by Ron Ripley
“No,” Nurse Platte answered.
“Can I go back to my room?”
“Not yet,” she said.
“Why not?” Shane said. “Am I not allowed to walk down the stairs?”
“If it was one flight of stairs,” Nurse Platte said, “we’d let you go. But not four.”
“I can’t even go home.”
“I know,” she said. “The doctor will be able to see you tomorrow morning so long as the elevators are good.”
“And he’ll be sober?” Shane asked.
“I’ll make sure of it,” Nurse Platte said, and the tone of her voice left no doubt that she would.
“So,” Shane said, “you’ll let me walk down the stairs tomorrow, even if the elevators are still broken?”
She nodded.
“Good.”
Nurse Platte was silent for a short time, and Shane could see that she wanted to ask him a question. Finally, after several minutes of hesitation, she said, “I spoke with Doc Kiernan.”
Shane waited.
“He told me you thought you saw a ghost.”
“Yeah,” Shane responded. “I didn’t think it. I know it.”
“Mr. Ryan,” she said cautiously, “you suffered a concussion. And, given your history of them, and your combat experiences, maybe it was a hallucination.”
“I know what I saw,” Shane said with a sigh. “Please don’t doubt it, Nurse Platte. I’m not here to convince you otherwise. I don’t really care. All I want is to have the skin graft done, go home, and get back to murdering my liver with whiskey. My lungs need a couple of packs of unfiltered Luckys, too.”
“You won’t say anything to the other patients?” she asked.
“Not a word,” Shane said. “These men are dying. I’m not about to mess up the rest of their days with some ghost stories. They’ve all got enough to think about.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling with relief. “I do appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” He shifted the ice pack from one side of his head to the other, wincing as he did so.
“I’ve got to go back to my floor,” Nurse Platte said, smiling. “One of the other girls called in sick. I’m picking up part of her shift.”
“I’ll see you later.” he said.
Nurse Platte nodded, waved goodbye, and left the room.
A few more hours and I’ll be able to go to sleep, Shane thought. Even walk down the stairs.
“Good afternoon,” a woman said, and Shane almost fell out of his chair in surprise. He looked up and went completely still.
The Nurse stood by his bed. She was opaque, a small, polite, and business like smile on her face.
Shane cleared his throat, gave a short bow and said, “Good afternoon.”
“What are you doing on E Ward?” she asked.
Her tone was firm. Completely professional.
“I suffered a blow to the head,” Shane said. “They won’t allow me to go down to my room until the elevators are fixed, or until twenty-four hours have passed.”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry you were injured so,” the Nurse said. “But you were interrupting, which was rather rude, I might add.”
“Please accept my apologies,” Shane said. Can I get away from her, if she attacks?
“Apology accepted,” she said. She narrowed her eyes at him and added, “Make certain it does not happen again.”
“I’ll do my best,” Shane replied.
She looked at him, shook her head, and then turned to leave.
“Excuse me,” Shane said.
“Yes?” she said, pausing.
“May I ask your name?”
She frowned. “I don’t see why this is of any importance, but, if you must know, my name is Ruth. Ruth Williamson.”
Shane watched as she turned and left the room through the right wall.
Ruth Williamson, Shane repeated to himself. Let’s see what we can find out about you, Nurse.
Chapter 13: Matias, Sanford Hospital, June 2nd, 1967
“I didn’t think it would come back,” Matias huffed, his feet bare and up on the examining table.
“It did,” Doctor Jack Neal said. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, tapped the head off into the ashtray on the counter, and shook his head. “It’s a fungus, Matias. You contracted it in the Pacific first, right?”
Matias nodded.
“Well,” Jack said, putting the cigarette back between his lips, “looks like the heat of South East Asia has brought it back out. Most of the time, I tell people to take better care of their feet, but this doesn’t have anything to do with it. You came by it honestly.”
“That’s a relief,” Matias said sarcastically.
