by Ron Ripley
Shane felt himself thrown backward, his feet leaving the floor as he went hurtling into the hallway. He stumbled and caught himself only to have the doctor slam into him. Shane’s head struck the cement wall and everything went dark.
Chapter 8: On the Wrong Floor
“Hey,” a man said. “Can you hear me?”
Someone pried open one of his eyelids and Shane jerked his head away. He blinked, tried to see, but his eyes wouldn’t focus, so he closed them again.
“Yeah,” Shane mumbled.
“What’s your name?”
“Gunnery Sergeant,” Shane responded.
“Come on, your name, not your rank,” the stranger said.
“Shane. Shane Ryan,” Shane said.
“Stay awake, Shane,” the unknown man said. “You’ve got to do that for me, Marine.”
“Damn,” Shane said, the word slurred as it exited his mouth. “I’m tired.”
“No rest for the wicked, Marine,” the man said. “Keep those eyes open. Come on.”
Grumbling, Shane did as he was told. The world came into focus, and he saw a young man squatting beside him. The stranger was wearing pajamas and a robe with Looney Tune characters all over it.
“What’s going on?” Shane asked, frowning at the slow tempo of his speech.
The young man smiled. “You can call me Doc, Shane. Listen, you hit your head pretty hard when you came out of Pedro’s room. Doctor Pelletier said some crazy stuff about ghosts, but I’m more concerned with your head right now. Think you can help me out?”
“Sure,” Shane said. “What do you need?”
“How many fingers do you see?” Doc asked, holding up one hand.
Shane counted seven fingers, which didn’t seem quite right, but he told Doc the number anyway.
“Yeah,” Doc said, chuckling. “I never would have made it into the service if I had seven fingers. No, you’ve got a concussion, Marine. No surgery for you in the morning.”
“The hell,” Shane said. He yawned, closed his eyes and tried to rest against the wall.
“No, no, no,” Doc said, shaking Shane’s shoulder to keep him conscious. “No one’s given you the okay for sleep. You’ve got to stay awake for me. You need to be awake until they get a gurney up here for you, and that’s going to be in a little bit. They’re trying to get a service elevator up and running to bring you and Brett downstairs. If they can’t, well, you’re going to be in the Waiting Room until tomorrow sometime.”
“You got spare beds up here?” Shane asked, looking at Doc.
“Two as of right now,” Doc said. “Pedro died.”
“Pedro?” Shane slurred. “Who’s Pedro?”
“The man in the room you and Brett ran to,” Doc answered.
“She killed him,” Shane murmured.
“Who killed him?” Doc asked sharply.
“The nurse,” Shane said, trying to force his eyes to focus on Doc. “The dead nurse killed him. She was smothering him when we went in.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Doc asked, his voice low.
Shane closed one eye and was able to see Doc clearly with the other. Taking a deep breath, Shane said, “There was a ghost. In the room. She was killing him. Pedro. When we went in. When we went in, she threw us.”
“Bull,” Doc hissed. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Brett was seeing things.”
Shane shook his head and instantly regretted it. Pain exploded behind his eyes and churned his stomach. He managed to calm down, looked at Doc and said, “A ghost in Pedro’s room. She killed him. Mad we were interrupting her.”
Doc licked his lips nervously, glanced around as if to make certain no one else was close by and he whispered, “Did Brett see this ghost too?”
“Yup,” Shane answered. “Hey. Hey, Doc.”
“Yes?” Doc said, the tone of his voice leveling off. “What do you need?”
“You said no surgery for me tomorrow?”
“Not with a concussion,” Doc said. “Plus you’re talking like your brains are really scrambled up there. Traumatic Brain Injury is what you’re sounding like, Marine.”
Shane waved the comment away. “Already been checked for TBI. Hit an IED in Helmand Province. You know. I don’t know. Anyway. No surgery?”
“No. No surgery.”
“Good,” Shane said, sighing. “Do me a favor.”
“What?” Doc asked.
