The Haunting of Westmore Hospital - Behold the Doctor of Death

by Riley Amitrani

  “So, how’s your wife doing with the pregnancy?” Paul asked Hugh one day at work. Hugh turned to Paul, both confused and suspicious. He stands to his feet, grimacing into Paul’s eyes as Paul stands in front of Hugh desk in a navy-blue suit and tie.

  “How’d you know about that?” Hugh asked.

  Paul stutters a bit in a mumble and fixes his tie behind his suit coat.

  “Paul? Don’t make me ask you again?”

  Paul nods his head and swallows the lump that formed in his throat as he tries not to choke.

  “How did you know?”

  “She promised it wasn’t a big deal,” Paul spills nervously. “She said it—“

  “What wasn’t a big deal?” Hugh says as he approaches him at the front of the desk.

  “Look,” Paul says, raising his hands in defence, which barely reach Hugh’s face stubble. Hugh beams at Paul under his arched eyebrows. “Your wife and I are friends.”

  “Friends?” Hugh repeats in disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  “And what else?”

  “What do you mea—“

  “What else is between you two besides friendship?” Hugh asks. His temper begins to boil inside his stomach like lava in a volcano. It bubbles and pops inside his gut as the temperature and heat rises to his neck and face.

  “Sir, please calm down,” Paul says. Hugh pulls Paul to his chest, gripping his suit in two big handfuls.

  “Paul, before I decide to do something I will regret, it’d be best you start telling.”

  Paul nods his head. “Okay, okay.” Hugh lets him go and tries to calm himself.

  “I’ve been friends with your wife for months, and we’ve had coffee together before and sometimes we—“

  “Talk on the phone,” Hugh finishes.

  “Yes,” Paul answers.

  “Anything else?” Hugh asks.

  “No, sir. It’s been strictly platonic.”

  “Coffee and phone calls,” Hugh says.

  “Coffee and phone calls,” Paul repeats.

  Throughout the day, Hugh couldn’t look forward to getting home to his wife, not for reasons that most husbands would at least. He doesn’t believe for one second that Paul’s relationship with Frances is platonic and nothing more than “coffee and phone calls.” Hugh might have been okay with coffee, but calling Frances as often as he sees her on the phone was an invasion of his home and marriage. Because Frances hasn’t talked to him much, Hugh feels alone and angered that she can talk to someone else, let alone his own secretary. Hugh can only wonder how much Paul knows about his marriage.

  “Nothing!” Frances yells as she turns to Hugh, in her nightgown. “Paul doesn’t know anything about our marriage!”

  “Well he better not!” Hugh asserts. “All this time! Both of you, talking on the phone for long hours into the night, meanwhile I can barely get a decent meal in my own home!”

  “You’re a grown man, Hugh!” Frances yells. “If you don’t like my cooking, you can cook for yourself!”

  “I bring in the income, so the least you can do is keep me fed!”

  “Jesus, Hugh! You sound like a child whining about getting a snack once they get home from school!”

  SMACK! Frances hit the wooden floor and cups her hand to her cheek. She shelters her face and winces from the sting, she can feel his handprint. With each step Hugh takes towards her, the floorboards squeak beneath him; to Frances, his steps feel like small quakes and tremors. His shadow casts over her. She looks up at him, still holding her cheek. She sobs.

  “Before you hit me again,” she says, almost in a whisper, “remember I’m carrying our children, Hugh.”

  Her voice barely reaches any farther than her lips. Hugh’s volcano in his gut erupted long before he smacked her. He grips her arm and pulls her to her feet.

  “Get up.”

  “Hugh, don’t!”

  He smacks her again and before Frances can get away, he grabs her by the hair and punches her in the kidney. Frances hit the floor and pulls her weight as best she can towards the phone that rests on their nightstand. She winces with each inch, and Hugh watches her with a smirk and itch that makes him feel again, and fills an emptiness.

  “Going to call Paul, aren’t ya’?” he says. Frances continues to wince and pull her weight across the floor.

  “At least,” she sobs. “Paul wouldn’t hit me.”

  “What did you say…?” Hugh clenches his fist and stammers over her.

  “Hugh, stop!” Frances begs.