“Don’t be smart,” Jack said. “We’ll do what we can, as always. I’m more worried about the way the hip wound is healing.”
“Why?” Matias demanded. “What’s wrong with the hip?”
“I think the pins we put in may not have been as sterile as they were supposed to be,” Jack said, sighing. “To put it bluntly, Matias, we may have to go in, lance the wound, drain the infection, and maybe even open you back up to scrape the pins free of any debris.”
Matias held his tongue, keeping the anger within.
“Matias,” Jack said, sighing and stepping back. He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “You know I wouldn’t tell you if it wasn’t necessary.”
“I know, Jack, I know,” Matias said. He carefully moved his legs off the table, wincing as he adjusted his position. “I’ve been under the knife enough. I’m not looking forward to another operation.”
“Well, make sure you send a thank you letter to Vietnam,” Jack said, sitting down on a stool. “I’m certain they’ll appreciate it.”
“No need,” Matias said. “I’ve got the sniper’s skull in my study.”
Jack looked at him in surprise. “You don’t!”
“I do,” Matias said. “My fire-team mailed it to me when I was in Germany for the first leg of the trip home.”
Jack shook his head. “There is something fundamentally wrong with the Marines.”
Matias shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Listen, I’m going to admit you,” Jack said. “I’d like to lance the wound today. I’ll be able to tell by the discharge whether or not we should go in and scrape it clean.”
Matias rolled his eyes. “You picked a good time. Debra’s got the kids with her down in Boston.”
“Really?” Jack said innocently. “How fortuitous.”
Matias looked at him, and then said, “Jack, have you been speaking with Debra?”
Jack’s face reddened.
“The pair of you, thick as thieves, eh?” Matias asked.
“Did you think I wouldn’t consult with my sister?” Jack replied.
Matias shooed the doctor away. “Go get me my room. Better to have it done now.”
Jack grinned, stubbed out his cigarette in the marble ashtray by the door and left the room. A few minutes later, he returned with a large, male orderly. The man pushed a wheelchair in front of him, and Matias frowned.
“My orders,” Jack said. “I don’t care how stubborn you are. The only bed we have open is on E Ward, and I won’t have you limping your way there.”
“What do you mean?” Matias asked. “There’s the elevator.”
“Only if you’re in the wheelchair,” Jack said. “I’ll make you walk the whole way up if you won’t take a seat.”
“When I’m better, Doctor,” Matias said, “we’re going to put on the gloves and go a couple of rounds.”
“Excellent,” Jack said, smiling. He turned to the orderly and said, “Don.”
Don brought the wheelchair to the table and waited as Matias put himself in it. The pain was terrible, and it must have shown on his face.
“We’ll have you better in no time,” Jack assured him. “Go on upstairs. Rest. I’ll be along shortly.”
Matias could only nod in reply.
&
nbsp; In a short time, Don had wheeled him from A Ward to E Ward and brought him into Room 8. A terribly old man lay asleep on one of the two beds, and the room was lit with the afternoon light. Don pushed the wheelchair directly to the unoccupied bed. Matias got onto the bed and took a deep breath.
“Are you alright, sir?” Don asked.
Matias nodded. “Well, enough. Thank you.”
“Do you need a nurse to help you get into your bedclothes?” the orderly asked.
“No,” Matias said, shaking his head. “Thank you, but no.”
“Alright, sir,” Don said, and he put the wheelchair in a corner before he left the room, closing the door behind him.
Matias carefully bent over, untied his shoes and left them under the bed. With equal caution, he brought his legs up onto the mattress, made himself as comfortable as possible, and looked over at his companion.
Each breath was a wheeze for the old man, the tell-tale rattle in his chest a sound Matias had heard all too often.
He’s dying, Matias thought. Maybe not tonight. But definitely tomorrow. How old is he? Damn, he looks old enough to have ridden with Roosevelt and the Rough Riders.
