27 Jul One Broken Aksel

Posted at 01:48h in Strange and Unexplained by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on July 27, 2026

“One Broken Aksel”

Written by Christopher Hutto
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 19 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.

Please wait...

It was 6:00 am when Martin Dillinger opened the door to his room at the Hiawassee Motor Lodge. He squinted and put his hand above his brow to block the bright, orange rays that stretched over and around Bell Mountain, hugging its peak as if the sluggish old ball needed leverage to rise and shine. It was a bit nippy for north Georgia in late September, but Martin knew it would warm up quickly.

For the last six years, he had used vacation days to search for Dr. Bastian Aksel’s secret murder house. Janice had accompanied him the first couple of trips. Together, they bounced around on the bench seat of his old pickup, exploring the dusty dirt roads that meandered through the remote hills and valleys of north Georgia. She was initially taken in by the beauty of the southern Appalachian foothills. Martin always said that due to the nature of their mission, she was sorrowfully awestruck.

She soon grew tired of his monotonous, spine-punishing expeditions. He wasn’t sure if it was the dust, the weeds, or the bugs. It had even occurred to him that it could have been the quiet, stubborn persona that he took on that was the final straw for her. Regardless, his preoccupation with finding Aksel’s hideout had been the primary point of contention that led to their divorce. Martin had even told a friend that he would find the mad doctor’s hideout, even if it were the last thing he ever did. And, if it were not for his aging parents, he would have moved down here a long time ago. This testimony alone had not been very financially beneficial to him when they signed on the dotted line.

Across the highway stood The Kickin’ Chicken, a diner geared to those with a penchant for spicy food. Martin had regretfully eaten there many times before. Their version of hot, Nashville-style chicken was delicious, but his gut and his taste buds could never agree as to whether it was worth the price. Gray smoke lifted out of a greasy metal pipe protruding from the roof, adding the inviting smell of fried breakfast to the fresh mountain air. The sign featured a daring red rooster standing in the midst of flames sporting dark sunglasses, a black leather jacket, and a devious grin. Devil horns were added to the diabolical fowl, as if the proprietor felt the need to provide a visual warning to potential customers before they succumbed to the enticing odor of bacon and eggs. The dirt parking lot surrounding the thriving business was filling up fast.

Deciding to forego the risk, Martin turned his attention back to his dimly lit domicile. The duffle bag on the bed was primarily filled with dirty clothes and a pair of muddy boots. He zipped it shut and heaved it over his shoulder like a lifeless body. After a quick look at the empty room, he shut the door behind him.

Martin took another gander at the flame-painted door of The Kickin’ Chicken before he climbed up in the cab. Now that Janice wasn’t around to nag him about his ulcer, he thought about giving it another shot, but a quick glance at his watch saved his belly from another day of tasty hell. It was his last day of leave, and he intended to make the most of it.

Carefully placing his Styrofoam cup of coffee on the dash, he got behind the wheel, fired up the big eight, and resolutely threw it in reverse. As he eased out of the parking lot, Lainie waved at him through the motel office window and gave him an encouraging smile. He returned the wave and pulled onto 76. She was sweet and easy on the eyes but would talk the ears off an elephant.

The whole staff at the renovated motel knew him on a first-name basis. Three of them had even connected with him on social media after they found out he and Janice had separated. Martin assumed their requests to link were motivated by curiosity and eagerness to assist him with his mission. Regardless, they had helped set up interviews with other Hiawasseeians who had known the “charming doctor”. They only knew him to drive an old, brown Jeep Wagoneer, which they viewed as practical, but Martin knew the real reason. It had plenty of room and was easy to camouflage.

Martin had become very familiar with the northern extremes of Georgia. Reaching over to the organizer strapped to his passenger seat, he pulled out a marked-up map. He had narrowed his search down to Fannin and Rabun counties, but he still needed something to help him keep track of where he had previously explored. GPS was great for telling you where to go, but it wasn’t very useful for showing you where you’d already been. This particular map had been acquired when he visited the Towns County Chamber of Commerce three years ago. An argument could be made to replace it, but he didn’t like the idea of transcribing all of the penned and highlighted markings and notes. And why take on such a tedious task when he knew he was close? He could feel it in his gut. With just a glance, he turned his truck onto Whitehouse Road.

