by Ricky Fleet
“It must have been a doozy,” she sympathized and continued, “The next thing that happened wasn’t during my shift so I only have hearsay to go on.”
When the silence threatened to drag on, Malachi prompted her, “Go on, what happened next.”
“We had a lot of electrical disturbances which our engineers couldn’t figure out. We almost lost a patient when his oxygen machine was turned off and the warning buzzer didn’t respond.”
“Wait,” Malachi cried out, “You don’t think I did it, do you?”
“Of course not, you were unconscious the whole time,” she replied, less than convincingly.
“Shannon, please be honest with me. Do you think I could have got out of bed and fiddled with his machine’s power supply?” Malachi was dreading the possibility he could hurt people during a sleepwalking episode. It wasn’t something he had done before but with the ever worsening state of his mental health, it may be a new affliction.
“No, you were totally out of it. There is no way you could have turned it off… physically.”
“Why did you say it like that?” Malachi asked.
Shannon chewed on a fingernail, a habit which she had beaten over a decade ago. It gave her a few moments to gather her thoughts for what she was about to explain, “I think you could have done it with your mind, without even consciously knowing what you were doing.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” Malachi groaned.
“No, hear me out,” she persisted, mistaking his protest, “I love watching shows about the paranormal on TV. They call it UTE, or unconscious telekinetic energy. There have been reports of people moving objects around while in a sleep state.”
Her excitement had momentarily overcome her unease, but upon realizing she had pulled the chair closer, she quickly shuffled back.
“You probably think I’m nuts,” Shannon laughed sardonically.
“Not at all, you mistook my meaning. Things have happened to me before and your explanation is probably the closest I have ever come to an answer that makes any sense.”
“That wasn’t the end of it,” she said, but much quieter. Excitement at the paranormal possibilities couldn’t erase the horrified accounts of Ben, her friend who worked in the mortuary.
“Go on,” Malachi urged, needing to know but dreading what was to come.
“It was the third day and I was working. Just after lunchtime you started to become more agitated, hitting yourself in the face and screaming the name Taren over and over again. It became so bad we had to retrain you before you caused more damage to yourself and move you away from the other patients,” she explained.
“But my face feels fine?” Malachi said, scrunching his nose, moving his eyebrows and stretching his jaw.
“You looked a lot worse yesterday,” she replied, “You had bruising around your eye and a small split to your lip.”
Feeling with his tongue, the skin felt unbroken. The healing he had experienced in the dream! Was he able to use the power of his mind to regenerate his own tissue? This was fast becoming even more surreal and it raised even more questions.
“And me beating myself up is what has you so afraid?”
“No,” Shannon answered and shook visibly, “It was what happened downstairs that has me freaked. Not that Ben has told anyone else, he knew they would think he was crazy and fire him.”
“Who’s Ben?” Malachi asked, becoming frustrated by the ambiguous answers.
“He is my friend and he works as a porter for the hospital. One of his duties is he transports the bodies of anyone who passes away in the hospital or is brought in after an accident and didn’t make it.”
Malachi waited for her to continue even though he was screaming inside.
“During the worst of your… seizure, he was moving a lady into the freezer.”
Shannon was tempted to change the subject and make up something else that wasn’t so otherworldly, but she had come to like Malachi a great deal.
“And?” Malachi was on tenterhooks.
She opted for the whole truth as Ben had recounted it, “The woman sat up on the pull out shelf and reached for him.”
Malachi could barely draw breath, but managed to ask, “Could it have been a nerve thing? Or maybe they had made a mistake in declaring her dead.”
Shannon merely shook her head, “She died during surgery. She had been involved in a car crash and was in a bad way, there was little the surgeons could do with all the internal bleeding. Besides, she wasn’t the only one to… animate.”
“What do you mean?” Malachi was beginning to think he was still in a dream within a dream. None of this could possibly happen in the real world.
“Well the other compartments had deceased people in them too, and Ben said it sounded like they were all trying to hammer their way out,” Shannon had gone as white as a ghost, an apt phrase with all the paranormal explanations.
“Are you serious?” Malachi asked with a grin, “I bet Kevin and Des put you up to this.”
Her face remained unchanged; nobody was that good an actor, “I wish they had.”
“So you’re saying I summoned fucking zombies?” Malachi laughed derisively.
“No, not zombies. Ben said the woman looked frightened and reached for him for support. After about five seconds the… how can I say it, life went out of her and the other drawers fell silent too.”
“This is a nightmare, it has to be,” Malachi said and pinched his side. Pain, but no awakening. Shit!
Shannon ignored the comment, “After a couple of minutes Ben gathered his wits and placed her back into the drawer. He told me how he watched her face to see if there was any more activity, but she was at peace again.”
“So you are saying I brought the dead back to life?”
“Not necessarily,” Shannon replied earnestly, “What is the human body but a biological machine? Maybe your telekinesis can affect the motor within a person who has passed away?”
Malachi wasn’t buying it, “But didn’t you say she looked scared? Can my power create emotions too?”