Turning his attention away from the old man, Matias looked around for something to occupy his attention. There was a deck of cards on the table between the pair of beds. Beside the table was a folded lap desk. Matias reached over, grabbed the cards and the desk. He dealt out a hand of solitaire and began looking for a home for the three of clubs.
The door swung open.
Matias looked up, saw a nurse, and frowned. I told him I didn’t need help.
The thought died as Matias realized he could see through the woman. She seemed to be more of an afterthought. An idea of a woman, or a memory of one. Her uniform was old; antiquated.
She smiled pleasantly at him as she passed by, a wave of cold air preceding her.
Matias shuddered, the hackles on his neck standing up and the pain in his hip increasing exponentially.
She made her way directly to the old man in the other bed. As she neared him, Matias’s roommate gasped and turned slowly in his bed. When she came to a stop beside the bed, the man’s back was to her.
Matias’ horror grew as he watched her reach out with both hands, placing them in the center of the old man’s back. A heartbeat later, she pushed her fingers further into the man’s flesh, and soon she was wrist deep in his elderly form.
The old man gasped, shivered, and the death rattle stopped.
For several minutes longer, she remained where she was, her hands still hidden within him.
Matias stayed where he was, fear gripping him.
Finally, she withdrew herself and turned around. Once again she smiled at Matias, pausing for a moment at the end of his bed.
“Craig is feeling much better now,” she said sweetly. “Much better. I’ll come by later and check on you as well.”
Matias remained perfectly still as he watched her leave the room and thought, I hope not.
Chapter 14: A Visitor
The elevators had been fixed, and Shane had been moved from E Ward down to A Ward.
At six o’clock in the morning, he woke up, sweating profusely and panting from the nightmares. Even after all that he had been through, the terrors of his childhood remained with him; plagued him every night.
He sat up in the hospital bed, jonesing for a cigarette and a shot of whiskey. Shane got up quietly, conscious of the man sleeping in the other bed, and went into the bathroom. He washed up quickly, pulled a fresh pair of issue pajamas on, and slipped his feet into his sneakers. When he left the room, he nodded to the nurse on duty and got the ‘okay’ from the old Marine security guard to go outside for a smoke and a nip.
As soon as the doors closed behind him, Shane took out his cigarettes and lit one up. He smiled at the taste of tobacco and made his way down the stairs to the back lot. In a few minutes, he was enjoying the pleasant burn of whiskey and wondering how much longer he was going to have to stay at Sanford.
“Shane!”
Shane looked and saw Doc Kiernan. The dying medic hobbled toward him, leaning heavily on a cane.
“Hey, Doc,” Shane said. “Want a drink?”
“You have whiskey in your car?” Doc asked, laughing.
“You don’t?” Shane responded, winking.
“Hell, I don’t even have a car,” Doc said. He leaned against the side of a pickup parked next to Shane’s vehicle. With a nod of thanks, he accepted the bottle from Shane, gave the mouth of the whiskey a cursory wipe, and then took a long drink. He coughed, shook his head and held the bottle back out to Shane.
Chuckling, Shane took it back. “What are you doing out here?”
“My morning walk,” Doc said, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Or, rather, my morning shuffle.”
“Bad?” Shane asked.
“Bad,” Doc confirmed. “You know, I was in some hot places. First battle of Fallujah, went in with the Marines. Hajii threw a lot of lead at us.”
“He had a habit of doing that,” Shane said.
“Yeah,” Doc said. “It’s why I didn’t think I’d die at thirty from something as stupid as a burn pit.”
Shane nodded. “Couple of guys I served with, they’re sick. Down in Bethesda, getting tested. How come you’re not there?”
“Sanford is fine with me,” Doc said, accepting the bottle as Shane handed it to him. The man paused, took a drink and passed it back. “There’s no cure for what I have. They can’t even figure out what’s going on with me, other than I’m dying. So, why let them run tests? My family’s up here. They can visit a hell of a lot easier than traveling down to Maryland.”
“True enough,” Shane said. He sipped at the whiskey. “How long have you been here?”