The window of the old truck wouldn’t roll high enough to seal, so the cool air whistled through the crack as he navigated the narrow, winding road, under sporadic shade provided by hills and vegetation. He slowed and turned onto a particularly neglected gravel drive. He focused on dirt roads because the cops had done a fair job of looking for Aksel’s “vacation” house on the blacktops. After the doctor’s death, and with no solid proof that he was responsible for those missing, they abandoned the search altogether.

He couldn’t help but wonder if she had been down this same road when she disappeared eight years ago. Tears welled up in his eyes when he glanced at the half-heart medallion swaying on a chain from his rearview mirror. His daughter, Lacey, had worn the other half. Like the blinding dust swirling in his wake, memories of her blurred his vision every time she crossed his mind. Although he could have done nothing to prevent what he feared, he felt guilty for not being there to protect her. The thought of what she may have endured was almost too much to bear. Potholes in the road abruptly jarred him out of those treasured times and reminded him of his mission.

The dirt road had twisted and forked several times. Each time, Martin meticulously highlighted and made notes on the map. He stopped twice to ask where one road or another led and whether anyone lived there who drove an old, brown Jeep Wagoneer. Their directions were usually so obscure that only another local could pull any useful information out of them. Some ignored his questions altogether, electing to steer the conversation to alien abductions. Several were vague in their responses and quickly turned the subject to “the best moonshine in the mountains” and how, with their assistance, he could acquire some of his own. When he thanked them but politely declined, they would curse and accuse him of being a revenuer.

This morning, Martin had only seen a barefoot boy standing by the road in front of a shack. He was wearing nothing but a pair of dirty, tattered overalls. Holding a stick to his shoulder like a rifle, he aimed at a free-range chicken pretending to shoot it. As Martin passed, he waved and smiled at the dusty kid. The boy turned his weapon to the back of the truck. Martin watched in the side view mirror as the kid put several imaginary rounds in his tailgate.

The boy made him think about his conversation with Ursula Duncan, Aksel’s childhood neighbor. They had met at The Last Drop Coffee Shop, in their hometown of Gilmerton, West Virginia, where the cake was better than the coffee.

“He was more of a loner,” she said, with a shrug. “I guess he had just accepted the fact that he was too weird to make a steady friend.”

Martin had assumed Aksel’s story would begin something like this, but he wanted specifics. “Weird how?”

“Well, he got his jollies by doing things like dropping critters into ant beds. Worms, bugs, or whatever he could find that couldn’t escape quickly enough before the ants covered ‘em up.” Ursula had fidgeted in her seat, undoubtedly visualizing the disturbing scenes. “You could almost hear the poor, wiggling things crying out as they were bitten, stung, and then pulled apart.”

“Most kids watched for a few seconds but would quickly lose interest and run off to play. Bastian would just stand there staring all wide-eyed with this big, creepy grin on his face until whatever he had sacrificed quit moving. It was like he got off on watching something suffer.”

Based on his research, Ursula’s statements were exactly what Martin had expected to hear. Aksel had blazed a similar path that most psychopaths followed as they paved their way to destruction.

Martin had asked Ursula how long they were friends and was disappointed to hear that the Aksels had moved when he was young.

“His dad bought some land out of town and built a huge house when he was 8. I remember that because our birthdays were close. We went to different schools after that, so I hardly ever saw him.”

This forced him to reach out to members of the Aksel family for more information about Bastian’s childhood.

* * * * * *

Martin topped a hill and slammed on the brakes. A faded, weather-beaten stop sign was concealed by the shade of an overgrown sycamore. Yellow dust slowly enveloped the pickup as he studied the intersecting dirt road and then reached for his trusty map. All the roads began to look the same: windy, dusty, and seemingly arbitrary in their paths and destinations. After determining that he had indeed intersected with a highlighted path, he sighed, tossed the map aside, and turned right.

Knowing he had previously explored this particular path, Martin picked up the speed a little. His thoughts drifted again as his mind continued to examine his memories for clues. He reflected on the conversation with Bastian’s aunt, Sarah Gilmer. She had eventually married into the family of the founders of the West Virginia town in which all of them had been raised. It took a great deal of effort, borderline harassment, to get an interview with her. She finally relented after he had told her about his missing daughter and assured her that he had no interest in running down their family name.

