THELXIOPE

The patient arrived at midnight.

I had been expecting him, of course. The telegram from Portsmouth Naval Hospital had prepared me for a difficult case, but nothing could have readied me for the reality of Marcus Anglethorpe. Two burly orderlies half-carried, half-dragged him through my office door, his sea-weathered face contorted in an expression I had never before witnessed in my fifteen years of psychiatric practice—not quite fear, not quite ecstasy, but some terrible combination of the two.

"Please," he whispered, though to whom I could not tell. "Please, let me return. She's waiting."

The orderlies secured him to the examination chair as I began my initial assessment. His physical condition told its own story: rope burns on his wrists, severe, half-healed lacerations across his hands and forearms, salt-crusted clothing that spoke of days at sea. But it was his eyes that truly caught my attention—the way they seemed to fixate on something far beyond the confines of my office walls.

"Mr. Anglethorpe," I began, keeping my voice steady and professional. "I am Dr. Michaels. You're safe now, at St. Augustine's Asylum."

His response was a laugh that chilled me to my core. "Safe?" He turned those unsettling eyes upon me. "Doctor, none of us are safe. She's hungry again."

I dismissed the orderlies, preferring to conduct my initial examination without an audience. As the door closed behind them, Anglethorpe began to rock gently in his restraints, humming a melody I could not identify—something ancient in its cadence, with haunting intervals that filled me with inexplicable dread.

Disturbed by the haunting tune, I stood and moved to my office window which overlooks the gardens where many of the patients wander with their attendants. Beyond the manicured lawns, the North Sea stretched gray and restless to the horizon. I have always found its proximity therapeutic for my patients, but for the first time, I felt a strange disquiet watching those endless waters.

When I returned my attention to Anglethorpe, he had fallen silent, watching me with an unnerving intensity.

"Tell me about the Bellweather," I said, retrieving my notebook. "What happened to your ship?"

He continued rocking, his eyes fixed on the window that faced the sea. For several minutes, he said nothing at all, his lips moving soundlessly, as if conversing with someone I could not see. Then, abruptly, he spoke.

"Thelxiope," he whispered, drawing out each syllable as if savoring the taste of the name.

The word had a foreign cadence, unfamiliar to me. Fortunately, Miss Wells, our nurse-translator, was on duty tonight, so I promptly summoned her to assist. However, when she entered the room, Anglethorpe's demeanor changed immediately. He fixed those unsettling eyes upon her with such intensity that she visibly recoiled.

"Another one who will hear the song," he said, then began laughing in a way that chilled us both to the bone.

"Your fellow crew members, Mr. Anglethorpe. What happened to them?" I pressed gently.

He turned those piercing eyes toward me, but spoke only a single phrase with unnerving fervor.

"The sea is life and there she waits."

I found myself unable to maintain my customary professional detachment. The clinical part of my mind catalogued the symptoms—acute mania, violent delusions, fixation—but something in the way he spoke, the absolute conviction in his voice, sent a chill through me despite my years of experience with disturbed patients.

"The song," he whispered suddenly, his voice filled with longing. "It's so beautiful when she sings. It makes the blood flow like music."

"Whose blood, Mr. Anglethorpe?" I asked carefully.

He smiled then—a terrible expression of pure bliss. "Theirs. They were so happy to give it to her. So happy."

I waited for him to elaborate, but he fell silent again. In the quiet, I could hear the distant sound of waves against the cliffs below, their rhythm eerily similar to his breathing.

"She's always hungry," he continued, his voice taking on an almost reverent quality. "But when she feeds, oh, when she feeds . . . the song grows stronger. More beautiful."

I leaned forward in my chair, trying to maintain professional composure despite the growing dread in my chest. "Mr. Anglethorpe, I need you to tell me about the blood that was found in your lifeboat. Whose blood was it?"

The change in him was instantaneous and terrifying. His head snapped toward me, eyes blazing with sudden fury. The restraints groaned as he threw himself forward with impossible force, the heavy examination chair scraping across the floor.

"You don't understand!" he roared. "It was a gift! A sacred gift! They died singing her name!"

The leather straps strained as he thrashed against them, his face contorting with rage and something that looked disturbingly like grief.

"Orderlies!" I called. "Mortimer!"

After the orderlies sedated and removed him to his room, I turned to Miss Wells, who stood pale and shaken against the wall.

Once she had gone, I tried to complete my notes but found myself unable to concentrate. Compelled by unease, I made my way to the observation panel of our new patient's room and watched as Anglethorpe lay exhausted on the floor, straining violently against his straitjacket. Even then, his lips continued to move, whispering the same word over and over.

Thelxiope. Thelxiope. Thelxiope.

His face contorted as he began to cry. "Please," he mouthed, tears running over his cheeks. "Please—once more."

I have treated many patients suffering from delusions, from religious mania, from the violent fantasies that sometimes grip damaged minds. Yet something about Anglethorpe's case disturbs me more deeply than I care to admit.

Perhaps it is merely the reverent way he speaks of potential murder, or the curious, terrible certainty in his voice when he speaks of this Thelxiope. Perhaps it is the way his eyes seem to look through rather than at me. Or perhaps—and I hesitate to commit this thought to paper—it is the dream that woke me from my brief rest this morning: dark water, impossibly deep, and something vast moving far below.

And singing.

Such beautiful singing.