worry about that, we're all business here. Oh dear, I'm rambling now, aren't I." Rose nodded. "Sorry, sorry, I'm just not used to this sort of a sit-down, usually the other doctors handle it or the patient is too crazy to talk straight."

"So why are you investigated my case yourself, Dr. Egbert?" Rose asked. She had no desire to become the hospital's "special case resident" just because her visions were something slightly out of the ordinary. No doubt other people come in here all the time babbling strange things or claiming that the world was otherwise; schizophrenics and the like. The only difference between her and them was that she was actually aware that the darkness that came for her wasn't real, that the voices weren't really there. In some ways she was fascinated by herself, not out of narcissism but because she had always been curious about the peculiarities of the human mind. That was what had driven her to attempt a degree in psychology, an attempt which had failed after halfway through her first year she had realized that most of the people in the room - of which over half were women - would either fail to find a job or become the sort of therapist that ends up despising their life and the people they work with.

So she confined her psychoanalyses to her coworkers and kept her observations to herself, only letting the words come when a particularly desperate acquaintance - she was not quite so familiar with them as to consider them friends - needed a shoulder to cry on and an ear to wear away with their worries. But now, here she was with mental problems all of her own, a mind to study up close and personal. She imagined recording her view of herself and the world as she slowly descended into deeper denial. How would it appear to those who read it? A logical dissection of one's condition, or the ramblings of a madwoman? An interesting read whichever path was taken.

"Please, call me John, I don't mind. The case - it's interesting, I've never seen anything like it before - and I've seen a lot, I can tell you. Most people might not pay a lot of attention but when you spend five years in the business you learn to pick out the interesting stuff," the doctor replied, making more notes. Several of them mentioned coffee and a few seemed to apply to other patients. John was a busy man, apparently. Rose pursed her lips. Even in her thoughts it seemed strange to call the doctor by his first name, but she supposed she would adjust to it eventually, like she would have to adjust to so many other things: this room, the restricted freedom she would be allowed, the other patients. What would it be like to converse with madmen? Perhaps it would be more enlightening than the talks she held with ordinary people, who were so fascinated by mundane matters like coffee and the daily commute and who was a terrible boss. If anything it would at least be interesting; at worst, possibly mind-scarring.

"So what does Grimdark refer to?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, it's just a thing-"

"No, I want to know." Otherwise she would spend the next couple of hours puzzling out every possible meaning for the strange phrase. Grimdark. A combination of the words grim and dark, obviously used to describe something of either persuasion when an ordinary word would not suffice. There she was at it again, nitpicking. No wonder her mother had said she should be a writer, but you could never be certain of where you were going with a job like that. As it was she had studied computer science and taken up a position as a technical writer. Close enough, though still not, as her mother called it, "the real deal."

"Well, I suppose you do have the right to. I hope you don't mind if I talk for a while? I'll try my best not to get sidetracked."

"Of course." Anything, so long as it gave her even some information.

"It's not exactly the most scientific of explanations, but there was an interesting text I found back when I was taking a theology class at the university that mentioned something similar to this. I just thought I'd write it down. You know, consider all the possibilities. I mean, it's a ridiculous thought, I know, but sometimes I just can't help myself with these things, you know how it is. Find something that piques your interest and you can't help but pursue it." The doctor paused for a moment and Rose kept her expression neutral, not wanting to deter the explanation should John think she thought him a crackpot fool. However, Rose had met enough of those in her lifetime, and she recognised him as a man simply open to new ideas and passionate about his work. Here was a man who could help her, if he could manage to stay on subject.

"Do continue," she prompted.

"Apparently there was a tribe - Dersites, I think they were called - who believed that somewhere in the heavens there was a world called Skaia, and then beyond that a place called the Furthest Ring. It was some kind of paradox space, but I won't bore you with the science of that. Now, in this Furthest Ring were said to live great and terrifying gods who brought madness to all who looked upon them. Called Horrerterrors or something like that - yes, I know it sounds a bit funny but it's hardly a perfect translation. However, those who didn't go mad were given the gift of the Sight, of prophecy. And this is where it gets interesting.