Thinking a very private, neutral setting would be best suited for the conversation, Martin had reserved the conference room at the public library. Sarah was intentionally late. He was about to surrender the room when she walked through the door. She was dressed sharply in a dark colored power suit accented with diamonds and pearls and carried herself in a very haughty manner. Sarah had stood next to a chair on the opposite side of the table and waited until Martin came around and pulled it out for her.

She sighed and looked down her nose at him, as if putting this meaningless ordeal behind her was her only goal. “Alright, what is it you want to know?”

“Please tell me a little about your family history,” Martin began, after retaking his seat.

“Well, our folks, Bastian’s grandparents, were German immigrants. They were good, hard-working people who came to America in ’51. In Germany, my father was a teacher, but as you can imagine, no school in America was interested in hiring a man with a heavy German accent shortly after World War II.” Sarah had rolled her eyes, as if she were reliving her father’s frustration. “Luckily for him, he was also skilled as a handyman, and that’s how he made his living.

“We had food on the table, but money was usually very tight. It wasn’t until after my brother Felix and I graduated high school and got out on our own that we could open a savings account.”

“I understand Felix became wealthy after patenting some sort of tool that made open-heart surgeries easier.” Martin knew Sarah was very proud of her status in the community. She had married into the wealthy Gilmer family before he sold the patent to the tool. Some speculated that she was annoyed that she could no longer look down on him. Either way, he saw no need in making her go through Felix Aksel’s story of instant wealth. “What did he do before then?”

“He was a foreman at an ironworks shop.” Martin watched her purse her lips at the reminder that members of her family had once held blue-collar jobs. “And he only got the foreman position because he was the only one in the shop with a diploma.”

“I spoke to a lady last week, Ursula Duncan. She had been Bastian’s neighbor before they moved out of town. She said Bastian had a hard time making friends, and that he liked putting worms and bugs and such in ant hills. Then he would watch them writhe with delight until they died. Do you remember him doing anything like that?”

“First, let me clarify that he was one broken Aksel.” Sarah gave Martin a witty grin. Knowing that this was a sensitive subject, he returned the smile. “Bastian was always looking for ways to watch something suffer and then die. When he was around 10 or so, Felix found him throwing his pocketknife at a mouse. Bastian had taken some string and tied a mouse to a fence post.” Like Ursula, Sarah was clearly bothered by the memory. “Felix asked what he thought he was doing, and Bastian told him he wanted to see how long it took the mouse to die. He told Felix that he had done this with three mice before that one and would count the seconds until he thought they were dead.”

“Did this behavior continue or even increase as he grew older?” Martin thought he knew the answer before he asked the question.

“Bastian was in high school when Felix told me that he had found a mass pile of bones, hides, and other discarded remains in the woods near their house. Lots of different animals in various stages of decomposition. There was a piece of plywood that had been nailed to a large stump. He could see where these animals had been secured to the wood with nails. Some of Felix’s instrument prototypes and other sharp tools were lying on the plywood. It appeared most of them had been cut open autopsy style and disemboweled.

“When Felix confronted him about it, Bastian had said they were roadkill, and that he wanted to become a veterinarian. He claimed that he had only cut them open to study their organs. He said he used the tools because he wanted to become familiar with them so he would have a leg up on the others. His father believed him. In his defense, Bastian, although very strange, could be very charming.”

“You don’t sound like you bought it.”

“No, I think he probably cut them open to time their death. Who knows if he pulled their organs out before or after their last breath?”

“What about people? Do you know if he ever hurt anyone?” Martin was trying to be careful here. He could see that the topic of conversation was understandably troubling for her. However, he had to get as much as he could from the only family member that would talk to him. Felix had become debilitated from a stroke, and his wife refused to even answer his calls.

“No, not that I know of, but he did make comments to some of the few kids that would talk to him, like ‘Did you know you can kill someone with a thumbtack and a coffee straw?’ I don’t know if that’s possible or not, but who says that kind of thing?!”

* * * * * *

It was nearly noon when Martin found his way back to a paved county road. He eased the truck off to the right and parked in front of an old roadside barbeque stand. A sign over the wide window cut into the side of the little building read: Porky’s Pitstop. The two Ps were turned backward. Martin didn’t know if the misprint had been intentional or not. The rusted tin structure leaned a little to the left. It had the kind of façade that assured travelers the food would be some of the best in the state, but cooked in kitchens best not inspected and run by kindhearted people with teeth that could be counted on one hand.

