The haunted clinic The doors were closed. The curtains were drawn. The smoke from the chimney had come to a halt

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The haunted clinic                                                                 

The doors were closed. The curtains were drawn. The smoke from the chimney had come to a halt. The indication of life diminished as the voice of the world turned into a wisp. In the distance the abandoned grandfather clock struck twelve when I found myself paralyzed on the operation bed, confined from the slightest hope of survival.

It was six months ago when I graduated from Cambridge University and started my medical career in a country clinic as a night doctor. I could merely say the clinic was alluring, with very few accessories. The windows were decrepit and creaky. The carpet was stained and lacerated. The beds and wheelchairs had long since resided. The whole atmosphere communicated a sense of barrenness, as if all the liveliness were withdrawn.  The desolated moor encircling the clinic enhanced the mysteriousness of the whole depiction. I speedily understood why the job was offered so instantaneously- the place was indeed so still and so lack of human activity that it could immensely discourage every most blazing heart.

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The most perplexing thing of the clinic was the man in bed. The nurses and some doctors called him the ‘Veggie” but his real name had never been mentioned. Throughout the decade he had been dwelling under the same duvet, without a faintest hint of arousal. There were never flowers or visitors. The man was in his late thirties, with strands of grey hair growing out of his skeletal head. Despite all the scars on his forearm, his hands were positioned in a most interesting way. The fingers were crooked, as if reaching forcefully out to clasp his prey.


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