"They also believed that some day there would be a prophet, called the Seer of Light, who would come and tell them of the coming of the gods. It wasn't specific on whether this was a good thing or not, but I guess the people were pretty happy about it. Apparently the Seer would be afflicted - or blessed, I should say - with visions of the gods, the ability to see spirits of the dead, and the gift of tongues. There was a name for this - not a perfect translation either, mind you - it was called going Grimdark." John spoke the last two words with an agonizing slowness, an attempt at dramatic effect, but all it did was make him seem as though he were trying to explain something to a small child. Rose knew that that was hardly his intention, but felt slightly miffed all the same. It reminded her a bit of her mother.

"And you think I'm going Grimdark?" she asked. John ran a hand through his hair and adjusted his glasses, letting out a nervous laugh.

"Of course not, this is all just stories and japery on my account. It's probably just a mild form of dementia, although I don't know if that makes you feel any better."

"Not particularly."

"Well, there is always the chance that you'll recover; we can try and find you some medicine."

"And then I shall be able to return to society as a well-adjusted, highly-functioning adult?"

"Sure."

Going Grimdark. It sounded ridiculous to her practical mind. She had read stories of other people who had gone mad and claimed to have visions, but was certain that most of them were either drunk, high, or actually insane. In the case that someone actually was a prophet, who would believe him? A priest somewhere on the other side of the States had claimed - twice - that the day was soon coming when all good Christians would be taken up into heaven. The Rapture, they had called it. Rose had not expected anything to happen, and as the fateful day passed by without incident, and the one after that, she had sat in her living room with a cup of coffee and a smug look on her face. Let others believe in this japery, as John had called it, but hers was a logical mind. To be sure she was fascinated by mythology and the supernatural, but that didn't mean she would believe it was true.

There was no way she could be this so-called Seer of Light.

If she allowed herself to consider the possibility any more then she would soon find herself believing it, and that would do no good for anyone, least of all herself.

Suddenly she became aware that John was speaking again.

"Now if you'll just excuse me, there are other patients I have to see and a boatload of paperwork to file. I'll see you later, Rose!" The doctor left the room with his lab coat swishing behind him, as if it were waving goodbye to the lonely patient.

She turned to investigate the flower on the windowsill more closely. It was currently the most interesting thing in the room, and she was determined to avoid unpacking her belongings for as long as possible. It wasn't that she had a lot stuffed into her travel-beaten trunk; a few sets of clothes, several thick books, and a couple of items of sentimental value and her knitting things hardly added up to heavy labor. It was that unpacking would make things final.

The flower in the little glass vase was a rose. Apparently Kanaya had a sense of humor, but maybe that was a good thing. Having a stoic nurse that spoke with clipped, even tones that sounded as though they had been part of her medical training would hardly have been enjoyable. Rose tried to remember all of the possible symbolism associated with the flower for lack of anything better to think about: love; beauty; passion. Nothing unexpected there, nor particularly interesting. It was only when you began to take numerology into account that the symbolism became something worth looking in to. Three roses were a symbol of guiding principles. A rose with seven petals represented order, presumably because in the Pythagorean theorem seven was equal to perfection. Eight petals meant rebirth and renewal.

Eight. Why did the number suddenly seem to have such significance?

Then she remembered: the Russian-speaker from down the hall. His or her sentences had consisted of only eight words, an orderly, rigid construction that suggested severe OCD. Kanaya had not gotten around to introducing her, due to Rose's sudden flash. Were the door not shut and locked, Rose would have gone to have a look for herself. She would have to wait for Kanaya to return before she did anything. Wasn't there a button or something that she could push to call the nurse up to her room? Most hospitals had them, after all.

She searched the room thoroughly, even trying to drag the dresser away from it's position against the wall, only to find it had been bolted to the floor. A sensible precaution. Her only discovery was a small newspaper clipping stuffed into the gap between the floor and the bottom of the piece of furniture. Someone had gone over the article with a red pen and a highlighter, circling words and adding their own notes in an illegible scrawl. Fire, death, and the name Aradia Medigo had been slashed through with s streak of bright yellow, and an arrow pointed from the name to another set of notes. Still illegible.

