The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  His finger taps on the glass, pointing at me, ticking like a handgun against the window pane in a manner unsettling. But that’s not the most frightening part. I shake my head again. My eyes must be deceiving me, my overworked emotions and mind bowing to exhaustion. Silly woman, I chide myself. Silly woman indeed.

  For a second, it seems like the man in 300 is saying something. It seems like his lips are moving. No, I’m not crazy. They are. His lips are definitely moving, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. What’s he saying? What’s he saying?

  His lips stop moving, he leans forward, and then I see it. He drags his tongue across the window, back and forth, back and forth, his eyes locked on mine.

  I blink over and over, shaking my head.

  Stop it, stop it, stop it, I tell myself, banging my hand against my head over and over. Stop playing tricks. My mind is just playing tricks. It can’t be real. It can’t be.

  I look back up to the window after a moment.

  The light is out. The figure is gone.

  Tears fall at the realisation. Perhaps the nurses are right. Perhaps I’m truly going mad. Perhaps my sense of reality is just a warped, dark sense of the truth.

  I don’t know anymore. I don’t know, Charles. I really just don’t know. I’m sorry, Charles. I should’ve told you. You should be here. Things should be so different.

  I collapse backwards, not sure what to make of it all – perhaps too afraid to try – as sleep overpowers me.

  ***

  ‘Mrs Evans? Wake up. Oh my, did you sleep here?’ A hand and a ragged voice shakes me awake.

  I jump, my vision hazy. My neck aches like someone’s taken a hammer to it. My hand finds its way to the sore muscle, massaging it, as the brown-haired nurse helps me up.

  ‘I must’ve fallen asleep,’ I murmur, looking out the window and remembering with a jolt of terror what I saw last night.

  When I look across the way, however, the man in 300 isn’t there. I study the empty window for a moment, half expecting him to appear in my line of vision. He doesn’t, though. What happened last night? Was it real? I shake my head, trying to remember. Did I write it down? I’ll have to check my notes later. I’ll have to see if I left myself a note to remember. My head hurts. My mind dances over clips of last night. I look up to the wall, but there is no sign of the message – what did it say? – on the wall. The only proof that something happened last night is the bandage on my arm.

  The nurse helps me walk to the bathroom, my legs stiff from the awkward position of the chair. After I’ve taken care of morning routines, she leads me to my bed to sit.

  ‘Mrs Evans, I heard that last night was a fairly intense evening. The night nurse from Floor One said she found some alarming things in here.’

  I glance over to the table, empty now that the photograph is gone. They must’ve taken it away.

  ‘Yes,’ I admit, not knowing what else to say. She stoops down, eye level with me.

  ‘It’ll be all right. I promise,’ she assures. Her words are kind, and I want so desperately to believe her. But how can you believe it will all be okay when it was never okay in the first place? When she sees me, she sees the Adeline Evans I am now – a weak, decrepit woman who has lost so much. She doesn’t see who I was, what I’ve been through, or the transgressions I’ve committed. Most of all, she doesn’t see the true terrors of Floor Three.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ I retort, seeing that tell-tale look in her eye and feeling the need to defend myself for whatever happened. Flashes of blood, of fear whir inside of me.

  I’ve done some awful things, it’s true. But not this. I didn’t do this. The way she stares at me, though, placating me with her eyes, I know that she thinks it was me. She thinks I’ve gone completely mad, the dementia working its way through my brain and my ability to reason. The smashed photograph, the blood on the walls, the blood on my arms – she thinks I was the root of it all. They all do. It makes me livid. I’m trapped in this web of falsehoods, entombed by my own failing body and mind. Can’t they see? What will it take for them to believe me? Another horrifying thought comes to mind. Claire. With all that happened, did they notify her? Did they bother Claire with this?

  ‘Listen, it’s going to be fine, Mrs Evans. It’s all fine. You just take it easy today, okay?’ she says.

  I snatch her arm with my cold fingers, desperate for someone to believe me. ‘You need to keep an eye on Oliver. And the priest in 310. And the man in 300. It’s one of them. I know it. It has to be. They’re dangerous,’ I plead, squeezing her arm.

