The Secret Cult Chronicles of the Decaying Lake Manor

To some extent, mental hospitals in this era are merely another name for prisons, and any humanitarian reforms are nothing more than that.

Although George worked at a private nursing home, moral therapy was clearly incomprehensible to many of the patients there.

Therefore, what they were actually doing was dirty work: confinement, bloodletting, swivel chairs, and large doses of sedatives...

Everything is done to quiet down those noisy souls who are too "unconventional".

As a time traveler, he instinctively resisted these treatments.

Of course, George couldn't convince his colleagues who firmly believed in bloodletting.

But at least with the patients he treated, he stubbornly insisted on another method—conversation.

This was seen by some as a waste of time, but the Mr. Elliott before him was undoubtedly one of the more successful cases he had treated.

This is a blond young man, although he is slightly thin and has sunken eyes.

However, the shape of his shoulders and arms still suggests that he was once a strong and robust man.

When George pushed open the door to the small hospital room, he was sitting quietly on the edge of the bed. He immediately stood up when he saw the doctor come in.

George nodded to him, gesturing for him to sit on the bed, then walked to a chair nearby and sat down, saying:

"That's right. I was thinking that what you mentioned about your experience on the 'Messina' was probably not without reason."

Elliott nervously tightened his pale fingers, his eyes filled with a mixture of anxiety and caution.

"Why would you suddenly say that? Doctor, I thought you were the one who was most opposed to attributing these things to witchcraft or supernatural forces."

George's gaze fell on Elliott's face, quite calm and kind.

This gaze seemed to calm the young man before him, allowing him to speak more clearly:

"But I think... Doctor, you know my situation, I keep dreaming about things from the deep sea—"

On the deck of the "Messina," seaweed, tentacles, and perhaps something else coiled around my legs like snakes.

Coupled with the calls emanating from the dark depths of the sea, there must be demons causing trouble down there.

His voice trembled, and the memory of that experience still seemed to haunt him.

"When I was a sailor on that ship, I felt free, but ever since that ocean voyage..."

The captain never said anything, but I could clearly hear the sailors whispering prayers that shouldn't have been in the night.

If it exists, it never directly touched us. But it definitely tempted me; I keep dreaming about it.

George nodded and gave the other person a reassuring look.

He took out the book "Night Wanderings, Volume One" from his coat pocket and gently placed it on his lap.

"Mr. Eliot, I just received this book."

The author describes a "dream realm," a space beyond our current reality, containing many scenes similar to what you have experienced.

Therefore, I speculate that your mental state and strange dreams may not be purely a mental illness.

He turned the page, his finger gliding precisely to a section, turning the page toward Eliot.

"Look here: 'The existence of the dream realm is quite peculiar. Often it appears in the mental world of ordinary people in a form close to reality—but in a distorted form...'"

Your dream may have touched upon a derivative level of this dream realm. The so-called evil force in the sea might not be fiction, but rather some kind of reality we don't yet understand.

Eliot's eyes, which had been filled with fear and doubt, suddenly widened, and he involuntarily leaned forward, closer to the book.

"God, if what's written in this book is true, that's terrible," he muttered to himself, then suddenly looked up.

"Doctor, are you saying that what I experienced wasn't madness, but rather contact with something real?"

"Maybe, but I still suggest you don't worry about it too much."

George nodded with a stern face: "I shouldn't have told you this, since your previous understanding has already been corrected."

"Of course, doctor, it's your decision."

A silence fell over the ward.

Only the occasional birdsong from outside the window reminds us that this is not an isolated island cut off from the world.

George's gaze swept over the metal bunk bed, wandered to the bare wall, and finally settled back on Elliott.

"What are your plans after you leave here?" George broke the silence again.

"While I've been here, my aunt has probably squandered all my allowance, Doctor," Elliott said with a wry smile.

"If possible, I'll probably go back to my old ways and try to become a male servant—to be honest, that's difficult; I don't have a decent letter of recommendation anymore."

"But no matter what, it's better than going back to the sea."

George was unconvinced by Elliott's forced smile.

When an employee without a letter of recommendation applies for a position as a servant, and the employer discovers during the background check that he comes from a mental hospital, their reaction is simply indifference.

Of course, this gave him an opportunity.

George immediately replied, "It is so, Mr. Elliott. I received a letter from home yesterday. My father wants me to return to inherit the title."

After Elliott offered his congratulations with a hint of surprise, he continued:

"Therefore, I would like to invite you to be my personal male servant, which can help you solve your livelihood problems. Also..."

George shrugged.

"After escaping dealing with lunatics and colleagues who were no different from lunatics, I hope to have a familiar face by my side—a man who has weathered the storms of the sea should be someone I can count on?"

"Ah, of course, sir, I understand the rules for male servants. But I think..."

Upon hearing this, Elliott immediately straightened his back, but before he could finish his defense, George interrupted him.

"If you're going to talk about things like recommendation letters, I'd say I can skip that step; as for a history of mental illness, I don't think that's a big deal."

George didn't consider himself a proper nobleman, and he valued the capable people at hand more than a background check.

As he spoke, he stood up and extended his right hand to Elliott.

"Unless you have other considerations?"

Elliott looked at the outstretched hand.

The hand was steady and clean, with neatly trimmed nails, belonging to a gentleman who preferred holding a pen to manual labor.

After a moment's hesitation, he finally took George's outstretched hand.

The calluses on his hands hadn't completely disappeared, and George could probably imagine how such a hand could hold onto the mast rope hanging by a thread.

He nodded in satisfaction.

"Great! These past six months have shown me that I can trust you, so it's settled then."

"After you are discharged from the hospital, we will go to Yorkshire together—the manor is beautiful in my memory, and you will not regret being a doctor's man."

As he spoke, he pulled a notebook out of his pocket:

"As for what's next, considering that my behavior just now might have had a negative impact on your mental state, why don't we use the remaining time to have a 'conversation' like before?"