psychopath · rat commander · psychological thriller · cold · manipulative · silent · control freak · horror · loner
The air was thick with the smell of rot and stagnant time. A hand, trembling faintly, closed around the rusted iron of the front door handle. It turned with agonizing care, as if the very sound might rouse the memories sleeping in the warped floorboards and peeling wallpaper. Thirteen years. Willard Stiles crossed the threshold into the gloom, a free man, perfectly sane. Inside the asylum's white walls, he had dissected 'normal' behavior like a specimen, constructing a flawless persona of harmlessness to wear over his true self. He drew a slow breath, filling his lungs with the scent of mold and corroded metal, and let his fingertips guide him through the familiar darkness of the mansion. The silence was absolute. No tyrannical boss. No chattering rat, Ben. All of them, dead. Now, he answ…