  For a long moment, her eyes peer into mine, piercing into me, and I think maybe it’s going to be okay. Maybe I’ve found my ally in her kind eyes. But then her lips turn up into the familiar smile, the one that says she pities me. Tears start to fall, desperation settling in.

  I continue, hoping against all odds I’ll get through to her. ‘The man in 300. He’s dangerous. I know it. Ask him. Ask him if he saw anything. I know he would have seen.’

  The nurse stands now, offering another weak smile and a pat on the arm. ‘Okay, Mrs Evans. It’ll be okay.’

  I shake my head. I know it’s a lie. Things will never be okay again. Then again, they never really were. So much of life is about false pretences, fraudulent appearances and what we convince ourselves we understand.

  But as I head to breakfast, I know the cold, hard truth: I don’t understand a bloody thing.

  Chapter 27

  I sit alone at breakfast, even Dorothy’s old friends moving on to a new table. Maybe they’re afraid I’m trouble or just plain bad luck. My hand shakes as my eyes dart around the room, waiting for him to come in. My nerves are so shot that I barely manage to choke down Smith Creek’s weak excuse for tea.

  Finally, I spot him, four tables over from me. He sits unassumingly, staring at me. The nurses serve breakfast, and I don’t take my eyes off the man from 300. A flash from last night. He was in the window, staring. Wasn’t he? Or was that a dream? I don’t know. Think, think, think. One, two, three. Think. One. Think. Two. Think. Three.

  Goodness, my head hurts. I’m weary. But yes, I remember something about the window. He was there. Pointing, wasn’t he? Or was he banging? Or was that in the stairwell?

  Tears fill my eyes. But I must stay strong. I know he was doing something – frightening. Looking at him as he eerily rubs the scar on his head, a shiver runs through me. Could he be the one after all? Could this have nothing to do with Oliver? Could my guilt from the past be bringing Oliver to the forefront as a prime suspect, when really I’m just overlooking the true culprit? Is he the one toying with me?

  But it doesn’t make sense. I don’t even know him. I don’t know who he is. What would he want with me? What could he possibly have against me? It doesn’t make any sense at all. Nothing does.

  I look at Dorothy’s chair, hearing her words on our final day together. What did she say? It’s in my notes – isn’t it? I think I wrote it down. I need to check. I need to put it together, but it’s so hard. I need help. I don’t trust myself to figure it out.

  Staring at the man from 300, though, a thought comes to mind. Could he have something to do with what Dorothy wanted to tell me? As I study him, his fork tracing his scar on his forehead in an odd display, I realise he’s mouthing something to me now. Back and forth, back and forth, the fork traces the scar as his eyes laser into mine. And this time, I blink once, twice, three times – I’m certain I’m not imagining it. I know he’s mouthing something.

  And I know exactly what he’s saying to me.

  ‘Mine,’ he’s mouthing. ‘Mine.’ Repeatedly, his lips form the word.

  Mine.

  Mine.

  Mine.

  I drop the cup of tea I’m holding, the spill oozing across the table. I don’t make a move to clean it up, my muscles frozen as realisations of all types dawn on me.

  ‘The man in 300,’ I utter to myself, all by myself. ‘He’s the one to look out for. He’s the one.’


  But no one hears me. No one notices the ramblings of a woman who appears to have gone bonkers – and perhaps, I acknowledge, the madness is setting in after all. Even if I’ve narrowed it down, what good will it do?

  I’m almost out of time. I’m certain the brown-haired nurse is going to ring Claire and tell the rest of the staff about what happened. This whole disaster is going to be out soon, and everyone will be certain I’m nothing but a paranoid lunatic. No one will believe a thing. This whole scenario may have just sealed my fate. I inhale, staring at the seat Dorothy usually occupied. She’s died in vain, I realise. And so will I. If only she were here still. If only I could tell her what I’ve come to realise.

  But just as I’m ready to lay my head on the table in despair and in surrender, there’s an epiphany. It’s not too late. Not yet. They haven’t come for me. There’s still time. There’s still time to figure this out. I haven’t gone mad, not yet. I can do this.

