Dr. Worthington purchased Bentley Mansion with stolen money he used from the banks he robbed in another state. The mansion itself seemed to exhale malevolence—its windows like hollow eyes staring across the overgrown grounds, its Victorian spires clawing at storm clouds that never seemed to pass. The butler was part of the purchase of the estate as well, though Worthington had other plans for the old man who knew too much. The mansion had medieval torture devices kept down in the basement of the estate—devices that still bore the rust-brown stains of blood from centuries past, mechanisms that groaned and creaked as if remembering the agonies they had inflicted. The air down there was thick and fetid, tasting of copper and decay, and sometimes Worthington swore he could hear whispers echoing from the stone walls, the death screams of long-forgotten victims trapped in the very mortar. He had a plan to pose as a doctor and lure doctors from the local hospital and have parties at his estate to show off his collection of medieval torture devices to his guests. The irony amused him—physicians dedicated to saving lives, ignorant that they were walking into the den of something monstrous. Sometimes he would put his guests in the devices and take their pictures to put in his photo album. But lately, the photographs weren't enough. The hunger inside him was growing, demanding more than staged photos and nervous laughter. It demanded screams. It demanded blood. One day he decided he would have an all-night poker game at his mansion on Halloween. The perfect night, he thought, when the veil between the living and the dead grew thin, when screams would be dismissed as Halloween festivities. Dr. Worthington called some of the doctors he got acquainted with at the hospital to see if they were interested. His voice on the phone was honey-smooth, charming, impossible to refuse. He was able to talk Dr. Brown, Dr. Stevens, and Dr. Tarington into playing. He told them to dress in costumes because it was Halloween. "Make them good ones," he'd said with a laugh they didn't understand. "Tonight, we all play our parts." Halloween finally arrived, and Dr. Worthington went all out on decorating the mansion with Halloween decorations—but these weren't the cheerful pumpkins and friendly ghosts of suburban homes. Grinning skulls lined the walkway, their eye sockets seeming to track visitors as they passed. Candles flickered in every window, casting writhing shadows that moved against the drafts. And hanging from the grand chandelier in the foyer was a collection of rusted chains that swayed gently, creating a metallic symphony that sounded almost like distant screaming. They all showed up around 10 pm. It was storming outside—sheets of rain lashing against the windows, thunder rolling across the sky like the laughter of devils, lightning illuminating the mansion in stark, horrifying snapshots. The storm only made Halloween night that much more special, more perfect for what Worthington had planned. The only thing his doctor friends weren't aware of when they showed up to play poker was that Dr. Worthington was a sore loser and a thief. He also wasn't a real doctor, and the mansion he purchased with stolen money from banks he robbed. Dr. Worthington was a smooth talker and a very likable person, and everyone he came in contact with believed his lies. But beneath that charming exterior lurked something ancient and hungry, something that had been waiting patiently for this night. Dr. Worthington welcomed his guests to his mansion. His smile was too wide, his eyes too bright. When they all entered, the front door slammed and locked behind them with a boom that echoed through the halls like a coffin lid closing. The sound of the deadbolt sliding into place was final, absolute. Several of the doctors jumped at the sound, laughing nervously. "Just the wind," Worthington assured them, though there was something in his grin that made their laughter die in their throats. He escorted his guests to the room where they would be playing poker—a vast chamber with walls lined in dark wood, animal heads mounted on the walls with glass eyes that seemed to follow their movements. The poker table sat in the center like an altar, illuminated by a single overhead light that left the corners of the room drowning in shadow. He poured each doctor some bourbon and whiskey but made their drinks stronger than his, adding just a hint of something bitter that they couldn't quite identify but that made their tongues feel slightly numb.