“About a year now,” Doc said. He hesitated, then asked, “Do you remember what you said to me when you hit your head?”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “I saw a ghost.”
Doc looked at him carefully. “You’re sure?”
Shane smiled. “I’m sure.”
“I’ve seen her, too,” Doc said shortly. “I didn't tell you earlier because I wasn't sure how well you’d handle it. You had a concussion and were definitely suffering from some trauma.”
Doc smiled wanly. “I talked with Brett last night. He thinks she may have had something to do with Dr. Georges death, too.”
“What?” Shane asked. “Dr. Georges?”
“Yes,” Doc said. “You didn’t hear about him?”
Shane shook his head, and Doc quickly filled him in on the doctor’s death.
“They think it was an aneurysm from drinking?” Shane asked when Doc had finished.
Doc nodded. “They won’t do an autopsy or anything. They found him in his office when he didn’t show up for an appointment. The light was broken, vomit in his mouth. Looks like he choked on it.”
Shane snorted and shook his head. “Guess I lucked out.”
“How do you figure?” Doc asked, surprised.
“He was supposed to work on me today,” Shane said. “Word was he had a problem with his alcohol.”
Doc looked at the whiskey bottle in Shane’s hand.
“I don’t have a problem,” Shane said. Then he grinned, “Besides, I’m not operating on anyone.”
He took a last drink, capped the bottle and put it away. After he locked the car up Shane got out a fresh cigarette and glanced at Doc. “Will this bother you?”
Doc shook his head. “Light up. Those’ll kill you eventually.”
“If I’m lucky enough to live that long,” Shane muttered.
“What?” Doc asked as they began the walk back to the building.
“Nothing. Nothing,” Shane said. “I’m running my mouth. Anyway, why do you think the Nurse killed Dr. Georges?”
“No one knows why. Usually, she’s seen up on E Ward. Rarely downstairs. People think she’s, well, like Death. She comes and snatches people up when it’s their time,” Doc said.<
br />
“But she’s only been seen up on E Ward?” Shane asked.
“Yup,” Doc said. “She’s kind of like an open secret, you know? Some of the staff know about her, but they won’t talk about her. They say it brings the morale of the patients down.”
“So I’ve heard,” Shane said.
Doc glanced at him, but when Shane didn’t offer up anymore, he continued on. “Anyway, some of the patients have seen her. They don’t like to talk about her. You know, kind of like, ‘Speak of the Devil and the Devil appears.'”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “I understand. My question is, has anyone ever tried to stop her?”
“What do you mean?” Doc asked. “Like an exorcism or something? Some of that new-age hippy crap about telling the Nurse she’s dead and needs to go towards the light?”
Shane laughed. “No, nothing like that. I mean, bound her to something, or found where she’s buried then salt and burn her bones.”
“Jesus Christ,” Doc said, shock on his face and in his voice. “Sounds a little barbaric, man.”
Shane shrugged. “Whatever gets the job done.”
They started up the handicapped ramp toward the back door.
“Guess I don’t have any doubts now,” Doc said as they reached the automatic opener.
“Doubts about what?” Shane asked, opening the door for Doc.
“About you being a Marine,” Doc replied, grinning. “Only a Marine would be okay with digging up a body, dumping salt on it and lighting it up like a barbecue.”
Shane’s laughter echoed through the hall as they entered the hospital.
Chapter 15: What Dreams May Come
Shane woke up in his bed.
Not a hospital bed.
His bed.
He looked around the bedroom, a wave of confusion threatening to overwhelm him.
This isn’t right, Shane thought. It’s too big.
Everything was oversized. The dresser was too tall, the door was too big. Even his bed was gigantic. He threw the blankets off, looked down at his legs and stopped.
His legs were small. Small and covered with fine, light brown hair.
Cautiously he held up his hands and saw they were proportionate to his legs, and there was a fresh scab on the back of his left index finger. He had cut it when reaching into a grate for one of his action figures.