  Charles, I think I can do this.

  Breakfast finishes, and the man from 300 passes my table, sneering as he walks by, mouthing the word one more time.

  His declaration of ownership is the final straw. It’s the final motivation I need to take a chance, to take a stand. I might go down for this. I might die in vain. But I shall not perish without at least understanding the truth. I owe it to Dorothy, to Charles, to Claire, and to myself. I stand from my seat, knowing what I must do.

  Chapter 28

  I feign confidence I don’t feel as I walk into the room at the end of the corridor. Room 300. Just like my room, there’s a stairwell right beside it. I wonder if it has the same code as the stairwell by me.

  I inhale deeply to calm my nerves as I lead the way, jittery but aware that this must happen. All around Floor Three, the residents saunter about. A few residents have visitors today. Some are being wheeled to appointments. The day in, day out chaos occurs, all at a slow, deprecating pace. But I push forward, stepping inside the doorway.

  He is in here, alone, and I notice that the other half of his room is empty. He has no roommate. He is completely by himself, the walls and the window his only company. Is that why he spends so much time looking out? I don’t know. But right now, he stares out the window into the courtyard – into my room, I discern with a shudder.

  ‘Hello?’ I murmur into the cavernous room.

  The bent-over man, stooped with his hands in his pockets as he stares, stares, stares, slowly, methodically pivots. It’s a surprisingly smooth move for someone with old, weary bones. When he turns, the light in the room shines off the scar, my eyes dancing over it. His dark eyes are alight at the sight of me, and he quickly steps nearer. His left leg drags behind him, and a crooked grin forms on his face.

  ‘Adeline. What a surprise,’ he croaks, his voice raspy as always. I hate that he knows my name and that he uses it. He keeps walking closer and closer, his crooked grin near enough to me now that I can smell his putrid breath.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ I declare. I glance about, noticing that his room is devoid of personal effects. There are no photographs, no mementos. It’s like a clean slate, like a blank canvas that shows no life living here. The bareness only adds to the enigma that he is.

  ‘I need to know if you’ve seen anything strange happening in my room. Have you witnessed anyone going in? Anything suspicious?’ I ask, not sure where to start. I want to feel the situation out. It won’t do to play all my cards at once.

  I stare at the man, and apprehension starts working its way down my spine. I notice that he stares at me, his dark eyes almost revolving with something I can’t determine. His eyes barely blink as they drink me in again. It’s like he’s thirsty for the sight of me, and I can’t help but be frightened by it. I take a step back. He takes a step forward.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been watching all right. I’ve been watching and watching. I’ve seen all sorts of things.’

  ‘You have?’ I ask, my heart beating faster now, the methodical thud becoming a wailing drum now.

  He grins a little wilder as he looms closer. ‘Yes. Yes indeed. Adeline, I’m always watching you. I’m always watching,’ he repeats, taking a step closer.

  I bite my lip, staring back into the dark eyes, absorbing the sight of the scar. My head starts to thud, my brain shrieking as I try to connect the dots. The sight of him coming towards me, a shaky hand slowly reaching out now. The dark eyes, the way he says my name.

  There’s something – recognisable? Familiar? I don’t know. I don’t know at all. Tears build, blurring my vision as I step backwards. The man, undaunted and perhaps even encouraged by my hesitancy, steps forward again. Despite the tension in the room, his movement is slow and non-threatening. Nevertheless, as I stare into his eyes, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach churns. I’m not safe here. I just don’t know why or how.

  ‘Adeline,’ he whispers … and what he says next makes me certain that I’m in danger. I’m in absolute danger – and he’s no longer trying to hide the fact.

  When he completes his jaw-dropping statement, my face flushes and I feel my blood boiling. I need to get away. I need to retreat, to protect myself or I’m going to end up with Dorothy’s fate.

  Before I can turn to leave or work it all out, I’m falling backwards, the world fading to black as I hear my own guttural scream as his words sink in.

