Nancy screamed at the top of her voice when she saw Margret Jonson, crouched down, looking under the bed.
The dead woman’s face was just as it was yesterday, and the day before—that gaunt face, sunken cheekbones, grey hair, thin and lifeless. And her eyes, empty, devoid of all emotion, like a sleepwalker.
Scrambling to get out from under the bed, Nancy banged her head hard on the metal frame. But she felt nothing, apart for an all-consuming terror as she scurried to her feet and sprinted out of the room, and down the corridor, not stopping, not looking back until she was as far away as possible from Autumn Wing.
Bursting into the staff room, she almost knocked Shelly off her feet.
“Jesus, Nancy,” Shelly said, stepping out of the way, “where’s the bloody fire?”
Eyes wide with horror, with disbelief, Nancy held onto the edge of the desk, trying to get her breath back, body trembling in shock, unable to comprehend what she had just witnessed.
“What’s wrong?” Shelly asked, going over to her and putting a hand on her shoulder.
Nancy didn’t reply, just glared into her eyes.
“Talk to me. What’s happened?”
Taking a full minute to regulate her breathing again, Nancy finally spoke, her words shaky: “I just saw Margret.”
Shelly rolled her eyes and smiled. “Margret Jonson? Come on now, Nancy—I wasn’t born bloody yesterday. You’re just trying to wind me up.”
Nancy shook her head. “No, I’m not. I was just under her bed, trying to get one of her slippers, and then I saw her…clear as day. As clear as you are now. She looked straight at me, Shell.”
“Maybe it was one of the other residents from Autumn Wing. Glenda, perhaps.”
“No, it was her. I’m certain.
Shelly snorted. “You’re certain?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Nancy, it’s one in the morning, and you haven’t slept properly in days. How can you be certain of anything?”
Nancy was about to retort, but she stopped herself when it dawned on her that Shelly might have had a point. She hadn’t been sleeping, and the pressure of working the nightshift, along with the loss of a patient, could easily have played tricks with her weary mind.
But she seemed so real. This was not some strange noise or a quick image of someone. This image was in high definition, 3D.
But Nancy was a woman of logic. In spite of all the ghost stories, and creepy energies Stanfield gave off, she couldn’t deny the evidence.
Shelly ushered Nancy to a chair and sat her down. “Just give yourself ten minutes to calm down, to get your head together, and I’ll bring you a coffee and a chocolate biscuit. How does that sound?”
Forcing a thin smile, Nancy nodded. “Okay. That sounds nice. Thanks.”
Shelly patted her on the shoulder and headed out of the room. “Don’t worry about it.”
The staff room fell silent as Nancy waited anxiously for Shelly to return. All she could think about was Margret, and those eyes, almost as grey as her hair. She rubbed her face vigorously to try and pull herself out of this nightmarish state. But once the haze faded, and the disorientation lifted, Margret’s face returned to the forefront of her thoughts, looking just as unsettling. She glanced down at her hand and held it up, palm facing down; it was trembling.
Where the hell’s that coffee?
After a few minutes of painful waiting, Shelly returned, holding her mobile phone in her left hand; her face drained of colour, her eyes filled with tears, jaw hanging half-open. And without the coffee.
“What’s wrong?” Nancy asked, putting her own dark feelings to one side.
Shelly stopped in the doorway. “Frank’s had a heart attack.”
“Oh my God,” Nancy said, getting up from her chair and going over to Shelly. “How bad?”
“Pretty bad,” Shelly replied just as she burst into tears. Within a split second, Nancy stepped in to hug her tightly. “They rushed him to Intensive Care…a few minutes ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Shell. You have to go to the hospital right now.”
Shelly shook her head. “I can’t leave you here on your own.”
“You’re gonna have to. It’s too late to ask one of the girls to come in.”
Shelly pulled out of the hug. “What if something happens when I’m gone?”
Nancy smiled. “I think I can cope with a few ghosts.”
Shelly nodded. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“Of course I’m sure. He’s your husband. You need to go to him. It’s your face he’ll want to see when he wakes up.”
