Even after entering the bedroom, Schiller did not let down his guard. He still said nothing, did not even write anything down. He merely gave Gordon a look telling him to stay calm, then began examining the room.
Before Schiller could make any move, he saw the eyes in the painting hanging on the wall shift.
Schiller understood somewhat. Rather than touching anything in the room, he took out a white candle and lit it.
Soon, Schiller sighed and complained inwardly, I only get this little consultation fee for a visit? I thought there would be more.
But he still dutifully began surveying the room, especially the wildly rolling eyes in the painting. Combined with his earlier memories, Schiller wore an expression of understanding.
The chaos displayed by the hotel was pathological. It could be understood entirely as the inner world of a psychiatric patient. In fact, the world as seen by many psychiatric patients was like this.
This did not refer to monsters scurrying everywhere, horrifying bloody incidents, or chaotic circumstances that utterly defied common sense, but rather to the state reflected behind all those things.
Someone was feeling fear.
This hotel was almost entirely a manifestation of fear. A sound, a type of image, a rule, a sensation—everything reflected someone's deepest fear.
For example, some psychiatric patients often reacted intensely to inexplicable things, and among objects of the same type, they might react to only one specific thing. Thunder in the sky did not frighten them, but if a pot lid fell to the floor, they would begin to go mad.
Logically, both were sounds, and thunder was far louder than something falling to the ground. Besides, they had no particular grudge against pot lids, yet that single sound triggered an episode.
But the problem was not the