Dr. Slim's House

After a near-fatal car crash, a very injured delinquent, Patrick Hull, wakes up in the guest room of Dr. Maurice Slim, who promises to take care of him until he is ready to leave. Once in Dr. Slim's house, however, strange things start to happen to Patrick and, just as he begins to trust Dr. Slim, he starts to doubt his situation.


1. 1.

Okay, listen, I was only semi-conscious for this part so bear with me. . .

Basically I have some very hazy memories of myself driving like hell to get away from this gang. They were on motorbikes and I was in my crappy automobile but I was really slamming my foot down on the gas trying to shake them. At least I think I was. See, I'd been beaten up pretty badly by five or six of the members and, to be totally honest, I had barely made it out of the warehouse and into my car to even attempt my getaway. I can't remember exactly how perfectly I followed the rules of the road but I can't imagine that I wasn't driving all that well. Anyway, to cut a hell of a long story short, I crashed. I swerved off the road and ran my piece of crap car into a big, thick old tree trunk. The tree was fine, I guess, but my car was totally busted and I wasn't doing so great either. I blacked out there and woke up here with a broken everything, and I've been trying to put my story down in this notebook as best I can.

See, I feel like I should write about the creepy stuff that's been happening since I woke up in this house because it ain't normal. Every night I've had these freaky, hyper-realistic dreams and I don't even know how I got here, who found me or exactly how many bones I broke in the crash. Well, Doctor Slim tells me that he's the one who found me, but  I find it pretty hard to believe that anyone, when they find a bloodied guy at the scene of a car crash, beaten half to death and motionless as a rock, would just take the poor guy back to their house and keep him in the guest room. I mean, I get that he's a doctor - at least that's what he tells me - and I understand that he thinks he can help me, but surely any sane person would call a damn ambulance. I mean, am I wrong? This is pretty much exactly what happened in Stephen King's 'Misery' and, if I remember rightly, that guy had things happen to him that I don't think I can handle. I don't know, I just don't trust the situation at all. So, if you're reading this - and if I've disappeared or been found dead or, god forbid, I'm still stuck in Slim's guest room - I want you to know that something fishy is going on. And I want it on the record that I'm onto it.

As for the creepy stuff - aside from the circumstances, of course - I don't think I'm alone. And I don't mean that I think Doctor Slim is here with me - of course he is, it's his house - I mean I'm not the only "guest" and this is not Slim's only "guest room". I hear these muffled hums and whistles and tapping on the other side of the wall all day and night, but Slim has never mentioned any other people living or staying here. No friends, no family and no wife, as far as I know. I feel like if Slim was married he would have mentioned it or maybe I would at least have seen or heard from her. Maybe she would even have come in and take a chessboard from this guest room to play. 

That's another thing I find a little unnerving. Surrounding the bed he's got me stuck in, Slim keeps a big old collection of dusty chessboards just sitting on these fancy-looking wooden shelves. And, under the dust, I can't help but notice that these boards - and the shelves themselves, for that matter - are really nice-looking. It sounds weird but all of Slim's chessboards are made out of very good quality materials like marble or something, and all the shelves are decorated with these painted patterns that are all carved into the wood. And yet, he never seems to play. If I had chessboards as nice as the ones Slim has in here; hell, if I had anything as nice as the chessboards in here; I'd at least keep them in decent shape. The guy must really be worth a million if he can afford to leave these things to collect dust on a shelf.

I can hear that he's just come in through the back door. I heard the keys turn and I think he might come in here so I'm going to have to stop writing. But if I have another one of those freaky dreams, I'll make sure to put it down here in this notebook.


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