The headache started as a pinprick at the front of his skull.

He laid on his bed for hours, flicking his gaze back and forth between the grandfather clock and the shadow behind the curtain.

It blinked as it began to move, just a flicker. Richard didn't take his eyes from it.

The clock chimed four in the morning.

The small headache began to spread behind his eyes and through his brain. Within his skull, the blood pressure began to mount.

He didn't move.

The shadow began to drip to the floor like melting ice cream.

The hammering of his heart sent a blur through his vision and a pang in the place his skull met his spine.

He passed a hand over his eyes and peered through the cracks between his fingers.

The shadow had returned to its place behind the curtain.

Richard sighed and rubbed his forehead. His tailbone began to throb as he shifted on the bed. He needed something to drug his aches and pains away.

Mr. Allen had ibuprofen in his dresser drawer.

Richard didn't move.

The shadow began to spill out from behind the curtain once again.

Richard couldn't ask Mr. Allen for medicine.

His ears began to throb.

The shadow began to take the form of a man.

It stood in front of his bed.

Richard took a deep breath and swung a leg over the side of the bed. Spots buzzed around the edge of his vision.

He scooped up his crutches and glanced behind him.

The shadow, tall as Blackgaard now, tilted its head.

Richard gritted his teeth and dragged himself through the doorway.

In the hall, Mr. Allen's voice floated soft and drone-like from downstairs.

Praying.

Richard bit his cheek and tested the knob of Mr. Allen's closed bedroom door. It rattled. He pushed the door open with one finger, then stepped into the yawning blackness.

The shadow slithered at the edges of his vision.

Mr. Allen's prayer carried through the floor vent. "…that Richard's soul is in Your hands, Lord. You know what he needs even more than he does."

Richard snorted as he pressed the door closed.

He flipped on the light.

He'd been under the impression that Mr. Allen was a neat freak, but the room didn't even seem lived-in. A wrinkle-free bed, shoved against the wall, transitioned to a clean and dusted dresser. The closed closet door took up most of the wall. The chair in the corner was bare.

Richard's teeth chattered every time his heart pumped. He limped to the dresser, careful of the creaking noises the floor made. He yanked the topmost drawer open.

Socks. Flat pairs stacked in rows, sorted by thickness.

He patted the bottom of the drawer and ran his hands along the sides. Nothing.

The next drawer held pants, the next, shirts.

Nothing.

He growled in frustration.

The shadow in the corners of his eyes began to form into a solid shape once again- a man standing in the dark corner of the room.

Richard turned away from it and to the closet. The door groaned as he pulled it open.

The light from the room flooded into the closet and cast a glow on the shelving lining the top. Stacked atop a tan suitcase were the medicine bottles he sought.

Whispers tickled his ears as he felt the coldness of the shadow take over the room. His headache seemed to slice through his brain at each beat of his heart. If it were possible, he'd bash his head open just to relieve the blood pressure.

He shot his hand out for the suitcase handle. The tips of his fingers brushed it then slipped away.

One of his crutches clattered to the floor as he stood on tip-toe with his good foot, trying to use the other crutch for leverage.

Two of his fingers hooked on the smooth handle. He jerked it just as the other crutch clattered to the floor.

He fell.

The last thing he saw was the slow-motion suitcase falling towards his face.

He stood in a long corridor, the low lights casting a blue glow into the shadows of the doors lining the walls.

He held his breath as his bare feet pattered across the bleach-white floor, his crutches clicking with every step. Pat-click, pat-click, pat-click.

A single painting of a stream hung on the wall. It bubbled from the ground in the corner of the painting, then ran over a waterfall. The water meandered across the painting until it burst forth from the stream again, a closed loop.

He'd seen this painting before. In Blackgaard's office, years ago.

Static buzzed through his ears as his head began to pound. He squeezed his eyes shut as that presence washed over him like a feverish breath.

He looked away from the painting and to the elevator at the end of the corridor. "I'm leaving."

Blackgaard chuckled in reply.

Richard step-clicked down the hall to the elevator. He pressed the button. It dinged. The hum of the elevator filled the quiet corridor.

The hydraulics hissed as it stopped on his floor.

Ding.

The door opened.

Regis Blackgaard stood in front of him, a Cheshire grin on his face.

He held out a hand, as if inviting him into the elevator.

Richard jerked backward. His crutches tangled with his legs. He tumbled and smacked his head against the white floor.

"Face the truth, Maxwell." Blackgaard spread his hands, "You've always been mine."

He opened his eyes a crack. Blackgaard's polished black shoes filled his view.

Richard balled his fists. "Get out of my head."

"Stubborn as always, I see."

Richard pressed a hand to the ground. His skin squelched against his own blood. Drops ran across his eye. A stinging sensation spread across his orbit.

Blackgaard stepped into Richard's puddle and grabbed his collar.

The walls started to move as Richard slid across the floor, leaving a red trail behind him.

"Wake up, Maxwell. Wake up…"

Blood pounded behind his eyes. His head felt as if it would split in two.

Someone was shaking his arm.

"...to wake up, Richard!"

The warm light of Mr. Allen's room flooded his vision as he opened his eyes. The suitcase sat on the hardwood floor just to his right.

"Ugh." He tried to sit up.

Mr. Allen pushed him back down, worry etched on his face. "Hold still now, Richard. I've called an ambulance."

"I don't need…" his stomach lurched. "I just came in here for medicine. Headache." He reached for the bottle lying next to the suitcase and shook it at Mr. Allen.

"You could have asked." Frustration bled through Mr. Allen's voice. "Why can't you ask?"

"I don't want your help."

Mr. Allen furrowed his brow. "Why not?"

Richard pushed himself off the ground. "I have to go, Mr. Allen-"

"You can call me Jack, you know that." He held his hands out as if he were taming an animal. "You need to wait for the ambulance."

"I'm not waiting, Mister Allen." Richard, light-headed, tucked the medicine bottle into his pocket and stumbled to the door. "Pray for me. That usually works, doesn't it?"

Mr. Allen followed him into the hall. "Is that what this is about? My prayers?"

Richard stopped at the top of the stairs. "Tell me what happened in the tunnel."

"You read it in the newspaper-"

"I want to hear it from you."

Mr. Allen hesitated.

Richard shook his head. "If it weren't for you and your prayers, Blackgaard would be rotting in prison. There'd be justice for all the people he's hurt."

"He's receiving eternal justice, Richard." Mr. Allen frowned. "I warned him-"

Richard pounded his fist on the railing. "He's dead!"

Mr. Allen's gaze went to the floor.

Richard sneered and wobbled his way down the stairs. Bits of the sandwich he'd dropped earlier littered the floor.

Mr. Allen called after him.

He didn't reply. He pulled the front door open and stepped into the rain, then slammed it behind him.