The Patient

by Jasper DeWitt

  Then I drove to the hospital.

  I arrived around quarter to six and considered taking the fire axe out of my trunk to end this problem then and there, but my knowledge of the typical staffing procedures stopped me. There would be too many people around to try anything now, and while I did want some sort of revenge on the monster, I also didn’t want to be locked up for it.

  At that point, my goal wasn’t to kill “Joe” but to get some answers out of him. Whatever else he might have been, he was still a prisoner at the mercy of whoever held the key to his room. I stormed into the hospital, and after a detour to my office to grab my lab coat, I headed straight for the cursed creature’s lair. Once outside, I snapped the cassette into the machine, pressed Record, and concealed the device in my lab coat pocket. Then I shoved my key into the door and pushed it open furiously, my righteous anger overpowering whatever trace of fear I might have had at facing this unknown agent of terror.

  “Joe” looked up as I entered his room. Seeing it was me, his face split into its usual crooked grin, as if nothing whatsoever had happened since my failed attempt to release him. When he spoke, it was in the same rasp he’d used while pretending to be sane. “Well, well, well, long time no see, doc.”

  “Cut the crap,” I snapped at him. “What are you?”

  “What am I? Boy, she really did a number on you, didn’t she? I told you, I’m a sane man that they’re using for mon—”

  “Don’t you fucking dare,” I barked. “I’ve just gone to the real Joe’s house. I’ve seen what was in the wall. I’ll ask you again: I know you’re not human, so what are you?”

  This next part I hesitate to write down as I remember it. I have spent years trying to convince myself—with all the tools psychiatry can offer—that what I remember is only my imagination. Nevertheless, the memories stayed stubbornly the same. Therefore, if I am to convey the danger I feel a duty to warn you all about, I have to give my experience the credence it deserves and report it as I recall it, even if I find it more comforting to pretend it was my own mind momentarily abandoning sanity.

  “Joe” stared at me for a long moment. My knowledge was a development he evidently hadn’t expected. He stood up and raised his hands towards me, exposing his forearms. Wounds opened at his wrists, peeling slowly as if by magic. But it was not blood that flowed from them; it was an avalanche of squirming, writhing, ravenous maggots. His smile widened and kept on widening until his cheeks split apart and opened into a bloody rictus. An ugly, poisonously yellow pool began to form at his feet, with streaks of scarlet floating in its midst. His legs and torso lengthened until he towered over me, staring down with a malignant, nightmarish amusement.

  When the Thing that called itself “Joe” opened its mouth again, blood dribbled from its exposed gums, and it laughed with the moist, rotting wheeze from my nightmares. “Parker . . . my baby,” it crooned in a distorted, detestable parody of my mother’s voice. “Help me.”

  For a moment, I was paralyzed with fear. Had I been a weaker man, had I not seen the small skull and bones in the wall and learned everything of the past day, I might have stayed that way. Might have run gibbering from the room only to be strapped to a gurney myself. But years of survivor’s guilt and searing moral outrage had done their work, and I knew in that moment that to fear the Thing was to give it what it wanted. And I could not, would not, do that. My fear turned to white-hot rage, and I spat in the mutilated, leering face of the Thing that called itself “Joe.”

  “Fuck you! You’re talking like my mom ’cause you think I’m too scared to fight back. The same way you knew looking like some giant bug would scare the real Joe.”

  There was no reply, only more blood gushing from the Thing’s mutilated mouth. Yet it seemed to want to communicate something. It took everything I had not to back down as it leaned towards me so that I could smell its fetid breath, a movement that didn’t seem to precede an attack. It raised one of its long spidery hands and pressed right on the pocket where I had concealed the recorder. Then, with another moist laugh, it wagged its finger at me in mock reproach. The meaning seemed clear: that won’t do you any good.

  Another chill spiked over me. I ignored this one, too, but with more effort. “What are you? I must know.”

  The Thing’s jaw seemed to scrape itself loose, and this time, its dank, decayed voice managed to form words.

  “What . . . do . . . you . . . think?”

