The Operation

On the farthest point of Long Island, the last scrap of land that still counts as New York, there is a tremendous, abandoned building. Protected by its own isolated location and two or three security guards. However, if one approaches the cast iron gates on the night of December fourth, you will not see the guards.

 

The gates will be unlocked, and the wind will be utterly still, a nearly opaque fog filling the peninsula. go directly to the main doors and step inside. There will be a single long hallway, the end occluded by that fog. If you look to either side upon entering you will see a modern operating room through a glass door. the further I that you go, the older the equipment will get and the more old fashioned the doctors will be dressed.

 

When you can finally come upon the end of the hallway, the screams of the patients will be nearly deafening. The hall will terminate in an open door leading to a single wooden table where a man in woolen medical clothing, stained brown from blood, will be bent over a corpse. The body's face will be covered and the man will turn silently, screwing the top onto a cloudy jar of liquid, filled to the brim. He will hand the abnormally heavy object to you, before turning back to his work.

 

Instantly, you will be outside of those cast iron gates. From that point on, disease and injury will never affect you, but if you ever open that cloudy jar and pull out the contents, you will find a heart. pulsing and beating loudly in your hand. A sudden feeling of horror revulsion will pass through you as realization strikes. The realization that you have just pulled your own living heart from your body.