This was the last place she wanted to be.
Her eyes burned with tears as she entered the building and anxiously made her way through the maze of long corridors – bright white, all white - a sterile cleanliness, a place to heal. But it was a deception; its promises were hollow. How many people had literally put their lives into the welcoming hands of the guardians here? How many had eventually died due to neglect, callousness, or murder? No, everything was hidden; it had all been erased – as though it had never happened. But she knew better. They could apologise, promise it would never happen again; but the screams filled the corridors, and the dead refused to leave.
Clara shivered involuntarily as a sudden all-encompassing chill flooded through the air; it clung to her and crept lingeringly under her skin as the faces of the hidden melted through the walls and looked expectantly in her direction; blurred transparent faces, floating back and forth as they drew their substance and shape - like the shadows which were their bodies, shadows growing limbs and finding the ground, reaching back into the world they had never really left.
“I know who I am,” she whispered breathlessly, as they slipped into her surroundings; following behind her, moving at her side, waiting for her further down the corridor – all of them joining her as she passed them by, all of them telling her where she had to go. Soundless and stifled for so long, they were now Insistent, pressing into her consciousness, demanding acknowledgement – so many lives lost through so many years. There was one missing, though, and even though her last memory was of him wasting away on a hospital bed, she couldn’t help thinking it was for the best. She didn’t want to see him like this.
Her breath caught in her throat as she found herself standing outside the door to Dr Mathias’ office. The last time she had stood here it had been to complain to him about her husband’s poor treatment. He had been arrogant, impatient and dismissive.
Her husband had died three weeks later.
Indecision against their impatience – the door swung forcibly open with just the touch of her hand; urging her on, they pushed past her and swarmed in, one after the other, filling the room, crawling over the walls and ceiling, peering curiously out of the wall to wall window at the side, which looked out over the grounds of the hospital and beyond.
He was standing over his desk. Hearing the door open, he scowled and looked up angrily. He was about to rebuke her for entering uninvited; and then he recognised her – she truly hadn’t expected him to recognise her. The look of surprise on his countenance was unmistakeable, but it was only there for a few seconds. He refused to show weakness. Recovering his composure, he quickly looked down at his desk and busied himself with some papers.
“Mrs Davis,” he said officiously, “I don’t think you should be here.”
“You know why I’m here,” she cried hoarsely. It was all she could say – the thick rage in her mind smothered any other thought.
“I think you should see someone,” he said coldly. “It’s been a year now. It’s time to move on.”
It was the worse thing he could have said. The panes on the window clouded and her breath became visible as the temperature dropped sharply. The door slammed shut behind her. The doctor jerked his head back with surprise, and looked wildly around the room. He could only see the physical manifestations of their presence; even though they were everywhere, he couldn’t see them.
They needed him to see them.
One entity was invisible – no sight or sound. Two or three might be vague flickers of movement at the corner of the eye – just minor disturbances. The malleable forms of the hospital’s secret inhabitants occupied every space in the room, the air itself – more were flailing against each other to get in. They couldn’t be stopped. In lurching, spasmodic shifts they reached for him – he clutched at his chest as some of those around him sank their hands into his body. He couldn’t see them; but he couldn’t doubt that something was there – not when they clung to him and lifted his body effortlessly up into the air; and it was then, finally, that he saw them.
He was afraid. He moaned with a pitiable dread and drew his body inwards - and then began to convulse with shrieks of terror as the darkened glass in the window shattered outwards. He realized what was about to happen. His eyes sought out and locked onto hers pleadingly as he squirmed frantically against them – an action which caused her to step back with surprise, and then watch with a smothering trepidation, because there was really nothing she could do, except stand there helplessly as his body was carried and thrown through the gaping hole in the window’s frame.
Her eyes welled with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
They were satisfied for a while. As she left the hospital, most of them melted away into the walls, or crept into the darkest recesses of the building, where they would continue to watch and wait as more years passed by and others joined them. Discovering they could, some of them chose to stay with her. “I know who I am,” she said again to herself, ignoring the insistent whispers and staring steadily ahead as their ceaselessly shifting shapes eagerly followed. “I know who I am.”
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©2011 Marius Dicomites
Marius Dicomites lives in the UK. Some of his work has appeared on Spinetinglers, Microhorror and Short.Story.Me. A few of his favourite authors are HP Lovecraft, Ray Bradbury and Ramsey Campbell.
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