  It was a trap. It wanted me to give it a new part to play.

  “I think you’re a fluffy little bunny rabbit,” I said in a mocking voice. “I think I’ll call you Cuddles.”

  The Thing gave another horrible, hoarse laugh.

  “You . . . don’t . . .”

  It paused for longer than usual as more blood dribbled down its chin.

  “. . . believe . . . that.”

  I glared at it.

  “Maybe not, but I’m not going to feed you a role. I know how you work,” I said. “But I’ll tell you what I know. I know you killed Joe. You killed him and took his place.”

  It didn’t reply. For a few seconds, it didn’t react at all. Then, with another blood-soaked chuckle, it jerked its head up and down, nodding in agreement. I repressed a shudder.

  “Why?” I asked, more out of reflex than real curiosity.

  The Thing paused, seeming to seriously consider my question. When its mouth opened to speak again, it was so close I nearly choked on the foul smell of its breath.

  “Nothing . . . like . . . me . . . ever . . . got . . . the chance . . . to be . . .”

  “To be human?” I finished in a low, horror-struck whisper. It wagged its finger at me again, shaking its head with exaggerated knowingness.

  “. . . to be . . . prey . . .” it finished, laying special emphasis on the last word.

  I felt ill, but I forced myself to confront the situation with as much detachment as I could. It was taunting me, but at least it was being honest.

  “But why stay here? You could’ve been free all those years. You could’ve tortured people without being imprisoned. Why spend so long here?”

  “Didn’t . . . know . . . how . . . to be . . . prey . . .” the Thing hissed. “Here . . . so much food. Here . . . safe. Here . . . I learn . . . how prey . . . think.”

  It jabbed one finger at its chest, then at me.

  “Curious,” it wheezed. “Like . . . you.”

  Reflexively, I stepped back, appalled at the implication.

  “I’m nothing like . . . whatever you are!” I snarled before I could stop myself. Its laughter hacked and wheezed in my ears.

  “Yes . . . you . . . are. Both . . . live . . . on . . . misery. You . . . profit. I . . . eat.”

  “Shut up,” I tried to shout, but it came out hollow and tremulous. The Thing was leaning very far into me now, so close it felt grotesquely intimate.

  “Could . . . help you. Could . . . show you . . . what . . . other prey . . . fear.”

  I felt so sick I had to lean against the wall, but I was still defiant. I faced it with all the courage I could muster.

  “No,” I said. “I know what you’re doing. You know my worst fear is not being able to save people. You’re just making me think you can help me do that so you can watch me fail and feed on my misery, too.”

  The Thing’s expression—if you could call its mutilated face that—darkened momentarily. However, in a moment, its smile had returned and, with it, a laugh like a waterfall of acid.

  “You . . . can’t . . . fight . . .” came that hideous croaking burble. “Stupid prey. You’re . . . helpless.”

  “More fool you,” I said, reckless bravery entering my voice. “It’s you that’s helpless the way you are now. All you can do is pull parlor tricks to try and scare people, but if that fails, you’re up shit creek.”

  “Then . . . why not . . . try to kill me? Get . . . axe. Come back. Try. I . . . look . . . forward.”

  Axe? I was momentarily at a loss for words and started to feel i
ntimidation creeping in on my consciousness. Then, a sudden thought crossed my mind, and I returned its mocking, sadistic leer with one of my own.

  “I don’t need to try to kill you,” I said softly. “All I need to do is get everyone here to stop paying attention to you. Which I can do now that I’ve seen what you did to the real Joe. And really, that’s what would kill you, isn’t it? If we stop sending in orderlies, nurses, and doctors, you’ll have no victims. You’ll starve to death in here. Well, enjoy whatever bad thoughts you’re getting out of me, you fucking parasite, because they’re the last ones you’re ever going to eat. That I promise you.” I turned around and was about to leave, when I heard the Thing speak again, this time at a normal speed, and in the normal Joe’s voice. And somehow, that only made its last words more dissonant—and disconcerting.

  “Doc? Listen to the tape. For your own sake, listen to it before you try anything. Please.”