There were shaded picnic tables off to the side of the building, but Martin ate his lunch in the truck, using the time to study his progress on the map. Based on his best guess, he was in northern Rabun County, near the border of North Carolina, where the dead Dr. Aksel went to veterinary school.

Martin pulled up to a 55-gallon drum lined with an industrial-strength plastic bag and discarded his trash. Wind whistled through the crack in his window as he licked his fingers. He drove less than a mile on the rutted, curvy black top before turning on yet another unexplored dirt road. It seemed all he did in this area was drive short stints from one dusty path to another.

The research he had done on Aksel was similar to these roads. One article would lead to another, but information about the man was sparse. Like these vacation searches, Martin had to follow one lead after another to put a clear enough picture together to determine it was the doctor who was responsible for Lacey’s disappearance.

Bastian Aksel was the author of numerous published articles surrounding mammalian neurological study. He even won the American Veterinary Medical Research Award for his work with various anesthesia medications and minimum dosages based on species. Martin was no scientist, but he was sure the doctor must have provided some very convincing deception regarding his godawful methodologies.

Lacey had called home and told them about a doctor who had been invited as a guest lecturer in October, the month she disappeared. She had been accepted into the veterinary program at the University of Georgia the previous spring. The infamous, charming “doggy doc,” Martin’s way of teasing her about her career choice, had even spoken to her after class. She told them about how he had complimented her on the depth of her questions.

“He said I asked about details that should be well beyond my understanding as a first-year vet student.”

Martin’s vision became watery as he thought about the gushing grin he could see through the phone.

* * * * * *

The half-heart medallion bounced on its gold chain as Martin carefully guided the truck down yet another weed-lined, twisting dirt road. Rabun County’s proximity to the state line made Martin think about why he chose Georgia as opposed to some other remote spot that could be found in any state connected to the Appalachian Mountain range to hone his serial killer craft.
The answer to that question occurred to him after a conversation he’d had with Jessica Curley. She had worked as a veterinary assistant at a clinic where Aksel occasionally volunteered. Martin had driven to Blacksburg to interview her, and she was very eager to talk.

“My momma always told me to never speak ill of the dead, but if she had ever known Dr. Aksel, she would agree that he is an exception to the rule,” Jessica firmly declared. She stabbed the tabletop with her index finger for emphasis.

“What was so bad about him?”

“He was evil incarnate,” came her immediate, stoic reply. “Oh, he put on a good show. I’ll give him that, but as soon as you got to know him, he began to let his guard down. Only then did you get to see the real Dr. Doom.”

“Dr. Doom? Did he not properly treat the animals under his care?” Martin had tried to hide the facetious undertone of the question.

She paused to process the answer. “Well, yes and no. You see, his practice in Gilmerton was in an affluent neighborhood where his clients were well-to-do. But people who bring their pets to this 24-hour emergency clinic come from all walks of life. He came across as all business and showed little compassion.” Those with the opportunity to meet him face-to-face were too intimidated, desperate, or ignorant to ask questions.”

“So, he would just say something like, ‘Give me the mutt, and I’ll see what I can do,’” Martin said sarcastically, half expecting Jessica to laugh it off.

“Oftentimes the owners of the animals never even saw him at all. A vet tech would do the triage and bring the animal back to him. Sometimes somebody would bring one in and just leave, like if they found a dog that had been hit by a car. I felt so sorry for those poor animals.”

When Martin had agreed that roadways were tough on animals, Jessica held up a hand.

“That’s not what I mean,” she clarified. “Nobody wants to see anything get run over, but I hated it even worse when he was there.” She wiped away a tear from the corner of her eye and took a ragged breath before continuing. “He would muzzle them and then treat them without any anesthesia. We had to hold them down as they kicked and yelped, meowed, or hissed in pain. He would say, ‘They will pass out eventually. It’s more natural than medicine anyway.’

“If they were beyond saving, he wouldn’t just put them out of their misery. Sometimes he even pulled out a pocket watch and timed how long it took them to take their last breath.

“Dr. Aksel seemed to enjoy hearing them cry out in pain. Under the auspices of teaching about their neurological system, he would merely pretend to do so as he poked, prodded, or pulled at a wound. We all knew he just enjoyed hearing them yelp or whatever sound of surrender they had in them. That’s why we called him Dr. Doom behind his back.”

