The Doctor Tales: Voices of A Blade Chapter 1- Part 2

The audio cut out with a crackle. 
“Well, it seems our friend was more than a little hurt in the head. Looks like he didn’t have the right people around him,” The Shadow said, a hint of pain in his voice. 
“Well then, our character for this tale is a Mr. Henry Caldwell, who appears to be carrying some mental pain. I’ve heard some rumors, so let’s begin, shall we? We have our place, our character, and it seems our situation has been set.” We start in Warm springs Montana  
Warm Springs, Montana was a place where time seemed to stand still. The wind carried a biting chill through the valley, whispering through the skeletal branches of pine and spruce that clawed at the gray sky. The mountains loomed in the distance; their jagged peaks swallowed by a thick curtain of fog that crept in with the dusk. 
 
Chapter 2 
The Voice of Blood 
This was usually a town of quiet joys. Families gathering for weekend barbecues, children laughing in the park, and neighbors chatting on front porches as the sun dipped behind the hills. But today, the air was different—heavier, colder. The streets, once alive with friendly faces and warm conversation, now stood hollow and still. Shop windows reflected nothing but the thick haze that rolled between buildings. The park, once green and full of life, was now cloaked in a dull gray, the trees stripped bare and the playground creaking in the wind. Doors stayed shut. Curtains hung still. It was as if the entire town was holding its breath, waiting for something it couldn’t name but had always feared. Even the wind seemed to avoid the place now. And in that silence, something watched. 
A man who was very strange to the town was sitting alone on one of the hills, enjoying the moment of silence before something in his head whispered though his mind. “No, no I wouldn’t do that. Please let me enjoy this.” He says, his voice sorrowful and quiet. The voices continue to whisper. He tried his best to avoid them. To not listen to their wishes. 
He battled with the voice in his mind, refusing to submit to its relentless calling. “Leave me alone!” he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. Dropping to his knees, he pressed his head into the cold earth, his breath ragged. “Shut up!” he screamed into the grass, his fists clenching the dirt beneath him. For a moment, his struggle echoed through the still air—until, suddenly, he fell limp. The world was silent, and so was he. 
The quiet didn’t last long. With a slow, unsettling movement, he pushed himself up again. Something was different. The tension in his posture, the absence of hesitation—he no longer seemed like himself. He didn’t speak. Instead, his gaze locked onto a nearby tree. He stepped toward it with eerie purpose, his fingers curling around a fallen branch—thick, sturdy, like a makeshift club. He held it tightly in his hands, until his knuckles turned white, testing its weight in his hands. And then, without a word, he moved toward the town.  
No one dared to step outside when they saw the man walking through the streets. Shadows flickered behind drawn curtains as wary eyes peeked through cracked windows, too afraid to confront the figure drifting down the cobblestone road. The heavy club in his hand scraped along the ground with a hollow drag, each step slow and deliberate. His half-lidded eyes barely seemed aware, yet his face stretched into a wide, unsettling grin—too wide, too eager, as if savoring something yet to come. 
An officer rounding the corner spotted him and stiffened. "Excuse me, sir," he called out, his voice laced with cautious authority. "What are you doing?" 
The man halted. For a moment, he stood unnervingly still. Then, with an almost mechanical grace, he turned to face the officer, his grin never faltering. His voice came smooth, too calm. 
“Just passing through, officer.”  
“Henry, is that you?” The officer’s brow furrowed as recognition dawned. “Henry, are you awake?” 
The man’s grin widened, his eyes remaining half-lidded, distant yet disturbingly present. “Whatever do you mean, officer? I'm here, aren't I?” His tone was light, almost playful. “Honestly, you officers are always asking such strange questions. You need to get some sleep.” 
Before the officer could react, Henry moved. Without warning, he swung the club with brutal force, striking the officer across the head. A sickening crack echoed through the empty street as the man crumpled to the ground. But Henry didn’t stop. 
Again.  
And again. 
 Each strike landed with merciless precision, the dull thud of wood against flesh drowned out by the splatter of blood painting the cobblestones. A crimson pool spread beneath the officer, seeping into the cracks, but Henry continued—his grin never wavering. 
He didn’t speak. He didn’t hesitate. He just kept going.  
When he finished, he took a deep breath. As if savoring the moment. “Thats much better, wouldn’t you agree officer?” He waited a moment, seemingly pleased with the officer’s response, or lack thereof, before continuing. “Thats exactly my thoughts. I'm so glad we can agree on this.” He continued to walk down the street for about an hour before he froze in place. He looked around where he was, then back at the club in his hand. “No. No, no, no, no. What did you do!?” He yelled, looking at crimson stains on the club.  “Why would you do this? He was my friend he helps me!” Henry yelled, his voice trembling as he sprinted toward the officer. The run felt endless, his breath ragged, but after about five minutes, he finally saw the flashing lights and the group of police gathered around the body. At first, they didn’t notice him. He stood there, chest heaving, eyes locked on the grim scene. Then, one of the officers glanced up, spotting him standing at the edge of the scene. “Sir! Over here!” the officer called, waving him closer. “Did you notice anything suspicious around the area?” Henry hesitated, stepping forward slowly. As he neared, the officer's gaze shifted, eyes narrowing. 
“Sir... what happened to your coat?” The officer pointed at the dark, unmistakable stains splattered across Henry’s gray coat. A hint of red marked his face, faint but visible smudged, as if hastily wiped away.  
“I... I didn’t mean to do this. Something else took me over. He was my friend... he was helping me to fight the voices...” Henry stammers, his heart pounding against his ribs like a drum. His eyes, wide and trembling, dart between the officer and the growing crowd of uniforms surrounding him. The officer standing closest to him hesitates, his hand hovering over his holster, unsure whether Henry is a threat or just another victim. “Sir, are you under the influence?” His voice is firm but not unkind, laced with a cautious edge. Henry doesn't answer. His mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. He is frozen—his mind stuck in a whirlwind of panic and confusion. His gaze shifts wildly, bouncing from one officer to the next, searching for something that might ground him. 
The other officers exchange uncertain glances, their faces tight with tension. The air is thick with the sharp tang of sweat and blood, and the weight of the situation presses down on them all like an unseen force. "Henry," the first officer tries again, softer this time. "You need to tell me what's going on. Who, who’s talking to you?" Henry swallows hard, his hands trembling at his sides. "I... I don't know," he whispers, eyes flickering toward the darkened corners of the alleys around him, as if expecting something someone to emerge from the shadows. The officers begin to move in, slowly and carefully, their boots scraping against the cold asphalt. Henry takes a shaky step back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I didn't mean to..." he repeats, voice barely audible now. "I didn't mean to. He was my friend.”   
The officer snapped into protocol, his voice sharp and direct. “Sir, turn around and put your hands where I can see them. You’re under arrest for the time being. We will be questioning you about the murder of a police officer.”