The psychiatrist and her apples did not return to Delgen the next day, nor did she return any calls from the hospital regarding her whereabouts. A trusted coworker volunteered to check in on her at her home, although at the time of said coworker’s arrival, the place could hardly be called as such.

It appeared as if a pack of rabid dogs had charged through the place, or perhaps even a miniature cyclone. The floorboards were gashed, the walls were littered with craters and dents, the windows were shattered, and nearly every piece of furniture had either been knocked over or thrown far from its original place.

Even more thrown, however, was the psychiatrist herself.

Her skull was cracked in several places, and massive clumps of hair had been ripped out of her scalp--some of which laid in bloody wads around her. Her throat was gashed so severely that patches of muscle were visible, and her vocal cords were completely torn. She’d been found in an empty bathtub with her mouth hanging open, revealing several damaged teeth, and her eyes were nothing more than globs of mush and pulp that streaked down her cheeks like tears. Upon examination of her broken, bloody, worn-to-the-bone fingertips, it became apparent that all of the trauma had been self-inflicted.

The same was true of the four other corpses reported over the next week, all of whom had been employed at the same hospital but none of whom were found so mangled as the psychiatrist: Two had slit their wrists, one had hanged himself, and the other had leapt from a twelve-story building, yet each of them had cuts and bruises and other wounds marking various parts of their bodies, all of which were self-inflicted.

In life, the five corpses had barely interacted with one another, save for perhaps the customary hellos and occasional small talk. They were of a variety of ages, genders, races, sexual orientations, and religions--the only clear link between them was Delgen.

Along with the psychiatrist, there were two nurses, one reporter, and one federal investigator, all of whom had interacted with Delgen in some fashion prior to their self-inflicted deaths. Unsurprisingly, he gave no response when questioned. Recalling the psychiatrist’s findings, one investigator had offered him an apple and asked if he had any idea what had caused their deaths; Delgen took his large, messy bites and replied, “Friends.” The next day, they offered him another apple, this time asking if he had anything to do with their deaths. His answer remained the same: “Friends.”

Investigative discussions shifted quickly from the cause of the daycare massacre to the strange boy in the hospital bed, which some began to believe were inherently intertwined. This sparked debate, of course, which gradually grew into full-fledged arguments, but during one of those arguments, an investigator’s eyes drifted to the door and saw someone shambling past: the doctor under whose care Delgen had been placed.

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He was a good man, a jovial sort that could brighten any funeral, but now he was pale, and his eyes were wide, and his arms wrapped so tightly around himself that his fingernails had begun to leave gashes in his arms--gashes he seemingly did not notice.

Attention shifted once again from Delgen to the doctor, who even after being surrounded by investigators did not acknowledge them nor stop his shambling. Questions flew left and right, but the doctor simply shook his head and continued shambling on down the hall. When one investigator took his hand, he reacted with violence, screaming and thrashing like an animal.

It took four men to restrain him, but eventually the screams faded to whimpers, and the thrashes turned to tremors as he sank down to the floor. He hadn’t blinked once during the entire ordeal, as if his eyes were held open by hooks, and he still seemed not to notice the gashes he’d torn in his arms.

Again questions were asked, only this time more gently, and through his rapid breaths and trembling lips, he whispered, “Cold…so…cold…”

The incident had attracted the attention of everyone in the vicinity, but the investigator who had seen him first found himself distracted by a different matter and slipped down the hall into Delgen’s room. He found the boy swaying his head back and forth in a slow, lethargic motion while humming a soft tune in time with the sways. His eyes were downcast into his lap, but upon taking notice of the investigator, they lifted, and he ceased his motions.

He held the investigator’s gaze for a bit, his expression a sort of blank surprise that almost made him look innocent. A chill soon drifted into the room that sent shivers crawling across the investigator’s skin, and one of the fluorescent lights overhead flickered in an irregular pattern.

A collection of shrieks sent the investigator running down the hall, where he found the same crowd as before but with wide eyes and covered mouths replacing the looks of general curiosity. He looked over their shoulders to see the doctor thrashing once again as other staff members attempted to restrain him to a hospital bed. He screamed and screamed like a wild beast as his body was overtaken by a violent seizure, which only seemed to grow more violent despite syringe after syringe of sedatives being administered into his arms.

His left eye had been gouged from the socket, seemingly of his own doing, and he’d also bitten off his own tongue, leaving his mouth full of blood as he cried, “Dark! Dark!” over and over again. The attack persisted for only a few minutes before he arched his back high off the bed, sent a gurgled, strangled shriek out of his throat, and collapsed like a rag doll.