It was Jessica who informed police that Bastian had let it slip that he had a vacation home in Georgia.

“While showing me pictures of his niece on his phone, he went one too far, and I got a glimpse of him standing next to an old Jeep Wagoneer. I found it strange because Dr. Aksel usually drove a blue Chevy pickup, but my dad had an old Jeep, so it piqued my interest. When I asked him about it, he said he kept it at his mountain house in Georgia. Then, he quickly picked up his phone and pretended to make an urgent call. I knew that meant the subject was closed.

“It wasn’t until then that I began to do the math and realized that each time someone from Georgia or the Carolinas had come up missing, he was here at the clinic. That’s when I called the cops and told them about the coincidence. I don’t think they took me seriously, though.”

Jessica had been right about the investigators not taking her seriously. They soon regretted their flippant attitude because Aksel was dead by the time they had built a very good circumstantial case against him. They found out that he had indeed purchased a ’72 Wagoneer. They were pretty certain he had purchased additional property in the northeastern area of Georgia under another name, but they couldn’t prove it.

The answer to Martin’s earlier question about why he chose Georgia was now clear. Whether it’s animal cruelty, kidnapping, or murder, it’s harder to investigate interstate crimes. Bastian Aksel intentionally set up a private practice in West Virginia, volunteered in Virginia, and hunted victims in the Georgia-North Carolina-South Carolina tristate area.

Martin’s mind went back to the last time he spoke to his sweet Lacey. Just before she disappeared, she had called excited about an overnight hike she and some of her friends were taking to see several waterfalls. He loved that she was so outdoors-oriented. She had a new boyfriend who was part of her hiking group. This was his only concern at the time, and now it seemed so trivial.

* * * * * *

As the sun began to set, Martin began to give up hope that he would find the godforsaken shack on this trip. He had driven down one dead-end dirt road after another and had shown numerous people the photo of Aksel posing next to the Jeep. The Wagoneer was a dark brown classic from the early 70’s, right down to the vinyl bench seats. It was Martin’s only real clue. Perhaps he needed to do more research. Between personal interviews and his own research, he knew everything there was to know about the sadistic son of a bitch. Everything that is, except where he performed his atrocious acts.

The shade had turned to shadows as Martin traversed the latest narrow dirt road. He followed it hard to the right and up a slight incline. Suddenly, it dropped off into some overgrowth. With his headlight pointed upward, he couldn’t tell the height of the drop-off. The thought of slipping off a cliff crossed his mind. He tried to stop his truck before his front wheels went over the edge, but momentum pulled him further downhill, bowling over high weeds and saplings. When he was able to bring the truck to a stop, he sat slack-jawed. A cabin stood a few yards away.

The ground leveled off as Martin carefully guided the truck close to the front of the rustic, wooden structure. He could see that it was two stories with a high, steep-pitched roof. An abandoned hornet’s nest hung from an eave over the front porch. Leaves and sticks were naturally strewn on and around the building; all were evidence that no one had visited the cabin in years. Could this be it? His hair stood on end at the thought.

He cut the truck’s engine but left the headlights shining on the porch. As he reached for the door handle, he thought about his rechargeable flashlight in the console. Dead!

“Dammit!” It could have been charging as he drove up and down one dirt road after another all day.

Using the light on his cell phone, Martin stepped from the truck. A babbling brook could be heard from the rear of the property in the distant darkness. He had no doubt this would be a gorgeous setting under any other circumstance.

Martin carefully made his way down the hill through the tall undergrowth to the back of the cabin. Between the 6×6 supports under the back porch was a covered vehicle. He held his breath as he lifted the cover and saw the brown Jeep Wagoneer. It was dirty, and the tires had gone flat, but he was elated! For him, this was the equivalent of someone else finding a pirate’s treasure.

Satisfied that he had found the doctor’s murder house, Martin made his way back up the incline and stood for a moment in the beams of his headlights. He tried to pin the location but discovered he had no signal to pull up his map. Would he remember how to get back here? He knew if he could get a signal close enough, he could find his way back. Maybe he could even leave something out by the main dirt road, some sort of marker.