“My keys are in my robe pocket,” Shane said. “I got a fifth of whiskey in the trunk. Bring it up will you?”
Before the younger man could reply, darkness swept over Shane, and the world went still. He felt hands lift him up. Someone adjusted his head, and he could feel them carrying him.
Shane smiled in spite of the pain in his head and his back. No surgery, he thought, chuckling. No surgery. Dr. Georges will have to cut into some other poor sap tomorrow. From a distance, he heard Doc or someone else speak his name.
Shane laughed and said one word in reply.
“Whiskey.”
Chapter 9: Brett talks with Shane
Shane sat in a chair and stared at the television. He had the volume muted, barely registering the show; something about finding and rebuilding vintage muscle cars.
Shane had suffered a few concussions before, and he hated them. His head ached, his mouth was dry, and he was exhausted but couldn’t go to sleep.
There was a knock at the door, and Shane managed to say, “Come in.”
Brett entered, a swath of painfully bright light blinding Shane.
“Sorry about the light,” Brett said, hastily closing the door.
“It’s alright,”
Shane picked up the remote and turned the television off. “Came to check on your newest patient?”
Brett nodded, pulled the room’s other chair over and sat down. “How are you feeling?”
“Miserable,” Shane said, sighing. “How about you?”
“Not as bad,” Brett said. “At least I don’t have a concussion.”
“Yup,” Shane agreed. “What’s on your mind?”
The man cleared his throat uncomfortably, scratched the back of his head and said, “Did you see anything when we went into Pedro’s room?”
“Yeah,” Shane said.
Brett waited for Shane to continue, but when he didn’t, he stammered, “I mean. Well, did you … did you see a woman?”
“A nurse?” Shane asked.
A look of relief filled Brett’s face. “Yes. Oh my God, yes, a nurse.”
“Yes,” Shane said. “I saw her. I saw her smothering Pedro. She threw us out of the room.”
“Oh, thank you,” Brett said. “I was worried you hadn’t. I hoped you had.”
“I did,” Shane said. “Have you seen her before?”
“Yes,” Brett whispered, nodding. “The other night when Ray, another patient, died. Or was killed, I guess. Can ghosts kill?”
“Ghosts can do a lot.” Shane stared at the wall for a moment, then he looked back to Brett.
“I was thinking,” Brett said, “could she be the reason there are so many deaths on E Ward?”
“Definitely,” Shane said. “Who’s the guy called Doc?”
“Bill Kiernan,” Brett said. “Combat medic. Did a few tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He helped out when you and I were down.”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “You may want to talk to him about this ghost, too. I vaguely remember mentioning it to him when he was treating me.”
“Is it that bad?” Brett asked.
Shane shrugged. “Depends on whether or not he believes me. Feel him out. If he thinks I’m crazy, don’t say you saw her too. You don’t need the grief. If he sounds like he thought I was telling the truth and I’m not insane, you might want to see if he’s seen or heard anything strange.”
“Are we safe?” Brett asked softly.
“I don’t know,” Shane said truthfully. “I think that’s something we need to figure out.”
“Is there a way to get ri
d of her?” Brett said. “I mean, can we even do that?”
“Sure,” Shane said. He winced. “There are a few ways. I can’t really wrap my head around everything right now, Doctor.”
Brett nodded and stood up, straightened his coat and pants and turned towards the door. “You’ll be able to fill me in later?”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “Hey, you going to speak to him now?”
Brett paused and nodded.
“Think you could ask someone to send me some coffee since I’m stuck here for a while?”
“Will the caffeine help you stay awake?” Brett asked with a small smile.
“No,” Shane answered, “but a full bladder will.”
Shane picked up the remote, turned the television back on, and tried to find an interesting show to watch.
Chapter 10: Matias Hears the News
Matias Geisel was an old man.
