The chapel was the repository of death.
Tucked away on the third floor of a building constructed long after the disappearance of the asylum, was the chapel.
It was a beautiful room with a domed ceiling and exquisite bookcases around the sides. A bronze plaque hung upon the wall, and upon it were carved the names of those who had done the most for medicine and science in the asylum. Their exploits were cataloged and documented in small, handbound books encased behind glass.
The books, I discovered, were bound in human skin, the ink made from burnt hair and blood.
I found documentation of pain and horror in those books, and I wondered why the staff would have been so foolish as to keep track of their own bad acts.
I had only to remember with whom I was dealing.
There was neither rhyme nor reason to what they did. Any pretense of legitimate research was exactly that: a pretense.
For hours I read the exploits of murderers and torturers. Nothing more or less.
In the end, I was forced to gather up rosters of people who might still be alive in my own time and in my own when.
I would return to Cross soon enough, and when I did so, I would seek them out and purge them from the bloodline of humanity.
My pack is heavy with papers, but my heart is light.
Soon, I know, I will begin to cross names off my lists.
And none of their deaths will be easy or pleasant.
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