  I turned back in spite of myself. “Joe” was looking at me with a fearful expression. All traces of blood and mutilation had vanished from his face and clothes, and he’d returned to his patient’s facade. The floor was clean of effluvia, as though a hallucination had passed from me. I didn’t give the sight time to scare me. I turned around and slammed the door behind me, leaving the hospital in a rage. When I got back in my car, I pulled out the tape recorder I’d taken in, stopped it, and rewound the tape. Then, as I drove home, I pressed Play to learn what, if anything, I had recorded.

  I wish I could say I’d seen the results coming, but unfortunately, even I’d held out some hope that I could gather hard evidence that I wasn’t insane.

  You’ve probably guessed what I heard: My own voice and my own angry protestations were preserved clearly on the tape. But the mocking, jeering responses of the Thing that called itself Joe were nowhere to be heard.

  Instead, all I could hear was the terrified pleading of a familiar, reedy man’s voice, raspy from disuse, but otherwise thoroughly ordinary.

  Needless to say, I smashed the tape with a hammer when I got home and threw it away. I was stuck. I couldn’t tell anyone what I’d learned. It had effortlessly outmaneuvered me. Without proof that it was an inhuman monster that lived on the fear and suffering of anyone who interacted with it, I could hardly expect the hospital to just give up on feeding and clothing it. As the hours passed, truth be told, I began to doubt everything that had just happened. I wasn’t even sure if I was still sane.

  I realize that in the movies, this would end with me overcoming my doubts, going back to confront the monster that called itself Joe, and shoving an axe blade through its skull, or something dramatic like that. But unfortunately, while this story certainly had its moments of Hollywood-style horror psychodrama, it doesn’t end that way.

  I did not go back to the hospital that night. In fact, I’m not sure if I ever went back to Joe’s room again, and not for the reason you might think.

  Why do I say I’m not sure? Well, that’s the last odd part of this story.

  When I got home from the hospital after my visit with the Thing that called itself Joe, I found Jocelyn waiting for me. To her credit, she immediately realized that something was wrong and that I wasn’t ready to talk about it. So she poured me a few drinks and then held me until I was able to sleep.

  And that night, I dreamt I went back to the hospital, but it wasn’t lit up the way the hospital should’ve been at night. Every window was pitch-black, and had I been awake, I would have had no idea how to navigate the place at all. But apparently, the dream knew where I was going, because I felt an implacable force drive me onward. Evidently, my subconscious mind knew the hospital better than I did, because I didn’t enter via the main entrance. Instead, I snuck in through a little-known fire exit that somehow had been left open. Ordinarily, I would’ve been entirely disoriented, stumbling up a flight of stairs in the dark with no idea where they led, but once more, whatever part of my mind was conjuring the vision seemed to know its way, and I didn’t miss a step.

  My destination, as you’ve probably guessed, was the room belonging to the Thing that called itself Joe. But the path there didn’t feel normal. Perhaps it’s because I was barefoot in the dream, but the floor underneath me felt overly slippery Almost wet, as if the janitor had just been over it with a mop. But this wasn’t the most obviously dreamlike feature of the experience. That happened when I got to the room itself, when I heard the latch click and saw the door open by itself.

  A horribly familiar echo of a voice cackled from within, and liquid began to gush from the aperture. It poured out of the room, almost as if I’d opened the door to a sealed aquarium, and swept down the hallway in a torrent, accompanied by the sound of hoarse, sepulchral laughter echoing with deafening volume. The liquid smelled of iron, blood, and urine, the awful reek that had haunted my nightmares since I was young. There might have been more to the dream, but the cold, wet sensation rushing against my skin felt so real that it jolted me awake, and I felt Jocelyn frantically shaking me. Apparently I’d woken her up when I started mumbling in a deep, watery voice that scared her so much she had to rouse me. What’s more, I must have sweated through my nightclothes, because they felt like dripping rags when I woke up. At least, I tell myself I sweated through them, because the alternative is just too unnerving.

