“Good day, my name is Dr. Lemeneg. How can I help you?” It was my first time in his modestly furnished treatment room. My first impression was one of friendliness, and due to its convenient location, I intended for him to be my new primary care doctor. He seemed relaxed, as I candidly stated my concerns, and he barely blinked before beginning to type on his computer. “To be honest, I’m self-employed but still studying on the side, and I’ve lost track of time for my next exam. Could you possibly provide a sick note for it?”
Over the next two or three semesters, I needed a few more similar excuses. The stress of being an entrepreneur can unexpectedly peak, and I didn’t feel bad about it, always being polite and thankful. Eventually, the doctor and I began discussing my business and what I did. I eagerly told him about my daily life as a Trading Consultant. I wrote reports on various commodities or stock prices, which my company sold to fund managers and banks. That’s when Dr. Lemeneg asked me for a favor. He mentioned he had a nephew with a Ph.D. in Financial Mathematics who, despite his expertise, was reclusive. He wanted me to give him a chance in my company. I asked as few questions as he did about my exam excuses, handed him my business card, and waited to be contacted.
About a month later, the nephew, Otmar, reached out via Skype. The tiny video snippet, which only showed his meticulously styled, pale face, indeed looked a bit odd. The background was blank, just his slack facial features, stiffly combed ash-blonde hair, and bloodshot eyes staring at me intently yet vulnerably. However, his answers to my technical questions were brilliantly sharp, so I gave him a chance.
Though he worked from home, I would not regret my decision. His reports on price developments for corn or rice were compelling, and later his forecasts also came true. Business was booming, so to speak. I always wanted to express my gratitude, but he never attended any Christmas dinners and declined every invitation. All I ever saw on our Skype video chats was his sickly face with no discernible background.
During one of these online meetings, something happened. A noise echoed in the background, and suddenly Otmar’s face froze in panic. The expression was even more frightening as he didn’t turn his face away from the camera, but at the same time tried to scan the room behind him with terrified eyes. The grimace in front of me was distorted, not only by fear but also by this seemingly impossible task. Then the video call abruptly ended. My repeated call attempts were only answered by the chat message “I’ll contact you later, everything is fine.” But that facial expression said otherwise, hinting at something deeply unsettling.
The sight haunted me, prompting more in-depth investigations. However, the address on his invoices quickly hit a dead end. Then I noticed something in Otmar’s reports. Every one of his predictions was divided into six paragraphs. This made sense given the content and seemed characteristic of the writer’s style. But in this situation, it seemed odd.
Upon closer inspection, I found that the sixth letter in the first paragraph was always “K.” In the second paragraph, a similar pattern emerged; the fifth letter invariably turned out to be an “i.” Like this, I pieced together a phrase that appeared in every one of his works. I checked and double-checked, not wanting to believe it and thinking it must be a coincidence, but “Kill me” was consistently repeated.
These two words kept me awake for days. What should I do next? My only remaining lead was my primary care doctor, but I hesitated to confront him directly. I had to handle the matter very delicately.
As usual, I visited the doctor’s office to pick up a sick note—this time for an exam that didn’t even exist. I tried to steer the conversation towards Otmar and praised his work, raving about how valuable he was. Dr. Lemeneg’s responses seemed friendly and normal. So, I gathered my courage to inquire about the wrong address. “That shy boy even wants to hide from his employer. I’ll make sure he understands it’s entirely unnecessary!”
His reply was reassuring. A few days later, I received an invitation from Otmar via email, along with a new address. With a gift basket in hand, I headed to a large mansion in the upscale, hilly part of town. An older woman opened the heavy, ornate walnut door and introduced herself as Otmar’s mother.
After a brief chat, the seemingly innocent woman instructed me to meet Otmar in the basement, where he spent his days due to his shy nature. The logical part of my mind still felt safe, but my subconscious already cursed my insatiable curiosity. Thus, perhaps only half of me was genuinely surprised to find Dr. Lemeneg there.
“I really wasn’t expecting you,” I blurted out without thinking. My mind was only searching for an escape as the doctor’s typically charming smile beamed at me. “No guest has ever expected another host in this house,” he replied. “I really must leave; I forgot something,” my mouth again acted on its own as I turned, setting my sights on the salvation of the stairs.
However, I would take only three more steps before my legs gave out and I fell face-first onto the floor. Two sharp devices sprang from the corridor’s walls, piercing my ankles. Before the pain even registered, I lost balance due to the force and instead of freedom, my face met the floor.
The doctor towered over me, saying, “You were so eager to meet Otmar. It’s good manners to stick to one’s priorities.” The tall doctor removed the devices from my ankles and grabbed my arms, dragging me further down a hall deeper into the horror. While the term ‘heaven’ may describe the boundless goodness, ‘hell’ serves as an analogue for unimaginable evil. I no longer needed this concept. The terror no longer hid behind a protective veil. In every corner, my hell revealed itself as Dr. Lemeneg continued his familiar monologue.
“In our modern times, the human mind lacks focus. It’s distracted by media and emotions. I strive to end this wastefulness.” We entered a room smelling sterile. My eyes darted everywhere, replacing the cries that my estranged throat couldn’t produce. I spotted Otmar. He was not a shy financial genius. Inches from a screen, a head protruded from a box, held in place by tubes entering the back of his head. Numbers flashed at an inhuman speed on the screen, mirrored in his entranced eyes. Inside the transparent box, I saw two arm stumps connected by cables. I saw no legs, and there would’ve been no room for them in the compact, futuristic-looking box.
The monologue of Dr. Lemeneg had not stopped at any point, but only now could I follow him again. “The trials on the concentration-enhancing formula, which is directed straight into the brain, are constantly improving. The minor physical modifications contribute to shedding any distracting emotions and just recently, I’ve managed to tap directly into the nerve pathways of the arms, making fingers for typing unnecessary. It’s another optimization towards the purely virtual human. A desire of our society that I will soon be able to fully fulfill.” Humans have a vague idea of hell for a good reason. The mind cannot bear it and surrenders at some point. Unfortunately, my brain chose the worst possible timing for this task, because after the shutdown of consciousness, the last words I heard echo endlessly in my mind: “and now you can be my nephew too!”
by PByung
Translated by ChatGPT4 from German.Audio version in German: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAlsYkvaxMQ&t=491s