In August, he had turned ninety-four. He had been moved into the Sanford Hospital on October 7, 1998. When the facility had closed in 2001, shortly after the terrorist attack in New York City, he had been moved down to Roxbury, Massachusetts. Then, with the reopening of the hospital, he had been shifted back. Matias was Sanford’s oldest resident, and he knew all about the Nurse.
One day, Matias told himself, she’ll come and claim me. Return me to the dust from which we all come. One day.
He dealt himself a fresh hand of solitaire, breaking in the new pack of playing cards his great-grandson had brought him earlier that day.
Matias’s room was on A Ward, tucked in a corner by the back stairs. The staff had done him that courtesy, allowing for visitors to slip in and out at will. Having served in three wars – the Second World War, Korea, and Vietnam – the folks at Sanford cut him a lot of slack.
Someone knocked on his door frame, and Matias looked up from his chair. Nancy Platte stood in the hall, smiling in at him.
“Nurse,” Matias said, a great grin breaking across his wrinkled face, “Come in, come in.”
“Oh Lord, Matias,” Nancy said in her harsh voice as she carried a pair of coffees from Dunkin Donuts into the room, “I’ve told you before not to call me ‘Nurse’.”
“And you’ll tell me again,” Matias said, smiling. He cleaned the cards off his tray, stacked them neatly on one side and gestured for Nancy to sit. He straightened up as best as he could. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Nancy said, opening the lid on his coffee to let the steam out and placing it in front of him.
“Thank you,” Matias said. “How was your ride in this morning?”
“Good,” Nancy replied. “Nothing too drastic. A Little bit of traffic on Route 3, not much more. Did you hear the news?”
Matias shook his head.
“Another death on E Ward last night,” she said, sighing.
Matias frowned. “She’s busier than usual.”
Nancy raised an eyebrow.
“Oh allow an old man his beliefs, however foolish, Nurse,” Matias said, smiling. “I’ve been here a great deal longer than you.”
“I know,” Nancy said. “I find it hard to believe the ghost of a nurse is acting as Sanford’s grim reaper.”
Matias shrugged. “Believe it or don’t. It happens nonetheless. Anyway, tell me what happened, please.”
Nancy did so, taking the occasional pause to sip her drink. Finally, she said, “There was no mention of a ghostly medical practitioner, Matias.”
“Perhaps not.”
“The elevators are out again,” Nancy added. “In fact, one of the patients I admitted yesterday is stuck on that floor. They’ve decided to monitor him up there for now. Maintenance is waiting on a representative from the elevator company to show up.”
“What was the patient admitted for, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Nancy grinned. “Violating all sorts of laws with this, but he’s supposed to be having a skin graft done.”
Matias frowned. “Isn’t that the domain of Dr. Georges?”
She nodded.
“Evidently, someone has given the patient a reprieve,” Matias said.
“Evidently.”
“It would be best if Dr. Georges died,” Matias grumbled. “People suffer enough without his assistance.”
“That’s not nice to say,” Nancy said, scolding him gently.
“The truth rarely is,” Matias said, smiling sadly. “Now, tell me what else has gone on in this fine facility since you came in yesterday.”
As Nancy filled him in on all of the rumors and gossip, Matias drank his coffee and listened happily.
Chapter 11: Dr. Georges Goes for a Drink
Angelo Georges only had a problem with alcohol when he couldn’t get enough of it.
Whistling to himself, Angelo closed and locked the door to his office. From the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, he took out a new bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream. He smiled, nodded, and opened it. Angelo added a healthy dose of the liquor to his coffee, took a sip from the bottle, and then put it back into the drawer.
He drew the shades, turned the light down low and settled down in his chair. With his mug in hand, Angelo relaxed, enjoyed the pleasant, familiar burn of the alcohol and felt relieved. The day was nearly done, and soon he would be on his way home.
No more surgeries and Helen is away for the weekend, he thought with a grin. I’ll be able to drink without being subjected to her constant nagging.
He lifted the mug in salute and enjoyed a long sip.
The shade rustled, and the room chilled noticeably.