  When I went to the hospital the next day to see Dr. G—— and share with her what I’d learned at Joe’s house, I discovered an electrician’s van as well as several police cruisers in the parking lot. I thought something serious must be happening and noticed that the staff and patients appeared to be rattled as I hurried to the medical director’s office on the upper floor.

  I found the doctor meeting with a few staff members, but she shooed them out and brought me in so we could speak alone.

  “I want to know what happened on your trip yesterday,” she said, strain evident in her voice. “But first you need to know . . . Last night a pipe appears to have burst on the second-floor ward, and the water flooded a nearby breaker. The breaker is centrally and internally located because it’s a rather vital link in the system and isn’t supposed to be vulnerable to little things like bad weather or disasters. The electrician was able to come by and fix it, but the whole hospital was blacked out for somewhere between ninety minutes and two hours. And during that blackout, someone broke into the hospital and unlocked the door of a patient’s room—Joe’s room—as well as the doors to his secure ward.”

  “Unlocked it? Someone let him out?” My voice was shrill. “Did you catch them? Did you catch him?”

  Her expression altered a touch, as if something in that moment was settled for her. “Yes, someone did. No, we did not catch them. Unfortunately, the blackout affected the security cameras. And no, we did not apprehend him. Joe has escaped.”

  April 30, 2008

  I realize that was a shorter post. After I typed those last words, “Joe has escaped,” I set aside my computer and had to go dark for a while. Some things happened that day that still haunt me and are particularly difficult to share. I wasn’t sure I would, especially in light of the reaction I received—I see many of you are vociferous in your negative views of my last post—but I think I need to be as honest as I know how to be with you, regardless of what you choose to believe. Now, you’ve heard the meat of the mystery, but the conclusion is revelatory as well.

  The police questioned me as a suspect in his escape, of course. Security footage showed I’d visited Joe’s room for twenty minutes earlier that evening, at around six, and Hank, the orderly assigned by Dr. G—— to keep me under surveillance, had reported that I’d been in Joe’s room and he’d heard me arguing with him. Hank had looked in the door’s window, but whatever he saw inside reassured him that we weren’t in danger of hurting each other, which I took to mean he saw nothing of Joe’s transformation. In addition, there was a witness statement from Dr. P—— that I’d possibly tried to help Joe escape the day prior. But Jocelyn confirmed my alibi that we went to bed together the nig
ht before, and, as I learned much later, Dr. G—— made a statement on my behalf explaining that my actions during the previous “escape” attempt had been a study of the patient with her knowledge. Therefore, I was soon ruled out as a suspect. The hospital staff, particularly the orderlies Marvin and Hank, were slower to believe in my innocence, but I was too preoccupied to care when they looked askance at me.

  The irony of the situation is that the police believed someone set out to harm Joe. It is hospital policy to notify the authorities if a patient, even one who’s voluntarily committed, escapes. The concern is that Joe was released because someone wished to prank him, or worse. Joe has no criminal record with the police; according to them, he is nonviolent. And most of the hospital community may have loathed Joe or stayed away from him, but they hadn’t been there long enough to know of the assaults he’d committed as a child. The patients and staff in the institution who had heard rumors about Joe—that people went crazy around him—didn’t speak up for fear they’d be mocked. The police are on the lookout for an adult male they believe is unwell and needs care.

  They have no idea.

  My discussion that day with Dr. G—— was interrupted by the news that something was wrong with her mentor, Dr. A——. She had to leave abruptly, so I didn’t have a chance to report what I’d learned at Joe M——’s home, the skeleton I’d found in the walls of the child’s bedroom. Nor did I tell her about my evening confrontation with the abomination that had confirmed my findings but left me with no usable recorded evidence. At any rate, Dr. G—— was inconsolable and disengaged from the hospital in the coming weeks, so I never found an opportunity to speak with her again. Apparently, Dr. A—— had succumbed to heart failure at his home. He was found by a housekeeper the next morning, sprawled on the floor of his kitchen, and the authorities believe his symptoms were violent and terribly painful. A chair had been knocked over, and near the body was a smashed mug or teacup in a scattering of the papers he must have been reviewing.