“Okay. You’re right. I need to leave now.”
Nancy grabbed Shelly’s coat from the door-hook and handed it to her. “Let me know how he is. And don’t worry about this place…it’s in safe hands.”
“Thanks,” Shelly replied, and then she darted out of the office towards the main entrance doors. Nancy followed her out so she could lock the doors after her.
Once she could hear the rumble of Shelly’s engine disappear out of the grounds, that skin-crawling dread returned. And so did the face of Margret Jonson. She forcefully shook the images off and headed into the kitchen to make that coffee she was promised. If Nancy couldn’t get a good night’s sleep, then caffeine would have to do for now.
Chapter 4
Nancy had just finished her third cup of coffee in a row. She could feel the caffeine surging through her body, blocking out all traces of fatigue.
Leaning back on the chair, she propped her feet up on the desk and proceeded to read her book, hoping to shut out the world for just a few hours.
Two chapters in and the sound of the patient call-buzzer filled the staff room. It was Kenneth Henry. This was the second time he’d buzzed this morning. Nancy groaned, and reluctantly got up off the chair and headed towards Stepney Wing, still fighting to keep Margret out of her head.
When she got to Stepney wing, she stood at the double doors of its corridor for a moment, taking deep breaths, as if about to disarm a bomb. But going to a patient’s room, after a call button had been pushed was all part of the job—a job that she had done for more than twenty years. But with the supposed incident in Margret’s room, Frank’s heart attack, and the solitude of the place, every basic task seemed magnified and daunting.
Finally scraping together the courage to walk down Stepney Wing, Nancy made her way towards Kenneth’s room. She passed the late Peter Philips’ room without glancing through the glass, just in case her eyes played tricks on her again. After the night she was having, it just wasn’t worth the risk. She entered Kenneth’s room, switched on the light and immediately saw what the problem was. The seventy-nine-year-old man had fallen out of bed and was sprawled on the carpet; eyes wide open, clutching his call button, which was still attached to the bed via a thin white cable.
“What’s happened here then, Ken?” she asked in her usual, childlike tone. She went to his side and started to guide him back onto his feet. “Did you hurt yourself?”
Kenneth shook his head. “I’m all right, Nancy. Just a little bump on my bum. Nothing serious.”
Using the frame of the bed as an aid, Kenneth finally got to his feet with Nancy’s help. The frail old man weighed about nine stone. He certainly wasn’t one of the heaviest residents, but Nancy’s lower back ached nevertheless. He groaned loudly as he climbed back into bed. She pulled the quilt over his body and smiled. “You gonna stay put this time? No more acrobatics?”
Kenneth returned a toothless grin. “No, I’ll be fine now. Thank you, sweetheart. You’re an angel.”
“That’s what we’re here for.” She walked over to the doorway and switched off the light. “Goodnight, Ken. Sleep tight.”
He didn’t reply. Nancy was about to check on him but stopped in her tracks when she heard the loud snoring. Satisfied, she left the room, closing the door behind her.
Just as she was about to make her way back to the staff room, she noticed Yvonne Turner’s door hanging open a
gain. For some reason, the sight of it scared her. Even though Yvonne had passed away, she knew that there was a strong possibility that one of the evening girls had left it open, maybe to clean it, or to fish something out for one of the elderly woman’s relatives. There was no credible reason to feel any apprehension.
Either way, Nancy chose to leave it open and to quickly walk out of Stepney Wing, once again failing to look into Peter’s room.
Four o’ clock arrived much quicker than Nancy had anticipated. The book she was reading helped to whisk away the hours of solitude, of isolation. And with no call-buzzers going off, she was free to burn through chapter after chapter of her novel, only stopping to grab the occasional cup of coffee.
This so-called nightmare of a shift was turning out a little better than she previously thought, and with only three hours left, all she could think about was how great two weeks of regular sleep would be.