  He rolls her onto her back and places his knees over her shoulders. He then begins to punch into her face. LEFT. RIGHT. Breathes…Again, LEFT. RIGHT. Breathes. His knuckles hurt, and Frances cries.

  “Will you comply?” he asks her.

  “Screw you!” She spits and blood hits his bearded cheek. Hugh rises to his feet, grips her in his arms and throws her against the wall. When Frances hits the floor, she’s motionless, breathing, alive, but wishes to be dead.

  France cried inside as she lies on the hospital bed. Hugh sits beside her and his eyes haven’t left her for a second.

  “What’d you tell them?” she finally asks Hugh.

  “I told them you were mugged in an alley on your way home from the grocery store. You were getting your pregnancy vitamins.”

  Frances knew the only way she made it to the hospital was because of Hugh, and she also knew that Hugh, or any man, wouldn’t admit to beating her; that he had made up some explanation, otherwise there’d be no way he’d be sitting next to her now.

  “That’s what you’ll tell them when they ask,” he says, but Frances doesn’t respond or look his way. “Hey.” He leans forward. Frances closes her eyes and tries to wake from this nightmare, but when she opens them and looks into Hugh’s eyes, she knows she isn’t dreaming. “That’s what you tell ‘em. Understand?”

  Tears fill her swollen eyes and aching jaw and cheeks as she says, “Yes.” He nods his head. The door opens. Hugh stands to his feet.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Luciano,” the doctor says as he flips through his clipboard and scans over a few pages. “We’d have to do some tests, but before that,” he turns to Frances, “how are you feeling?” Hugh looks over at her and Frances glances at him before turning back to the doctor.

  “I’m not dead,’ she says.

  “Yes, yes,” the doctor responds. “We are thankful for that.”

  “Not dead today, at least,” Frances mumbles.

  “I’m sorry?” the doctor says. Hugh places his hand on Frances’ as he takes a seat. He tries to smile at the doctor and frown at Frances at the same time, but it’s difficult.

  “She’s probably still a bit tired.”

  “What exactly happened again?” the doctor asks.

  “Well, she—“

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Luciano. I need to hear it from her. She was the victim so it’s important I get her words. It’s much better than hearsay.”

  Hugh nods and looks over at Frances.

  “Okay,” he says, as they lock eyes with one another. “I’m sure my wife will tell you exactly what happened.”

  Frances looks at the doctor and tries to make herself more comfortable in the bed.

  “Well?” he asks her.

  “I was—I was going shopping. The grocery store and I thought I’d get some pregnancy pills since I didn’t have any. I was pulled into an alley and I was mugged.”

  “That’s—terrible, Mrs. Luciano and I’m so sorry that happened to you. Thanks to your husband, the police were given a visual of the suspect and they are looking for the person that fits the description your husband gave.”

  Frances turns to Hugh and frowns.

  “Gee, doc, I sure hope they find who did this to me,” Frances says, glaring at Hugh. “That man deserves to be behind bars or even better, burn in hell.”

  Hugh jumps to his feet and stares down at Frances. The doctor places a hand on Hugh’s shoulder.


  “You alright?” he asks Hugh. Hugh doesn’t respond. His anger fumes as he wishes to lash out at Frances again. “Sir,” the doctor calls again.

  “Yes,” Hugh says taking his seat again.

  “Okay. Let’s get some tests done and most importantly, let’s make sure your children aren’t harmed.”

  “Please,” Frances responds.

  Hugh spends hours sitting in the chair as doctor run a variety of tests on Frances. For each test, he becomes nervous. Seeing the scars, hearing the doctor’s comments on the bruises, together with Frances’ constant glares makes him nervous and uncomfortable. As much as they speak about hoping to find this “mugger,” Hugh is paranoid. After Frances receives blood work, they are greeted by their doctor who assures them that their children are unharmed, despite Frances being the opposite. The doctor instructs that now would be the best time for her to get some rest, and when she finally falls asleep after heavy sedatives, the doctor pulls Hugh outside of the room.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Mr. Luciano, I didn’t want to bring this up in front of Frances,” he says.