“Probably not,” she admitted, “And when he went and checked the other bodies, their faces all looked terrified. Ben explained their fingernails were torn off as if they had been trying to claw their way out of confinement.”
“I’m a fucking monster,” Malachi whispered to himself.
Shannon ignored her own instincts and went to him, taking his hand in hers and gently stroking it, “Not at all, I think you are just gifted.”
“All of this is just speculation anyway,” Malachi said defensively, “There could be any one of a number of explanations for the things that happened.”
Shannon smiled warmly, “Absolutely.”
“But you don’t think so?” he asked.
She shook her head, “The timings were all around your most violent outbursts.”
“Have you told anyone else about this?”
“We have all taken a vow of silence,” Shannon giggled, turning an invisible lock by her lips, “You have earned yourself some major brownie points with the staff here and can trust us.”
“You’re an amazing person,” Malachi sighed in gratitude, turning his hand and interlocking his fingers with her own.
“I try my best,” she blushed, “Oh, I almost forgot!”
“Not more stuff?” he groaned.
“No, good this time,” she beamed, “Your blood tests all came back clear.”
For the first time since waking he was a little more at ease, some good news was just the treatment he needed.
“No HIV either?” he asked hopefully.
“Sorry,” her face dropped a little, “We have to wait a few more weeks for the results to come back. They need to see if your body creates an antibody response.”
“Oh,” Malachi replied.
“If it helps, the doctors don’t think it is likely based upon the story you told. The chances of blood mixing between a broken nose and a stab wound with how quickly the fight
ended is practically zero.”
“That’s something I suppose,” Malachi said without enthusiasm.
Shannon glanced at her watch and put the chair back into position, “I have to go now, but I will come and check on you in a while. Your chart has been updated to sedate if you exhibit any more violent spasms, so at least you can rest peacefully. After the ‘morgue incident’ you were given lorazepam and it calmed you immediately.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t working today,” Malachi said gratefully.
“Probably just lay there tied up,” she fired back with a grin.
Malachi burst out laughing, “You’re so mean, but right.”
“I’m bad to the bone, baby. I’ll be back in a while; the doctor will be along shortly to sign off on removing the restraints. As it wasn’t a conscious assault he will more than likely take them off and monitor you more closely this evening.”
“One second!” Malachi called out, “Am I in a psych ward?”
Shannon leaned back through the door, “No silly, you have just been moved to a private room down the hallway so you can’t disturb our more well behaved guests.” She winked and was gone.
Alone once more, Malachi’s mind began to wander. The first image that popped into his head was Carrie, covered in blood and massacring everyone trapped within the school building. Could he really be capable of doing something similar? The world was full of assholes, but it didn’t necessitate roasting them in an inferno of revenge. His life hadn’t been marred by a psychotic religious parent either so it was unlikely he would herald a worldwide douche barbecue.
“X-men,” he whispered with excitement.
If he was a good guy, then naturally he would be more suited to the team under Professor Xavier. He already had the body for spandex, he just needed a superhero name…
“The Human Pincushion.”
Accurate, but lacking that certain pizazz.
“Captain Normal.”
He didn’t feel like someone with powers. Nothing had ever manifest while he was awake to make him feel anything but unremarkable.
“The Dream Lord,” he whispered. It sounded badass, except he wasn’t the lord of his dreams. A real lord wouldn’t wake up crying and wetting themselves from pretend nightmares.
“Sleep Freak.”
That fit far better and the momentary excitement had worn off. He slumped back down and looked around the small room. A small television was mounted on a retractable bracket on the clean, white walls, ready to provide entertainment but at present dark and watchful. The windows looked out on an adjacent hospital building, though from his angle he couldn’t make out what purpose it served. Heads bobbed to and fro on some unseen errands and Malachi wished he could move around freely. Where the hell was the doctor?
“I wonder,” Malachi pondered, looking at the power button on the TV.
If he could perform telekinesis, then the simple act of pressing a button should be child’s play. Staring intently at the small, black knob, he projected a force towards it and concentrated. Seconds passed and the tension headache started to return with a vengeance. You can do it! He thought to himself. If you can resurrect the dead, you should be more than capable of pushing a small spring loaded mechanism.
“Shit,” he muttered and gave up. So much for being a mighty superhero.
Tilting his head back he could see the casing which housed the oxygen, medical air, electricity, and emergency button. It seemed a bit dangerous to have the button out of reach and Malachi would be having stern words with Nurse Shannon upon her return. What if he had needed to scratch his nose?
“You had to think it, didn’t you?” Malachi asked himself as the tip of his nose started to tingle.
Within seconds it was intolerable, the proverbial itch that can’t be scratched. He tried reaching his shoulder but the restraints held them just far enough away to make it torturous. Twisting in the bed, he tried to ruffle the pillow with his head and rub the nose into the fabric. The cheap sponge filling would not be moulded into anything which would help and he slammed his head back into the pillow in frustration.