She took a big bite out of her chocolate biscuit and then reached for her coffee. Just as her fingers touched the handle, the sound of the call-buzzer filled the room. Nancy’s entire body recoiled as the sound cut through the silence. Slipping her pen into the book as a page marker, she set the novel down on the desk and got up from the chair. She walked over to the panel to see which resident had pushed the button.
The colour in Nancy’s cheeks drained when she saw Peter’s name under the small flashing bulb.
Impossible, she thought. Must be something wrong with the system.
She sat back down, picked up her book, and tried to shove the incident out of her mind.
The buzzer went off for a second time.
And a third time.
Nancy stared wide-eyed at the panel, unable to do anything else. What if one of the residents had got into Peter’s room, she pondered, and pushed the call-button? I’ll have to go check.
Taking deep, steady breaths to settle her nerves, Nancy left the staff room, heading back to Stepney Wing.
When she reached the corridor, she braced for a few minutes before finally walking up to Peter’s room. She twisted the doorknob only to find it locked. Frowning in confusion, she peered into his former room through the glass panel. Deserted. She looked down the far end of the corridor and noticed Yvonne’s door was now closed. She could feel her pulse start to soar as she approached it. But just metres from the room, she stopped dead, and then ran as fast as she could in the opposite direction, down the corridor, through the double doors, and back to the safety of the staff room. She closed the door and sat back down at the desk, picked up her book and started reading as if nothing was amiss.
The next thirty minutes dragged, even though she flew through each page. She wanted desperately to forget about Margret, and the buzzer miraculously going off in Peter’s room. Must be all that caffeine, she told her herself. Just a few more hours and I’m out of this place. Just gotta keep my head ‘til then. That’s all. Just gotta stay—
The buzzer for Yvonne’s room suddenly broke the silence.
Nancy leapt up in fright, dropping her book on the floor. Palm over her thrashing heart, she glared at the bright orange bulb; skin slithering with goose bumps, brow glistening with sweat.
Just some dodgy electrics.
Must be.
Best get Malcolm to fix it first thing.
But even as she tried to rationalise it, she knew that this was more than just faulty wiring.
Especially when Peter’s bulb lit up again…followed by Margret’s.
Nancy closed her eyes and covered her ears with her hands, trying to mute the deafening sound of multiple buzzers going off.
“Please stop!” she screamed as she backed away blindly. When she slammed into the filing cabinet, she slid down the metal into a sitting position and pulled her knees to her chest.
Cowering like a frightened child, the noise continued to seep through her fingers. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into an eternity. She sobbed as she waited to wake from this nightmare, for Shelly to tap her on the shoulder, to tell her that her shift was over, that it was time to go home. She wished her daughter Carol was there, next to her, telling her that everything would be all right. She saw Michael’s face in her head, smiling at her, the way he was before the cancer confined him to the bed, tubes coming out of his withered body, once strong and muscular. She missed him so much. She would have given anything just to see those green eyes one last time. Anything just to—
The staff room went silent.
Nancy’s turmoil paused for a moment as she listened out for the buzzers. When she was sure that they had stopped wailing, that her delusion had ceased, she took her hands away from her ears and opened her eyes. Straightaway, she saw that each light bulb was out. Relief washed over her as the disorientation began to lift. Using the filing cabinet for support, she slowly got to her feet. She walked over to the window, pulse decreasing, and pulled the blind to one side. She groaned with disappointment when she saw that the sun was still nowhere in sight. The clock on the wall read five fifteen. Another hour and she’d be free from this hellhole, free from the loneliness, from the memories of the dead. Probably a good time to book off some leave, she thought as she sat down on the chair.
Just as she picked up her book, the buzzer sounded off again.
Nancy turned to the panel in shock, just about ready to sprint out of Stanfield, leaving everyone sleeping in their beds. For good.
But she didn’t. A calm sensation flooded her body when she saw that the buzzer belonged to Kenneth again. Smiling in relief, she put the book on the desk and left the room.
