My words are met with a stillness so profound that it seems to swallow sound itself. The room beyond is a testament to Dr. Marcus's meticulous nature, every surface gleaming with an almost obsessive sterility. But it is the emptiness here that strikes me most—the sense of a space abandoned, as if he had simply vanished into the aether.

A bank of screens dominates one wall of the room, each one alive with a kaleidoscope of data and arcane symbols that seem to dance and morph before my eyes. I begin my search by combing through the stacks of papers and folders that line the shelves. Each document I unfurl reveals a new facet of Dr. Marcus's research, a tantalizing piece of a secret puzzle. I pore over every page, devouring the complex diagrams and esoteric formulae like morsels of a gourmet meal, hoping to glean some insight into the true nature of our experiments.

As I rifle through the drawers of his desk, scattering pens and paperclips, something cool and metallic brushes against my fingers. It's a brass key, too old and ornate-looking to fit the lock of a simple filing cabinet. My heart quickens, a surge of anticipation coursing through my veins as I scan the room for the missing lock.

Finally, my gaze alights upon a small wooden cabinet tucked away in the back of the closet. With trembling hands, I insert the key. A soft click echoes through the stillness as the mechanism, which feels well-oiled, yields to my touch. Inside the cedar-scented interior, I find a trove of leather-bound journals.

I grab a stack of papers and plunk down on Elias' bed, its mattress as rock-hard as the one in my room. The springs creak in protest beneath my weight, and the rough woolen blanket scratches against my skin. I'm grateful for the small pool of warm light emanating from the battery-operated clip light at the head of the bed, a welcome respite from the cold, impersonal glow of my flashlight. I flick it off, plunging the rest of the room into darkness, and focus on the pages before me, the musty scent of old paper and ink filling my nostrils.

As I pore over his notes, a chilling picture begins to emerge, the true extent of his madness and obsession laid bare in the cramped, frenzied scrawl that covers the pages. Over and over, one word leaps out at me. It's such an odd little word, sounding more like a term that belongs in a science fiction novel than in the realm of serious scientific inquiry. I voice it aloud, its syllables clumsy, alien in my mouth. It even sounds like something out of a science fiction movie. I want to laugh, but the sound dies before it leaves my throat.

The pages rustle softly as I turn them, the sound echoing in the oppressive stillness of the room. Each new revelation sets my thoughts spinning and heart racing. Finally, my worst fears are confirmed. It's true. For years, Elias has been conducting experiments in secret, pushing the boundaries of ethics and sanity, all in the name of birthing these beings woven from the very fabric of human thought and emotion, the ultimate manifestation of a collective consciousness!

Egregores.

That is what he calls them. Could one of these entities really be the driving force behind Elias' relentless quest?

As I delve deeper into his notes, a chilling parallel emerges between the nature of egregores and the insidious grasp of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Just as PTSD can be triggered by a single, overwhelming event or a series of traumatic experiences, egregores are born from the intense thoughts and emotions of their creators. The collective consciousness that gives rise to these beings is not unlike the shared trauma that binds together those who have endured similar horrors.

The pages detail how egregores, once created, can take on a life of their own, influencing the thoughts and actions of those who come into contact with them. This insidious influence is reminiscent of the way PTSD can color every aspect of a person's life, from their relationships to their ability to function in daily life. The triggers that can send a person with PTSD spiraling into a cycle of fear, anxiety, and despair are mirrored in the way egregores can be summoned or activated by specific thoughts, emotions, or even objects.

My stomach knots as I consider the implications of this connection. If egregores can be created from the collective trauma of a group of people, could they not also feed off the negative emotions and experiences of those who suffer from PTSD? The very symptoms that plague those with the disorder—the flashbacks, nightmares, and hypervigilance—could be a source of sustenance for these beings, allowing them to grow stronger and more influential over time.

The weight of this realization presses down on me, making it difficult to breathe. I picture the countless individuals who have unwittingly submitted themselves as Elias's subjects, each one carrying their own unique set of traumas and fears. Could their collective pain have given rise to something even more dangerous than the experiments themselves? The thought is almost too much to bear.

As is the manner in which Elias found his would-be test subjects.

Unable to advertise in any credible journal, he'd had to do a little "field work." He started experimenting on transients—the homeless, impoverished, diseased, and desperate. Those only too willing to do anything for their next meal, next drink, next fix. Faceless and anonymous, the ones he knew no one would miss. My vision swims as I read his brutal recounting of the bodies he's weakened, minds he's broken... lives completely destroyed in service to his insatiable narcissism!

But it is his work's ultimate goal that sends a spike of pure terror through my veins. Dr. Marcus wanted to create an army of these thought-forms, a legion bound to his command, with which he would reshape the world in his twisted image. The entity that has stalked me through the shadows, the malevolent presence permeating the facility's very walls, is the manifestation of our reckless tampering with forces beyond our comprehension.

As if summoned by my horrified realization, the monitors flare with searing brilliance, their data dissolving into a maelstrom of twisted symbols and nightmare imagery. My mind reels, conjuring visions of the egregore lurking within those flickering shadows—a shifting mass of malevolence, its form an unspeakable amalgamation of primal fears and twisted desires.

Panic rises within me like a suffocating tide, the weight of its presence pressing against the boundaries of my consciousness. Though unseen, I feel its hunger, its insatiable craving for dominion over my mind. The air grows thick and heavy, as if the very atmosphere is saturated with its malign influence.

With a desperate surge of strength, I fling myself off the bed and stagger to the door. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs, each beat a reminder of the precious seconds slipping away. I know I must find a way to stop this abomination, to sever its hold on Avernus before it's too late.