Finally, after a very long hiatus and some very serious writer's block, I am updating this story. It's good to be back. Enjoy!

When any living thing is confronted with a situation which may endanger its life, it usually has two options. The first option is to run away as quickly as possible. As it runs, its heart beats frantically in its chest, its blood pulses with adrenaline, desperation, and fear, and its mind is set on one thing: safety. In its mad dash, the thing has no time to look back; it can only look forward, for it is fixated upon survival – and, perhaps, it is frightened of what it would see, were it to look back.

The second option is to confront the threat by any means necessary; usually, the means are violent, bloody affairs, in which, at the end, something dies. Through death, the survival of another is guaranteed. One's salvation at another's expense. The predator lives from feeding upon the prey, or the prey survives another day by destroying the predator.

This is what occurs in nature. The instincts to fight or flee are hardwired into every living thing, to ensure that they continue living. However, some living things choose not to fight for their own survival, but to fight in an attempt to see that others are saved in their stead. Though they be weak or weary, they choose the salvation of others over their own salvation. And, usually, that struggle is their last. This is sacrifice, and sacrifice goes against the instincts meant for self-preservation. Sacrifice is the option of martyrs and heroes and fools; it is, in essence, a utilitarian concept, for the demise of one leads to the well-being of many, and is a contribution toward a higher purpose and a noble cause.

Fight or flight: instincts, but choices. They are always choices, with the choice generally being influenced by the living thing's character.

Or, in this case, the half-living thing's character. He was not exempt from possessing an instinctual drive to live, but he had a decision to make. He could run to the safest option: a luxurious life, free of starvation or insanity or anyone who wanted to cut him open. He could always escape, pretending to accept Vlad's offer until the opportunity to run away presented itself. Or maybe he wouldn't run away at all; the possibility that his parents knew everything about him and dumped him at a mental hospital for disposal was fresh in his mind. But the ghosts were counting on him, weren't they? Other people would be brought to the sanatorium to die in the worst ways he could and couldn't imagine.

Danny's decision was based not who he was at the moment. At the moment, he was weak, starving, bound, and could possibly die at any moment from any number of things. The person who he was at the moment would pounce upon even the slightest inkling of escape, and would accept Vlad's offer, enthusiastically, running from the asylum and all it contained. Instead, his decision was based upon who he wanted to be; he wanted to be the hero, the one to save everyone else for the reason that it was rightto do so, the idiot who would sacrifice himself in some struggle as he – gloriously high from the insane satisfaction – watched others flee to safety.

He knew exactly what he had to do.

The least decayed room in the entire sanatorium was on the very first floor of Mortifera, through a door on the western wall of the lobby. Cluttered, dusty shelves obscured the walls, and those cluttered and dusty shelves were lined with archaic books about disease and anatomy and the mind; they were also lined with various grisly things, some of which were contained in jars. In this room was a rather large desk, and at the desk sat a very severe-looking man; the room belonged to this man, and the man seemed to belong to the room as well. He was waiting, as patiently as he could, for his visitor to arrive, so they might discuss the matter at hand. It was very important. One could tell by his posture, as he sat in the desk's chair, that it was very important, and that he was not pleased about it at all.

The door opened, and the visitor stepped in, but the man did not greet him. Instead, he asked, "What do you want with it?"

The visitor approached, donning a very sly smile as he asked, feigning naivety, "Whatever could you mean?"

"You know what I'm talking about. The thing you came here to see," said the Surgeon. "Now, don't waste my time, as I am a very busy man. What do you want with the thing you've given us?"

"Why, just to see if the lad's recovered enough to go home. I'm a family friend, you know," said Vlad, "practically an uncle to him." He paused, grinning a bit wider. "I care about him, you see. I care about him enough to send him to this fine institution, so he could get the help he needs. I see he's gotten quite a lot of help."

"So, you strike a deal with me, telling me you have an interesting specimen for me to study, and then decide that you can take it back before I do anything with it? Because you're its 'uncle?'" The Surgeon laughed. "What kind of fool do you take me for?"

"One who is obviously very slow when it comes to studying specimens. I've given you ample time, and your specimen is dying. . ."

"It's already dead!" the Surgeon interjected.

"Oh, so sure? You haven't even conducted a proper study, and you've already made your conclusion."

"I was told – by the reputable source that is you – that it's a ghost. I have every reason to believe it's dead."

"Is it really? I never told you what kind of ghost it is, if it can be categorized as a ghost. . ."

"A dangerous one. It destroyed my facilities in a matter of seconds."

"Then do you really want the specimen so badly?"

"I'll never get another," said the Surgeon, sighing. "This one must be held onto, even if it is mentally damaged. The satisfaction I'll get when I rip it open and examine it will be more than worth the price of achieving that moment."

"Oh, I would reconsider that," said Vlad.

"There will be no reconsideration."

"Is that so?" asked Vlad. In the dim light of the room, his eyes seemed to shine a fiery red. "I must warn you: I can be verypersuasive."

"Then persuade me," said the surgeon. Behind his smudgy spectacles, his eyes squinted in contempt. "I dare you to try."

"Come, Daniel. We're leaving."

Danny looked up to see the silhouette of Vlad in the doorway, darkened by the shadows which inhabited the room. There was something impatient about him; his voice seemed a rushed, despite how resolute it sounded, and his figure seemed ready to flee from the doorway at a moment's notice. The boy simply sat there, and shook his head. "No," he muttered.

"What did you say?"

"No," said Danny again, louder. He meant to sound firm, and he supposed that he did, even if his voice had cracked as he spoke. "I said, 'No.' I'm not leaving."

"What? 'No?'" Vlad asked, anger seeping into his voice. "You'll dieif you stay. Do you realize that, Daniel?"

"Yeah. I do." In the darkness, Danny smiled, his face lit by the spark of something he'd thought he'd lost upon coming to the asylum. It was a piece of his old self, his sane self, a tiny piece of the same heroic bravado he'd taken on time and time again. "Now get outta here, Froot Loop."

"Y-you ungrateful little brat. . . !"

"And don't forget to buy yourself a cat."

"After all I've done for you!"

"Maybe you should make that two cats," Danny said, with the same smug grin on his face. He could've sworn he heard the sounds of people ascending the stairs to his attic room, and he was certain of it the moment he saw Vlad look behind him, to the stairway.

"You'll regret this, little badger," said Vlad, "I assure you."

And, with that, Vlad simply disappeared, leaving Danny alone once again. For a moment, as Danny curled up on the floor and shut his eyes, he wondered if the exchange had even occurred.

But the sound of feet quickly pounding up the rickety stairs grew louder and louder, growing closer and closer to Danny, until they were right next to him.

Something hit him, then, and the darkness behind his eyes was interrupted by a flash of lightning before it deepened into the swallowing blackness of unconsciousness.

That was it?

Yes, readers, that was it. That's what you've been waiting nearly a year for. But there will, of course, be more to come. I promise I won't let this die.

I don't promise I won't let Danny die.

I'm kidding.

Maybe.

Oh, you'll find out. . . in time.