One voice sounded much like my master, although he sounded intoxicated, his words sliding over each other as they left his tongue. The other voice I didn't know, but it fell on my ears with a greasy texture. Each time this voice sounded, I felt the hairs on my neck rise and a shudder worm down my back. I have known sights that could chill the blood, but never a voice that could manage the same trick. I felt my legs trying to slow their pace as I made my way closer, and forced them on. My hand rested on the chill iron latch for a moment before I opened the outer door, stepping into the erstwhile surgical theatre. The floor was littered with half-opened crates. I recognised the names on the labels on most of them, as they belonged to firms to whom Doctor Jekyll had sent me, on one errand or another, to fetch him glasses and powders, solvents and reagents. The voices were coming from above, from my master's cabinet. With trepidation, and a strong desire to be elsewhere, I blew out the flame of my candle, and made my slow way up the stairs. The door was open and I could see inside to the flickering light from the fire that my master had instructed to be kept lit at all times. A man stood in front of the long mirror and shouted.