Still feeling apprehensive at the double doors of Stepney Wing, she tried to picture how great a full night’s sleep would be. Nancy took in three steady breaths and then walked through the doors and on to the corridor. Kenneth’s door was hanging wide open. Nancy stepped into the room and paused in confusion when she saw that his bed was deserted. Frowning, she wondered if she somehow had the wrong room. She walked out into the hallway to check the room number. Just as she did, she saw him, standing in the middle of the corridor, just in front of the late Yvonne Turner’s room.
“Are you all right, Ken?” Nancy asked him, her voice laced with concern.
He didn’t reply.
“Come back to bed now,” she said, waving him over to her. “It’s still early.”
Kenneth glared at Nancy with sunken eye sockets, and a slumped posture.
“Come on now,” she said calmly as she started to approach him. “You’ll wake the other residents.”
“It’s too late, Nancy,” he whispered in a low, guttural voice. “They’re already awake.”
“Who’s awake?”
But before he could respond, the door to Yvonne’s room slowly opened. Nancy froze in shock as she watched Yvonne stroll out of the room, dressed in the same nightgown she’d worn the night she passed away. Using every ounce of strength she could conjure up, Nancy started to back away towards the double doors. She tried to scream but her throat couldn’t form the sound. She wanted to run, but her legs felt like iron.
And then she backed into something. She turned to see what it was, and then dropped to her knees in terror when she saw the faces of Peter and Margret, standing side by side, glaring down at her with hateful, venomous eyes. Frantic, scuttling backwards on her hands and feet, unable to comprehend the horror she was witnessing, Nancy came to a halt when her back hit the wall of the corridor.
This is just a dream.
Just a dream.
Nothing more.
Just a horrid nightmare.
Nancy’s heart raced beyond anything she thought possible. She desperately wanted to pass out, to escape this vivid hallucination, to wake, safe and sound in her own bed. But as more and more dead residents gathered around her trembling body, Nancy’s only real escape was to cower and close her eyes tightly, to shut out their distorted, twisted faces; their kind, peaceful expressions now a distant memory, replaced with poison and deep dark loathing.
“Leave me b
e,” she mumbled through dry lips. “I’m sorry for what I did to you. I just wanted to help. I just wanted to give you peace…to put an end to all the agony, all the misery, the loneliness. I couldn’t just sit there and watch you all suffer. I couldn’t bear it any longer. Not after Michael. I had to do it… For your own good. I’m sorry… I had no choice. Please forgive me. I beg you. Please…”
Let me wake up.
Let it be over.
Nancy’s heart thrashed harder and harder against her chest.
Until it stopped beating altogether.
One Pill For Perfect Vision
The last time I touched a joint was in college. My so-called brother, Rob, thought that I should stop being such a boring bastard and start living a little. And according to him and my idiot-of-a-best-friend, Pete, drugs were just what you did in college. And they were right. It was harder to find someone who didn’t take them.
I was that person.
I remember finally taking the joint from Rob; his eyes filled with satisfaction as I placed it nervously between my lips. And of course I had to have an audience, witnesses to my newfound debauchery: Pete and that prick, Darren Connell, who everyone fucking hated, but everyone hung around with ‘cause his Dad was an ex-rugby professional. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love rugby, more than football even—but playing professionally is hardly celebrity status. If his Dad were Michael Jordan or David Beckham, then I’d understand. But playing for Chepstow? Hell no.
By the time I’d inhaled the stuff, I was coughing my lungs out, head spinning. I remember the three of them in hysterics as I struggled to catch my breath between puffs.
But then came the vomit. Didn’t think it would happen. I was warned that it could. Worst-case scenario and all that. But this was always going to happen when it came to me. Everything bad that could happen does happen. Don’t think I’ve ever seen my brother laugh so hard. In all fairness to the guy, we always manage to find something to laugh about, even today. Especially as kids, and especially when we used to share a bedroom in the old house, thinking up pranks to play on Pete, telling ghost stories into the early hours of the night. But I never guessed for one minute that this humour would progress to this: watching me choke on cheap marijuana, and puke up all over my brand new Nike trainers.
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