  Hugh’s stomach sinks deeper into his gut as he begins to ask himself if the doctor sees the truth behind his lie about what happened to Frances. He decides to ask a safe question.

  “She did have a miscarriage?” Hugh asks, trying to make himself sound hopeless.

  “No, no,” the doctor says. “The pregnancy is fine, but something is troubling about it.”

  “Troubling how?”

  “We did the blood work on Frances as well as tests to make sure your children were unharmed and—I feel I am the wrong one to tell you this, but the twins that your wife Frances is carrying, I’m afraid cannot be yours.”

  Hugh looks at the hospital door and, though he can’t see Frances physically, he sees her mentally. That boil, and anger, and itch begins to rage and build and blister inside of him. That same itch he feels when he beats Frances, only this time, he sees blood.

  “Mr. Luciano,” the doctor calls, placing his hand on his shoulder.

  “Not mine,” Hugh repeats to himself. “Not mine?”

  “No,” the doctor says. “I’m sorry.”

  He leaves Hugh at the hospital door and when Hugh opens it, he finds himself lost in his mind, as he watches Frances in their bed with the blankets pulled to her chin. He hadn’t said or asked anything about what he was told by the doctor on their way home. Instead, he kept quiet.

  That rainy night in London, the streets glossed and glowed under golden street lamps, and cars rode by splashing water onto the sidewalks. Hugh stands across the street from a gun shop owned by his old friend, drenched in his black overcoat and tall hat, staring hard through the glass at the guns that hang on the walls. Because they were close, his friend allowed him to borrow a brown handgun to try out before deciding to buy. He didn’t ask what Hugh needed the handgun for, and Hugh didn’t hint at his reasons. He just walked in and walked out with it. Hugh didn’t go home after he acquired the handgun, instead, he decided he needed to visit another friend who had been around since the start of his problems with Frances.

  Hugh stands in the bedroom doorway and grips the gun in his hand. As his temper rages, his hand shakes. He points the barrel of the gun and when he pulls back the gun’s hammer, it clicks. Paul wakes in his bed and then jumps back against the headboard.

  “Don’t kill me!” he pleads. “Don’t shoot!”

  “Are you the father?” Hugh asks.

  “Who are you?” Paul asks with his hands raised, trying to see in the dark.

  Hugh keeps his gun pointed at Paul as he takes off his hat.

  “Hugh?!” Paul says. “What is this?”

  “I know the truth,” Hugh says. “I know you and my wife had an affair.”

  “We didn’t!” Paul says.

  “Yes. You. Did.”

  “We didn’t!” Paul says again. “She’s lying to you!”

  “Oh?!” Hugh says, tilting his head to the side. “You’re pointing a finger at her yet Frances hasn’t told me anything.”

  “Then…how’d you find out?”

  Hugh lowers his gun for a moment as he stares at Paul. Paul, not realizing that his question shows his guilt, that indeed he is the father of Frances’ babies, validates Hugh’s invasion.

  “Because you just told me.”

  Paul’s eyes search for answers. He then throws his hands in front of himself defensively.

  “Hugh, wait!”

  BANG! Paul drops onto his bed. Hugh takes his time to examine Paul and sees the bullet hole resting in his forehead as the gun smoke dances out of it. Hugh spent hours cleaning up Paul’s bedroom, making it look as clean as a hotel suite. He throws Paul’s body in his trunk and drives him home. After Hugh unloads Paul’s body onto the floor of his bedroom, Frances wakes and screams at the top of her lungs.

  “Hugh! What did you do?!”

  “What did I do?!” He yells. “You made me do this?!”

  Frances shakes her head as she cries, though no sound leaves her throat.

  “It was because of you I had to do what needed to be done!”

  “Why, Hugh?! Why?!”

  “I know the truth, Frances!”

  “What truth?!”

  “I know I’m not the father…Paul is…”

  Though Hugh says it, and Paul made him believe it, a part of him wishes that Frances would tell him differently. That Paul is not the father, instead, Frances gives him the truth.

  “You’re right,” she says.

  “I’m right?” Hugh repeats.

  “You aren’t the father…”

  “I’m not the father.”

