In the early 1920s, there was a hospital on the hill that was completely self-sustained.

They raised livestock, re-vegetables, and even had their own post office.

If you needed it to live, then you could get it there.

That was a good thing, because regardless, if you were a patient, doctor, nurse, janitor,

whatever, whatever, leaving.

The burculosis ravaged the city beneath it.

They tried their best to send it up to the hospital on the hill and keep it there.

Doctor or patient, you committed to a life at the hospital in order to save the people

still untouched in the city.

Intentions were good.

No one really sets out to build an evil hospital, per se.

So many deaths leave a scar, though.

Tens of thousands pushed through that line between life and death in that hospital on

the hill.

It's similar to a hole.

It's an old, worn sweater that you've worn for years and years.

More you pick at it, the more it unravels.

Send thousands of people through one very specific hole, and it's bound to a reprobly rip

open.

I hope you'll notice that I'm careful not to refer to the hospital by its given name,

and that is intentional on my part.

The name itself is notorious.

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