Within Europe’s late nineteenth century, marvelous medical miracles came into existence that augmented the intellectual to new horizons. Doctors of all fields were admired for their dedication to health and humanity. However, as their accolades increased, these professionals grew fat with entitlement while their patients starved for love. With speedy developments, the human brain, in its entire splendor, spiraled dangerously into the new era of indulgences that forked the path between masterpiece and monstrosity.
A group of young women sat on the cold floor. In dirty hospital gowns, they picked and ingested lead paint chips from the wall. Persistently, they crammed more debris into their hungry mouths. Drool covered their cracked fingernails. With muted expressions, the nurses smoked like locomotives at their corridor stations. They watched the self-poisoning, but did nothing to help. The nurses reacted solely when the clock struck seven. The chimes notified them to administer the medication.
In the joining corridor, more patients wandered aimlessly. Whimpering like beaten dogs, most patients wore restraints over their mouths and arms. Others fiddled with their gowns as they stumbled from side to side. No matter what they were doing, the inhabitants complemented each other with the same dead-eyed stare against the barred windows.
The doctors were devils. They prodded, scraped, and teased the flesh with their instruments. Like foxes, the doctors lured people into their examination rooms with wide-toothed grins and false promises. None of them were in harmony with their patients. These mechanized madmen were fluent with their hands and calculations. Their utensils were never bare. These men constantly wrapped their fingers around their equipment’s silvery curves. They comforted the metal exteriors like newborn children. The wives of these doctors had sullen lives, wishing their husbands would caress their thighs the way they did their clipboards.
The patients knew no humanity. The kind gazes they saw reflected off foggy spectacles before the serum blacked out their minds. That was if they were lucky enough to have the straps off their foreheads. This was Halcyon Asylum.
“Mystery, Intrigue, build up and a wonderful descriptive flow throughout that engages the reader and puts them well within the story. I felt the character come to life and by the end of the first book wanting to know more.” – Jennie Cruz, Eye Know Horror
“L. M. Labat‘s bloody imagination gushes onto the pages of this gory horror story set in war-torn Europe. Forged in the author’s all-too-real horrific nightmares, there is to be found in these pages a redeeming love story that blossoms along the trail of eviscerated corpses and severed arms left behind by Labat’s hideous monsters of the night.” – Al Kennedy, Author of Big Chief Harrison and the Mardi Gras Indians
“The Sanguinarian Id is a dark, mysterious take with great atmosphere. L. M. Labat weaves fascinating vampire and dhampir lore into a sinister story that evolves with its heroine.” – Kevin Henry, Author of The Soul Forge Saga