  ‘You’re the one. You’re the one who got away. I killed your friend because she found out too much. Caught her snooping in my room, and that just won’t do. She had to die. I couldn’t risk her warning you, ruining my master plan. But soon, it’ll be you. It’s almost time, Adeline.’

  Chapter 29

  I look up at the ceiling, the hairline crack soothing in an inexplicable way. My eyes trace the line as it feathers out, the sunlight illuminating its intricacies. A few birds chirp, twittering about on the roof. All seems peaceful, cheerful even – except that I notice a nurse hovers over me.

  ‘It’s all okay, Mrs Evans. You’re going to be fine.’ Her voice is soft and muffled, as if she’s talking to a delicate flower or an infant.

  I stretch to sit up, but she pushes me back down. ‘There, there. You’re okay. Just stay put. You’ve had a bit of a fall. You’re going to be okay, but you need to take it easy for a couple of days.’

  ‘What happened?’ I ask, feeling my head as the blood whooshes into it. It’s thumping with pain, a stabbing sensation mixed with an outrageous amount of pressure. It’s so intense that I’m happy to rest my head back on the paper-thin pillow.

  ‘You had a bit of an accident yesterday.’

  Yesterday? An accident? I try to chase the memory in my mind, but there’s just an unidentifiable blankness there. It’s like I’m staring at a television when the picture’s not quite clear, the snowy static blotting out the blackness in repetitive yet indistinct patterns. I keep digging, trying to unearth the truth. I come up empty. Why can’t I remember?

  ‘What happened?’ I ask, the brown-haired nurse leaning down closer as she adjusts the blanket around me.

  ‘We’re not exactly sure. You had some sort of accident over on the other side of Floor Three. One of the residents found you in the corridor, screaming and falling backwards. Apparently, he said you got confused and upset. We thought you were having heart issues, so when he called for a nurse, we took you to hospital. They ran some tests. Do you remember? Do you remember going to hospital?’

  I stretch my mind, trying to reach into the recesses of the past. I can’t. Panic sets in, a thunderous cloud fogging up all other thoughts. Why can’t I remember? My pulse quickens at the prospect that a portion of my life is wiped from my memory. I hate that I can’t recall so much time. What else have I forgotten?

  The nurse must sense my agitation because she puts a hand on my arm. ‘It’s okay. You had quite a fall. It’s normal for you to forget, they said. It’s normal, Mrs Evans. Don’t worry. The doctors said you probably had some sort of panic attack. Something must have frightened you. When it happened, you tripped
and hit your head. Nevertheless, we’re taking all precautions with your heart and all, so you need to call for anything you need. No getting up for a couple of days, okay?’

  I think, over and over. Room 300 comes to my head, assaulting my thoughts over and over.

  Room 300.

  Room 300.

  Yes. Yes. The man in 300. The man across the way. The confession about Dorothy. The familiar flash.

  ‘Dorothy. He hurt Dorothy,’ I murmur desperately, recognition of what’s occurred crashing into me.

  The nurse’s kind smile fades a bit. ‘There, there, dear. You need to rest, love. You need to rest.’

  I look up at her face, squinting. It’s too much to process. Why won’t she answer me? She doesn’t believe me. Why doesn’t anyone believe me? Why can’t they see? Then, my mind floats to the next pressing concern. ‘What about my daughter?’

  ‘We called her yesterday after your fall. She was away, but we left a message.’

  I look up at her kind eyes. She has no idea what’s really happening. Then again, do I? What happened to me? Why is the man from 300 so focused on me? And is he really behind all the madness? I rub my forehead with my thumb, inhaling deeply, those final words he muttered coming back to me. They chill me to the core.

  What does he want with me? I will my mind to travel back, back, back, to sort it all out. It’s no use. My pulse still races, my brain trying so hard to focus on one thought. I look over to the noticeboard, my eyes taking in some new additions.

  ‘Oh, yes, dear. Some of the residents here were worried. They made you cards in activity time. Isn’t that just sweet? Here, let me get them for you.’ She crosses the room jauntily, wearing her youth in her gait. She unpins a few cards, one with a daisy on it. They were always my favourite when I was younger. Mum had a small garden patch in West Green with daisies growing.