This wasn’t a one-time occurrence. Over the next three nights, the exact same midnight ritual happened. The mysterious old man would sneak out, whisper to the woods, and something would run away into the dark. The staff at St. Clair began to whisper. Some thought he had completely lost his grip on reality, talking to figments of a forgotten past.
Others worried a dangerous wild predator, like a wolf or a coyote, was stalking the property. By the fourth day, the administration decided it simply wasn’t safe anymore. A torrential downpour hit Oregon that evening. Rain lashed against the windows in violent sheets, the wind howling through the pine trees. Kelly went to Room 114 to deliver the bad news. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the floor.
“John, please stay inside tonight,” Kelly said gently. “Management is locking the courtyard doors.” He didn’t reply. He just sat there, an impenetrable wall of silence.