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” asked the mortician looking doctor. The lanyard was visible this time and the name Dr. Franken was printed alongside a smiling picture of the physician. The name and grimacing attempt at a smile only added to his dislike of the man.
Malachi’s mood soured instantly and the sensation on his nose was forgotten, “Not at all, I just had an itch on my nose that I couldn’t reach. Plus, I couldn’t reach the emergency button.”
The gaunt doctor ignored the jibe and reached down between the mattress and the bedframe, withdrawing a button attached to a wire. The wire curled and led to a port within the electronics on the wall.
“You mean this button?” chuckled the doctor, placing it in his hand like a child.
Malachi felt like a moron and was going to fire back, but decided to play it calmly to ensure the restraints were removed, “Sorry, Doc, I didn’t look around properly.”
“That’s quite alright,” he replied and proceeded to explain about the variety of tests that the laboratory had carried out on his blood.
“So I am fit and well?” Malachi was placated by some of the good news.
“I’m afraid I cannot confirm the HIV results until the second round of tests in three months. But if I was a betting man, I would hazard a guess that we will find nothing untoward.”
“That’s a relief,” Malachi said. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Shannon’s judgement, it was just better hearing the prognosis from someone more senior. Feeling guilty at the thought, he vowed to make it up to her later.
“Now we come onto the more serious matter,” Dr. Franken said.
“You’ve heard about the last three days then?” Malachi asked, feeling betrayed by Shannon.
“What? No. I have been away at a conference. All I can see are some night terrors necessitating isolation,” he shook his head after looking at the chart, “I was talking about the wounds you suffered and their inexplicable timeline.”
Malachi felt even worse. Something about the drugs and the surroundings was throwing him off and now he really needed to make it up to the loving nurse.
“So there is something wrong with me?”
“Quite the opposite actually,” smiled the doctor, and the gesture was warmer than before, “The dates were accurate, which means that your rate of tissue regeneration is quite remarkable.”
The usually morose doctor was bubbling with excitement and it transformed him. Maybe Malachi had been too quick to judge.
“Is there a name for what I have?”
“No, I’m afraid not. There have only ever been two cases which even come close. One was in what is now North Korea. In the late nineteenth century a farm boy of eleven years old was rumoured to have suffered a shattered leg when his beast of burden was startled by something. An injury that grievous, at that point in time, would have often meant amputation or death, especially with the added internal trauma of bone fragments.” The doctor was nearly clapping with joy as he recounted the tale until he saw Malachi’s frown.
“Sorry, please bear with me. The records are sketchy at best and will undoubtedly have been embellished over time. It would appear that after only a week, the limb that had been little more than jellied meat, was strong enough to bear weight. A further week and he was back out ploughing the fields as if nothing had happened.”
“And there is no way the story could have been made up?” Malachi asked and the doctor paused.
“Well, of course. But the second occurrence was more recent and documented fully as well as being corroborated with pictures. It’s amazing what you can find on the internet,” Dr. Franken beamed.
“You can’t always believe what you read on the web,” Malachi cautioned.
“Indeed,” he agreed, “Which is why I managed to track down the doctor who had carried out the treatment of the
man. He is very old now, but never forgot that particular patient.”
“Where was it?”
“New York, USA. It was September, 1965 and his name was Clarence Voight. He and his family were asleep when it is alleged a group of Mafioso took his wife and daughters, before torching their house. Revenge for a botched business deal or so they say. Mr. Voight suffered third degree burns to over seventy percent of his body.”
“Third degree is the worst, right?” Malachi asked, trying to remember the hospital programs he had watched.
“Yes, it is very deep and with that amount of damage, normally fatal. The doctor said it was a miracle he survived the first night, but they put it down to a fighting spirit and his desire to see his wife and children again.”
“And did he?”
“Did he what, survive?” Dr. Franken looked confused, “Of course, hence me telling the tale here today.”
“I meant did he ever get to see his family again?”
“Oh, I see. No, they were never found, but I’m getting off track. You have to understand that for this type of injury, it is usually measured in months or years of treatment and painful skin grafts. After only three days, the burnt flesh had started to peel, revealing healthy tissue beneath.”
“Wow.” Malachi was intrigued.
“My thoughts exactly,” grinned the doctor, “Now comes the strangest part. After a week, Clarence just ups and disappears from the ward and was never seen again. The investigation by the police department revealed some accelerant in the home which was not typical of previous Mafia arson cases. They would strive to make examples of people and a genuine victim would never be able to escape. Some officers even harboured the notion that he had self-immolated with guilt and was the cause of the three missing persons. The case was never closed.”
Malachi couldn’t reply and just laid there in shock.
“Well I think I have seen enough to judge you are not a danger,” said the doctor cheerfully, undoing each bond.
Malachi groaned with pleasure as he sat up and stretched the knotted limbs, “Thanks, Doc.”
“I have booked a visit with Dr. Llyod later today. He is our resident psychologist and can start to get to the root of the night terrors you have been experiencing.”