  “Paul is…”

  Hugh takes a deep breath and secures his gun at his waist. He shakes his head and tells himself how much he didn’t want to believe it. Frances crawls across the bed, wiping her eyes and wraps her arms around him, but what she didn’t know was that Hugh didn’t return home to make peace. Hugh returned home to finish what he started.

  “You bitch!”

  He turns to Frances and throws her on the bed. He beats and punches her and, as she begs for him to stop and struggles to get away, Hugh drags her across the floor. He picks her up, turns her to him and headbutts her. Her nose cracks and breaks. She drops to the floor and holds up a hand for him to stop.

  “Screw you!” he yells, then kicks her in the stomach. Frances bellows and curls into a ball, cradling her bosom. Hugh then stands over her and grips her neck in his hands. She fights back, but his massive arms grip tighter as her lungs begin to collapse, her feet shake and bang on the floor beneath them, and her body begins to stiffen. Hugh squeezes as hard as he can until he can feel the bones in Frances’ neck cave and bend and he hears a releasing pop.

  Frances becomes limp beneath him, like a gazelle dead in a lion’s mouth. Hugh stares down onto Frances and looks over at Paul. His eyes begin to fill with tears, as he howls to the ceiling in emotional pain. His tears drop onto her face, but then he calms as he tries to listen to what he believes is Frances breathing. He watches her, practically glares at her, as though he wants to beat her again. Frances then opens her eyes and takes a gasp for life, but Hugh quickly removes the gun from his waist and plants a bullet in her forehead.

  ~

  Hugh orchestrated the scene to look like a murder-suicide. Paul, the murderer, Frances and victim, and Hugh, as he told the investigators, the friend Paul was jealous of. He stated that Paul lusted after Frances, but when Frances fell pregnant with Hugh’s children, Paul became depressed and jealous. Hugh handed the investigators a note which read, “If I can’t have her, neither can you. -Paul.”

  The investigators accepted Hugh’s evidence as part of their investigations, until weeks later when many of Hugh’s claims were deemed false. Frances’ doctor made a statement on the news that he had himself told Hugh that the children were not his and that he had found something odd
about the “mugging” and the bruises. The doctor later informed investigators that, while he has not said anything to Hugh, Frances has shown the doctor marks and bruises which she assigned to Hugh’s hand. The investigators were then forced to look deeper into that night. What they couldn’t understand was the struggle that supposedly happened between Paul and Frances, not to mention Hugh’s whereabouts while the murder-suicide played out. The hand print and marks on Frances neck did not fit Paul’s, in fact, the investigators could not find evidence of Paul anywhere at the scene or on Frances, and therefore concluded that Paul had not touched her that night. After Hugh became a suspect and the investigation continued, evidence was collected proving that Hugh was involved in the crime. Hugh was later found guilty on two counts of murder in the first degree and was sentenced to life in prison.

  Hugh fell into the deepest trenches and recesses of his mind. He spent years in his cell, thinking about that night, thinking about his wife and how things had been before, and thinking about Paul. But these thoughts weren’t thoughts of sympathy or asking for forgiveness. These thoughts were of a much more darker nature because, despite what he did, Hugh was still angry. It wasn’t long before his outbursts started with others and rubbed off onto himself, for Hugh slit his throat one morning with an old, rusty nail he pulled from the heel of one of his prison boots.

  Discovering Home

  24nd June, 2014

  Edison, New Jersey, USA

  10:48 AM

  There’s a white chrysanthemum in our rose garden. I don’t remember planting such seeds, so it must have been George. He knows it’s my favourite flower. I will not pick it, though. They say that if you love something as beautiful as a flower, you water it so it can grow instead of pulling it by the roots.

  Having the opportunity to work from home has allowed me much free time to tend to the interior and exterior decorating. I’ve been wanting a new house, though, for quite some time and since we haven’t been able to find the perfect house, I figured we can revamp our present one to our expectations.

  “Eva,” George calls as I hear the front door slam.

  “In the garden, come around.”

  George rounds the back corner of our house and rests his briefcase on the grass. I lay the gardening tools next to the patches I was tending, stand up, and dust the dirt from my gloves and knees. George pulls me into his arms and presses his lips against mine. He then holds me out in front of him, as a smile spreads from ear to ear.