Angelo frowned, stood up, and went to the window. He moved the plastic aside, checked to make sure the latch was secure, and then shrugged.
Curious, he thought. Wonder if the window needs to be redone. Didn’t they just put these in?
Angelo returned to his chair, sat down again and finished his coffee. Instead of retrieving the Bailey’s from the cabinet, Angelo opened the center drawer of his desk, reached into the back and grabbed one of the nips. It was a small bottle of vodka, and when he opened it, his mouth watered.
Pavlov’s Dog, he thought, chuckling. Ah well.
The light flickered, sputtered, and then burst. He could hardly see. What the hell, he thought. He put the nip down on the desk, stood up and felt himself thrust back into the chair.
Hands pressed down on his shoulders, a terrible cold penetrating the fabric and settling into his flesh. Fear and panic rose in his throat, the muscles tightening, his heart pounding. Again he tried to rise from the chair, and once more he found himself incapable of moving.
Sweat burst out on his brow and under his arms, his breath raced in and out, and desperately he tried to rein it in.
“You are an unrepentant drunk,” a woman whispered in his ear.
He shivered, for although the words were close to him, Angelo could feel no breath upon his flesh.
“You know you are a drunk,” she hissed. “I hate your drinking, Doctor. Your habit. Your predilection. I will have no more of it, do you understand, Doctor?”
The last word was pronounced with venomous hatred, so much so that Angelo found himself unable to reply.
“What?” she hissed. “Has the cat got your tongue?”
He shook his head.
“I am fed up, quite frankly,” she continued, “of your interference. Your drunken ineptitude has caused my patients to die sooner than they should. You, Doctor, do not get to choose. Only I do. Out of all of the physicians here, you are the only nuisance. I have had enough of you getting in my way.”
Angelo found his voice. “I’ll leave. I promise, I’ll leave.”
“You will,” the Nurse said. “Only not in the way you plan.”
Her hands passed through his clothes, sunk into his flesh and found the nerves. The pain was immediate and excruciating.
Angelo opened his mouth to scream, but the stranger jerked a hand free and clamped his lips together. What should have been a piercing shriek was nothing more than a squeal, a sound eking out in
to the office.
Someone passed by in the hall and Angelo kicked at his desk.
They continued on their way.
No! he thought desperately. He tried to free himself, but the pressure she exerted was too much. She pushed her hand deeper inside him, the agony unbelievable. Stars exploded around his eyes, vomit rushed up his throat and smashed against his lips. Inadvertently he inhaled, taking in a deep breath of bile and alcohol.
Angelo couldn’t breathe, he was suffocating in his own vomit.
Panic caused him to throw up again.
He fought against her, but it was no use. Her strength was incomprehensible. She was of a single-minded purpose.
“You’ll die, Doctor,” she said, her voice low and hard. “You will drown in your own bile.”
The cold hand within his chest sought out and found a lung. Angelo felt each individual finger creep around the organ, settle in, and squeeze. The grip on his mouth tightened, his teeth grinding and then breaking in his mouth. He shook violently, yet she kept him in the chair, pressing him down.
The Nurse never relented, and Angelo took a long time to die.
Chapter 12: Misery Loves Company
Shane held an icepack to his head and smoked a cigarette. Doc had found an electric fan for him, and it blew the wispy evidence out of the open window. Shane took a final drag, ground the butt out in the window sill and sat back.
“Are you alive in here?” a raspy voice asked.
Shane twisted in his seat and saw Nurse Platte walk into the room.
He smiled at her. “Almost alive. Really looking forward to the all-clear so I can lie down and get some sleep.”
She nodded, paused and raised her head slightly, her nostrils flaring. “Were you smoking in here?”
“Yeah,” Shane said, turning his chair around to face her. He switched off the fan.
Nurse Platte frowned. “You’re not supposed to.”
“Getting a concussion wasn’t on the agenda either,” he grumbled, “but here we are.”
She shook her head.
“Did they get the elevators fixed yet?” Shane asked.
