The Good Doctor

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Once upon a time, when the nights grew long and coughing echoed down the dark tunnels beneath the streets of Areeott's cities, the people whispered of the Good Doctor making his house calls. No one remembered his true name—perhaps he'd never had one. But everyone knew what he wore: a long, dark coat buttoned tight against the chill, black gloves concealing careful fingers, and, most strikingly, a silver-beaked plague doctor mask whose dark lenses never seemed to catch the light.   It was never clear how he chose whom to visit. When a cough lingered too long or a fever refused to break, families would whisper among themselves, "The Doctor may come tonight." Parents locked their doors and windows, children hid beneath blankets, and even the bravest closed their curtains and kept their candles burning until dawn. The doctor never came in daylight, nor to those who were merely inconvenienced by illness. He sought only those truly desperate, those whom no other physician would help.   They say his visits began with the soft tapping of a cane against cobblestone, echoing gently through the tunnels of the Vaults beneath the cities of Areeott. A knock might follow, polite yet firm, at the door of the sick. And though every instinct screamed to leave it unanswered, those truly desperate always opened it. How could they refuse, after all, when a voice—calm, soothing, authoritative—promised relief from agony?   But the relief he brought was not what they imagined. He would whisper softly behind that gleaming mask, speaking of purification, of correction, of a remedy more complete than any healer had ever dared dream. And when his patient nodded their consent—unable, in their suffering, to refuse—he would gently press his gloved hand upon their brow. It was always cold. Always comforting.   And afterward, the patient would vanish.   In their place, loved ones would find empty beds, meticulously cleaned sheets, pillows still bearing the indentation of heads no longer there. Occasionally they found tools, polished and shining, laid out neatly as if awaiting the next procedure. There was never a struggle. Never blood. Just emptiness, and quiet, and a faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air.   Sometimes the patient returned—days, weeks later—though they were never the same. Their skin was too pale, their movements too precise, their voices echoing strangely, as if the words they spoke belonged to someone else. They claimed to be healed, and indeed, they no longer felt pain or illness. But there was something else missing, too. Something behind their eyes, something that had once been warm, now utterly absent. Those who returned never spoke of what had been done. Some said they simply did not remember. Others believed they remembered too well.   There were stories, too, of the mask itself—how it lingered, how it moved, quietly, from person to person. It appeared in places no one expected: an old attic chest, the bottom drawer of a forgotten desk, or hanging from a rusted hook in some long-abandoned Vault chamber. And always, when it was discovered, it whispered softly in the finder's ear, "You can help them. You can save them. You have the hands of a healer."   And someone always listened.   The good people of Areeott do not speak openly of the Good Doctor, nor do they openly fear him. Instead, they simply remember his rules: do not call for him. Do not listen when he calls for you. Do not trust a healer who will not show his face.   But when the coughs begin, when the fevers spike, when families huddle in homes lit by lanterns through the long nights, they all remember the faint tapping of a cane, the quiet whisper behind a mask, and the terrible promise made by a voice that is not quite human:   “You will suffer no more. You are in my care now.”