He debated whether it was wise to enter the house. If he did, would they get him for trespassing? What about tampering with evidence, if he found what he hoped was inside? One never knew about cops; they were not all made from the same cloth. He decided it would be fine if he recorded his movements to show that he had not disturbed anything.

When he stepped onto the front porch, he eyed the hornets’ nest for any signs that it might still be active. He tried the door and, of course, found it locked. With a crowbar from his toolbox, he began to pry it open. The door put up a good fight, emitting creaks and groans as he twisted and banged on the bar. He wondered if the cops would want to add breaking and entering charges to trespassing? The door relented with a loud crack, making those questions inconsequential.

Martin searched the first and then the second floor, holding his phone in front of him to record his findings. The rustic décor inside was typical of any mountain cabin. He looked under furniture, behind shower curtains, and in closets. Other than it being dated and dusty, there was nothing notable or out of place. Was this really Aksel’s place or someone else’s neglected vacation spot? How many old, brown Wagoneers could one county have?

He was deflated and about to descend the stairs to leave when he noticed the pull cord for the attic stairs. A grin spread across his face. With a roof as high as this one had, of course this place had an attic! He began to climb the stairs into the darkness above. His phone signaled him that the battery was low, but he dismissed it. If the attic was anything like the rest of the place, this wouldn’t take long.

He swept the phone slowly across the room, recording every inch of the space before stepping inside. The attic was nothing like the rest of the house. It was one long, open room. A thick, ferric odor intermingled with the dust. The ceilings followed the roof line, pitching high, coming to a point approximately eight feet above the floor. Cobwebs covered and connected the handles and blades of axes, hatchets, and machetes on the wall to his right, meticulously mounted so as to allow unobstructed access.

His phone light revealed dark stains on each of them. Various instruments of torture, from pliers to knives to blow torches, lay dusty on a long table under one pitched side. In the single drawer,
Martin found hundreds of teeth, both human and animal. Chills ran down Martin’s spine when he turned and shined his light on a St. Andrews cross mounted on the wall opposite the table. A metal trough had been placed under it to catch whatever fell or flowed from whoever may be bound to the cross.

Martin’s phone light was dimming, but he slowly worked his way to the opposite end of the room. On the wall, he found a large, circular target spray-painted on the wall. It too had leather straps to hold the extremities of some hapless victim for whatever game “Dr. Doom” liked to play. Martin held the phone close to the wall and squinted. Just as he had suspected, there were divots, probably from the tools mounted on the wall at the other end of the room. Dark stains on the wall and floor would no doubt be blood. He could almost picture them being thrown at some poor sap bound to the bull’s eye.

Although he hadn’t found the one item he sought, he knew he needed to leave before his phone died. This place was creepy enough without having to feel his way out of the horrible house. As Martin turned to leave, he caught the movement of a shadow at the opposite end of the room, and the whir of something hurtling through the air in his direction. The machete embedded dead center in Martin’s forehead. Its momentum made him take a step backward. The back of his head struck the top of the target, and his mouth dropped open in surprise.

Paralyzed, he could only stare ahead into the dark recesses of the room. Blood began to flow from around the blade in his head, down the center of his face, off his chin, and onto his shirt. He could only make out the shadow figure by its rippling shape as it slowly approached him. Martin dropped his phone at his feet. He felt the strength flowing from his muscles and dropped to his knees. The phone light shined upward on his face. Martin tried to maintain his balance, but as the dark figure drew near, Martin fell forward. The machete’s handle caught on the hardwood, raising Martin’s face forward, giving him the appearance of a saggy, bloody tripod. His arms hung loosely at his sides, and his hands relaxed in the thick, sticky pool collecting under him on the floor.

Martin’s life faded from his body. As his sense of sight switched from the physical to the spiritual, he could see his surroundings more clearly. No longer in shock or pain, Martin could see beyond the dead doctor’s outward appearance. Behind the mask of scientific curiosity was a yellow-eyed, malformed apparition wearing a wide, triumphant grin. Squatting before him in the attic, staring at a blood-stained stopwatch in his right hand, was Bastian Aksel, the essence of pure evil. He laughed with glee at his latest victim.

Finally at peace, Martin’s soul separated from his physical form. Rising slowly, like a deflated birthday balloon, it passed through the roof with ease. A sense of tranquility enveloped Martin’s energy as it dissipated in a breeze and scattered among the leaf-laden limbs of the oaks and pines.