Where had the clipping come from? Presumably from the room's original occupant, but why had they done it?

Aradia Medigo - she had heard part of the name before, during her tour with Kanaya. The girl who had been mentioned to her only in the past tense. The girl who, according to this article, had perished in a fire at this hospital several months ago. It had been a small incident; a patient on the floor below her had somehow broken their lamp and set fire to the ceiling, burning through to the room above and killing both the occupant and the would-be arsonist.

The paper fluttered to the floor and Rose sat down in shock.

Dead?

She knew she had seen the girl, clear as day, standing at the window. Perhaps there had been a certain translucentness to her, but she had put it down to the bright sunlight streaming into the room. And perhaps the edges of the girl's grey skirt had been ripped and singed, but there was an explanation for that too. What there wasn't an explanation for was how, if the girl was dead, she had seen her. Or maybe it was just a look-alike, Kanaya's confusion feigned. The whole thing could be some sort of cruel joke to make her think she was losing it. But.

But.

John's words came back to her, unbidden: Apparently the Seer would be afflicted - or blessed, I should say - with visions of the gods, the ability to see spirits of the dead, and the gift of tongues.

The ability to see spirits of the dead.

No.

No.

This was ridiculous, this was impossible. She wouldn't allow herself to believe it. She was not going Grimdark, and that was that.

The door swung open, causing her to flinch. She grabbed the newspaper clipping and shoved it back under the dresser where she had found it, bruising her knuckles in the process. Kanaya stood in the doorway, a syringe in her hand.

"Just dropped by to take a quick blood sample," she said jovially, not noticing the look of shock that had permanently affixed itself to Rose's face.

"Ah-yes, very well." Rose stood and sat back down on the bed, proffering her arm and averting her eyes. She had no problem with shots ar the sting that accompanied them, but the sight of a needle being shoved underneath her skin made her stomach clench uncomfortably. There was a cold sensation in the crook of her elbow as Kanaya rubbed on some sort of numbing solution, and then a prick and a feeling of hollowness as the blood was slowly drawn out. Finally Kanaya straightened and smiled.

"All done."

Rose glanced at the red spot on her arm where the needle had gone in. The spot itched slightly, but that was all. "May I inquire as to what this is for?"

"Just to make sure your white blood cell count is at the proper level, and a few other things. We don't want our patients catching any blood diseases, or blood-transferable diseases, so we take weekly injections from all of our patients." It seemed a strange procedure for a mental hospital, but insofar Kanaya had not given Rose any reason not to trust her; and besides, what reason would she have to lie? She could have lied about Aradia, Rose reminded herself, but that was hardly a solid claim on which to base her accusations, if any.

"I was wondering if we could finish the tour of this section," she asked instead. "Due to the...incident I'm afraid I've been left wondering about the other patients." Another smile from Kanaya.

"It's about time for your floor to be let out in the yard. You'll get to speak with them personally, then."

It was an exiting, if rather frightening, prospect. But perhaps the other patients could tell her something more about the newspaper clipping, about Aradia, and about the hospital itself. She was lax to reveal her discovery to Kanaya, since seeing ghosts - or what she thought was ghosts - hardly registered as sane, especially when she had already attested to having strange visions. As the nurse turned to leave Rose snatched up the paper from beneath the dresser again, sticking it into the pocket of her skirt. She would show it to the others when she got outside.

As they descended down the stairs she glanced behind her and saw the schizophrenic - Karkat - staring suspiciously at her from behind the railing. Who knew what was going on in his mind. Perhaps he thought this all some sort of plot, saw her as some sort of infiltrator into his secret life behind the walls of the hospital. She smiled wanly at him, though it didn't seem to do much good. No matter. She would speak to him later and find out what the situation was herself.

And maybe, she would get some of the answers she was looking for.

...

Have another cliffhanger! You may gripe and groan but I bet you all secretly enjoy them.