The metal gates of Crestview Behavioral Health Facility creaked open that cloudy afternoon, the sky hanging low with the promise of rain. Two police officers stepped out of their car, shoes crunching against the gravel as they made their way inside.
Officer Reed,a tall man with graying temples and a permanent squint, pushed the glass doors open, flanked by his younger partner, Officer Cullen . They walked through the dull hallways lined with pale walls, the scent of antiseptic strong and almost bitter in the nose. It was too quiet — even for a place like this.
A tired-looking nurse directed them to the east wing, where the long-term patients were held.
They were there to ask about a woman — Mrs. Elaine Colver, a former resident of Heldale's northern district. Her husband had been found mutilated in his workshop five months ago. No suspects. No leads. Only her cries — and a name she repeated until people stopped listening:
"The human in iron."
The officers arrived at the observation ward. Through the small glass square in the door, they could see her curled in the farthest corner of the room, rocking gently in her white gown, lips parted like she was whispering something to the walls.
"She came in about a month ago," said the caretaker — a woman in her forties with a nurse's badge and a permanent frown. "She hasn't gotten any better. If anything, her episodes are more… intense now."
Officer Reed furrowed his brow. "And before she was admitted?"
"She kept telling people her husband wasn't killed by an ordinary man. She claimed it was a some... man in iron, with no face and blood on its hands."
Cullen scratched the back of his head. "You're saying no one believed her?"
"Would you?" The caretaker's voice was flat, almost bitter. "She stood at the town center for days yelling the same thing over again. Everyone thought she'd snapped from the grief and trauma. We had to sedate her when she began threatening to go out and find it herself."
Reed stepped closer to the viewing window. "Has she ever described it? Anything specific?"
The caretaker shook her head. "No. The antipsychotics medications has made her drowsy and slightly unable to speak—But necessary, after she got violent with herself two nights ago."
Reed turned to her. "Violent how?"
"She said it was coming for her next. That she sees it in her dreams, waiting at the foot of her bed." The caretaker paused, voice softer now. "Last night, she mumbled something. Barely audible, but I caught two words."
"What words?" Cullen asked.
The caretaker leaned forward slightly. "Bloody eyes," she whispered.
A long silence fell in the hallway. The two policemen exchanged a glance — one of those shared looks that carried a hundred unspoken doubts.
"Anything else?" Reed asked.
"Not yet. But if she says anything that makes sense, I'll let you know."
Cullen nodded once. "Please do that."
Officer Reed then added. "If there's more developments, we'll be in touch."
The two men turned and walked back down the corridor, their steps echoing behind them.
The caretaker remained behind, glancing once more through the window. Inside, Mrs. Colver rocked slowly, lips twitching, her eyes wide with something that had long since passed fear.