Robert Miller with Green Hair

Wilbur rode the last of the Whateley House' horses through the darkness to the only grocery store in Dunwich, where he dialed the only telephone in Dunwich.

At midnight, Dr. Horton, who lived in another small town, rushed to Dunwich.

He didn't want to enter the gloomy Whateley House mansion, nor did he like Wilbur.

However, he was, after all, acquainted with Old Whateley.

When Dr. Horton arrived before Old Whateley, the emaciated old man was now lying in bed, unconscious. Everywhere there was a vein on his body, there was a bulging blue vein. His hair had completely fallen out, and his teeth were almost gone. The few remaining teeth had lost their gum covering and the roots were exposed.

Wilbur's albino mother, Lavinia, stood beside the old man; she was disheveled and absent-minded.

Strange, creaking sounds came from the room above them, making them unconsciously tense.

Suddenly, the sound of birdsong rang out again, sharp and piercing.

Dr. Horton knew these were Night Hawk, but there were so many that he was startled.

He wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but the birdsong seemed to blend with the old man's breathing.

Dr. Horton quickly realized that Old Whateley was completely beyond saving; he was even having difficulty breathing.

All these people could do was wait for the old man to die.

He wanted to tell Wilbur what had happened and leave now, but out of a doctor's ethics, he was willing to wait until Old Whateley was completely gone.

Enduring the damned, noisy birdsong, Wilbur brought him a cup of coffee.

But Dr. Horton held it in his hand, yet hesitated to drink it. The coffee didn't smell good, and Dr. Horton suspected there was something wrong with his sense of smell... He smelled a faint fishy odor.

At two o'clock in the morning, Old Whateley finally regained some consciousness and opened his cloudy eyes.

He waved laboriously to Wilbur, his hands dry and claw-like, and beckoned Wilbur closer, while Dr. Horton politely stood back.

Before Old Whateley could say anything, there was a sudden knock on the door of the old house. The person who came was in a hurry and didn't care whether the door could withstand his violence.

Dr. Horton tried to Door Opening, but it opened by itself; the man who had been knocking had broken the latch with brute force.

He was an overly robust man, completely shrouded in a black robe. He had to bend over to enter through the doorway, but he first stepped aside and gestured "please" to the person behind him.

The man was considerably shorter, also dressed in a black robe, and walked straight toward Old Whateley without looking at Dr. Horton.

"Dr. Horton, please go back now," Old Whateley said, his voice barely audible, so Wilbur relayed it. "My guest probably wishes to speak with me alone."

Dr. Horton was naturally delighted, but he looked at the "guest" with suspicion and hurriedly left.

"You could have come later, Mr. Robert Miller."

Wilbur said he didn't look at Robert with a friendly gaze, but he still made room for Robert to stand next to Old Whateley.

Robert Miller didn't even look at him. He walked over to Old Whateley, lifted his robe to reveal strange, seaweed-like green hair underneath.

His eye sockets were excessively deep, and his nose bridge was too high. He might only be in his twenties, but he looked overly gloomy.

Old Whateley looked at Robert and said, "Although you and your father share the same name, you two look nothing alike."

Robert did not respond.

He reached out to Old Whateley, holding a syringe in his hand, but Old Whateley was not alarmed.

But the hand was obstructed along the way; Wilbur's brown, hairy hand clamped down on his wrist like a vise.

Robert struggled several times but could not break free, while Wilbur felt no resistance at all.

"You need to understand who the real master here is," Wilbur said in a deep voice.

He frowned; the previous Robert Miller had been quite audacious.

This one seems to have gone even further.

The sound of wind breaking suddenly rang in Wilbur's ears. The black-robed man behind Robert suddenly raised his arm. His body under the black robe was not as strong as he looked; on the contrary, he appeared thin. His raised arm swung like a cleaver toward Wilbur's neck.

Wilbur broke out in a cold sweat. Before he could react, the man in black had already placed his arm on his shoulder.

That wasn't an arm at all. The exposed skin was bluish-green, there were no hands, and the forearm was strangely bent. The skin was only a semi-transparent layer, pierced by bone on the outside. The broken part was stuck to the bone, which was only a thin piece, gleaming with a metallic cold light.

It looks more like a sharp scimitar, with a layer of green-dyed cowhide pasted on the back of the blade.

"Ghoul!" Wilbur muttered.

"You should also be aware of the consequences of offending the Miller Family," Robert replied.

"Put your hands down, or you'll lose your head."

The initial panic from being caught off guard gradually subsided, and Wilbur regained his composure.

He glared at Robert with resentment, but quickly his resentment vanished, and he laughed gleefully, mocking Robert:

"Are you kidding me, Robert? Haven't you ever threatened anyone before? If you can't kill someone, you'd better threaten them with something else, like a finger or an arm, or you'll just make people laugh."

Robert was taken aback, and Wilbur thoroughly enjoyed the change in his expression; his question also met Wilbur's expectations:

You think I wouldn't dare kill you? Why?

"Because my grandfather is about to die," Wilbur replied.

"Your Miller Family has invested so much money here. And now I'm the only one left..."

He pointed to his head:

"Only I can give you what you want. If you kill me now... ah, you won't lose anything, but do you know what Carl Miller will do?"

"You mean he'll kill me?" Robert blinked.

"Do you really think someone like him would care about family ties? Look at your bodyguard; you might end up like him."

"It would have been better to be dead," Robert murmured.

Wilbur looked at Robert.

He's a complete idiot, but at least he's not a moron; at least he knows fear. Knowing fear is good; knowing fear makes him a weakling.

Wilbur chuckled, tilting his head to bring his neck closer to the black-robed man's blade, now almost touching his flesh, just a hair's breadth away from slicing through his skin.

"Robert, if you still want to cut my head off, you can do it now."

Robert stared at him, motionless like a puppet.

Wilbur continued:

"Robert, not to mention you, even if Carl Miller himself came here, in the Whateley House house, he would have to show my grandfather some respect."

Robert beckoned with his finger.

Wilbur suddenly felt a sharp pain in his neck, and blood splattered out.