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“Oh, my head…”
Iosefka’s eyes fluttered open as she came to. Panic momentarily gripped her heart, as all was still pitch blackness. Had she gone blind?
As she lay spiraling in her confusion, her eyes slowly adjusted to the night around her. On a nearby table shined a single point of light: a lantern, its flame weak and guttering. Breathing a sigh of relief, Iosefka reached for it. Her limbs, however, were stuck fast. Something was biting in her skin, restricting the flow of blood and sensation to her extremities. Disoriented, she waited, hoping that her body was merely heavy with the paralysis of sleep.
It was unusual—and quite irresponsible—for her to have left a lantern lit while she slept. As she chided herself, a sudden thought shot ice through her veins. When had she fallen asleep? Iosefka searched her memory, but all was obscured by a dull, thick ache at the back of her skull.
As she tried to muddle through the jumble of her thought, the sound of bare footsteps across the floorboards broke the stillness around her. A nauseatingly saccharine voice cooed to her.
“Tell me, Healer: do you dream often?”
“What?” Iosefka glanced about, but could see very little aside from the ceiling and a table of surgical implements set out neatly at hand. So she was still in her clinic. Perhaps this was all just a bad dream? “I- As much as anyone, I surmise.”
“I dream,” the voice sighed. “Every night, I dream. I see twisted landscapes receding into themselves. I glimpse the vast, empty stretches of the void high above. I see, or moreso sense the masters of that space all around me. They call to me; it is they who draw me into those visions of infinity. They whisper sweet nothings into my ear. Their enticements—oh!—I would blush to speak aloud!”
The unseen intruder giggled like a schoolgirl with a crush.
“Do not scandalize me with your lusts. Who are you? Why do you molest me so?” Iosefka demanded.
“Who? Why, my dear, it’s you!”
Iosefka turned at the soft padding of feet approaching her. As the intruder stepped into the dim glow of the lantern, Iosefka’s heart stopped still in her chest. True to their claim, the stranger looked identical to her in every way.
“What in all creation… How can this be? Am I afflicted? Have I gone mad?” the healer asked herself.
The woman clutched at her sides with laughter.
“Madness would be a far gentler master than myself,” the intruder managed through hysterics. “No, I wear this face by no happy accident. It took real work: a profane ritual, revealed to me after much prayer and many fruitless dreams until finally my entreaties were heard.”
Stepping around, the imposter ran her fingertips over the surgical tools set out on the nearby tray. As Iosefka followed the woman with her eyes, she finally recognized the leather straps that had been tightened around her wrists, holding her fast to what must have been one of the clinic’s gurneys. Iosefka tugged at her restraints to no avail.
“Convenient that you already had all of the components I required just lying around.” The imposter raised a scalpel, admiring it as though it were a piece of fine jewelry.
“What components?”
“Oh, you know. A few candles, a bit of solvent, a few bottles of blood, a hundred or so pounds of flesh…bone…sinew…the works.”
The color drained from Iosefka’s face.
“You didn’t…”
“Oh, don’t be stingy. I only took one of your little lambs. Prudence in using every part of the animal and all that. Besides, I’ll need as many subjects kicking around as I can get.”
With a discordantly gentle smile on her pale lips, the imposter dragged the edge of a scalpel ever so lightly along the skin of Iosefka’s inner forearm. The cold kiss of metal sent her into involuntary flinches. She feared every twitch might push her arm into the blade, yet her torturer was careful to never apply enough pressure to break the skin.
“What are you going to do with my patients?!” Iosefka demanded.
“Patience, Love. You’ll see firsthand exactly what I have in store.”
“You’ll never get away with this!” The healer seethed, desperate to protect those who had placed their lives in her charge.
“Tsk. Oh, you’re sweet to worry about me. Suppose that’s what makes you such a good healer. But, Love, it isn’t me that needs worry about ‘getting away’ with anything.” The imposter framed her face—Iosefka’s face—playfully with the upturned backs of her gloved hands. Leaning in close, she whispered with a blood-chilling grin, “It’s you.”