by Ron Ripley
“Which brings us back to the question of where you’re going to stay,” Doc said.
Shane shook his head. “I don’t know. I suppose in my car, in the visitor’s lot. I don’t want to drive back to Nashua only to drive back in the morning. If something happens I want to be nearby. I’ve already given my number to Brett here.”
“May I have it as well?” Matias asked.
“Yeah,” Doc added, “we should all have it.”
“Will do,” Shane said.
“Hold on,” Brett said, looking at Dom Francis. “What about religious items?”
“I’m not sure,” the monk answered. “I don’t think they would do anything to prohibit the Nurse or any other ghost who chooses to come in. The items might offer you spiritual comfort, but since the Nurse doesn’t seem to be a demon, I don’t believe your religious faith will have any effect on her.”
“Great,” Brett muttered.
“Sorry,” Shane said. “I do have a question for you guys, though. Does anyone know where the Nurse is buried?”
None of them did.
“Alright,” Shane said. “Do you think there’s any way one of you can find out more information about her?”
“I might be able to,” Brett said. “I mean, if she worked here, which she must have at some point, then there should be something in the system about her. Sanford managed to put all of its records in the online database last year. I can do a search, see if anything comes up.”
“Good,” Shane said. “I couldn’t find anything online as to where she might be buried. If you can dig that up, it’ll work out a lot easier for us.”
“How so?” Matias asked. “How will knowing where her body lies help us?”
“Because then we’ll be able to stop her,” Shane said.
“I’m sorry,” Matias said. “How exactly will we stop her again?”
“We find her,” Shane said, “dig her up, salt her bones, douse them with lighter fluid and then light her up.”
“And that will stop her?” Matias asked.
Shane nodded. “Yup. And there’s a bonus to it too.”
“What’s the bonus?” Dom Francis asked.
“It’ll be a bonfire,” Shane said, grinning. “Hell, we could even bring marshmallows if we want.”
No one thought the joke was funny.
Chapter 36: Who is the Nurse?
Brett wanted nothing more than to clock out. He was stressed and ready to go home.
With a sigh, Brett signed out and he headed for the back stairs. He stifled a yawn as he pushed open the door and walked the six long flights to the hospital’s basement. When he reached the bottom landing, Brett took out his key card, swiped it, and let himself in to the rarely-used portion of Sanford.
A long, narrow corridor, lined with too many doors and populated by few lights, stretched out in front of him. No one else was in the basement with him, and it made him feel worse.
Should have brought some coffee with me, he thought. Brett stepped into the corridor, let the door click shut behind him, and he walked to the far end. He found the records room unlocked, and he let himself in. His hand groped along the inside of the wall until his fingers discovered the light switch. Closing his eyes, Brett turned the overheads on. The bright gleam of the fluorescents penetrated his eyelids, and he turned away in spite of his preparation.
When he dared to look, he found the room smaller and more cluttered than he remembered.
Someone had left half a donut on a paper plate, and the sight of the stale pastry made his stomach rumble, reminding Brett of how hungry he was.
Quiet, he told himself. You’ll eat soon enough.
He went to the desk, pulled out the chair and sat down. Quickly he powered up the computer, the ancient desktop’s tower whirring and clicking. Brett rolled his eyes, threw away the old donut and waited several minutes until the monitor flickered to life. Once it seemed properly warmed up, he logged in and gained access to the hospital’s record system.
He would have preferred to have done the research upstairs, but the idea of someone looking over his shoulder didn’t please him. The fact that there was a living breathing person helping the Nurse sent a shiver down his spine. Brett could understand how a ghost would help her, but not how someone still upright and taking in air could.
Don’t worry about it, Brett told himself. Let’s get the information and be on our way.
He tapped his fingers on the desk, looked at the computer, and then brought up the search screen. He thought about how to research the Nurse, and then he thought, Why not try her name?
Brett typed in ‘Ruth Williamson’ and hit ‘enter’.
The screen went black, flared white, and then showed a screen with a blank entry form. It asked for the password.
Password? Brett thought. How do I know what the password is?
He rubbed the back of his head, stared at the computer and thought for several minutes. Brett typed in all of the basics from around the hospital. “Surgical1”, “Admin1”, and “Sanford2016”. Finally, Brett shrugged and typed in ‘The_Nurse’.
The screen flickered, and a document appeared.
It was simply titled, The Nurse.
Brett leaned forward and began to read.
We welcome you to a Brotherhood of like-minded caregivers. By your dedication to the lives and deaths of our Veterans, you have been selected to join a group which has existed since the end of the Great War. While it is no easy task to care for our wounded Veterans, those whose protection President Lincoln charged the Department with, it is far more difficult to have the strength to help usher our wards into the next life.
Here, in Sanford, where the sick and the cast-off are gathered, it is sometimes necessary for us to be the merciful hand of Death. You, at some point, have done this task, on your own, and it has been noticed. You may have believed yourself to be acting in the dark, but it was not so.
She noticed.
The merciful Angel, the Nurse, our beloved Ruth Williamson.
It was she who first took up this burden when the men had returned from the Great War. The men broken by combat, sick to death from gas and wounds which would not heal. Then came Influenza, and death nearly as terrible as that upon the field of battle.
Trapped here as they were, weakened as they were, our Veterans were all too easy prey for Influenza, and a thousand other lingering deaths.
The Nurse took the burden of death upon her own frail shoulders. From the first case of Influenza, she realized what needed to be done. She knew she alone had the strength to choose who lived and who died.
Several of us rallied to her, and under her careful leadership, we began to winnow out those who she knew would not survive. We helped her and stood watch outside of rooms as she entered and removed the chaff. We found whatever it was she might need; hypodermics, scalpels, poisons. If she requested an item, we would procure it.
She, alone, had the strength to serve as God’s Angel of Death.
A terrible and glorious strength was in her.
Never did the doctors suspect her. They believed, in their arrogance, that nothing could have been done to help those who died.
Our beloved Nurse was not long for this world, however. In 1920, shortly after the crisis had passed, she was killed by a patient. It is a statement of how much the Veterans loved her that she was buried in the cemetery at the edge of the grounds, beneath the shade of the graceful elms.
She lies with many of the men she had cared for and many more of those she had chosen to move on into the next life.
Brett pushed himself back from the monitor.
She’s here, he thought, blinking. She’s buried in the lot.
He shook his head in amazement, leaned forward to read more of the document, but paused as he heard a door open. Brett twisted in the chair and looked down the length of the hall to the opposite end. The door was closing, and someone was walking down the hallway towards him.
For a brief second fear spik
ed in him, but when he realized he couldn’t see through the new arrival, Brett relaxed. He waved and the person waved back before they stopped at one of the locked doors.
Brett turned back to the computer and tried to find his place.
“Hey, Brett!” a voice called.
Brett turned again, saw the unknown person back in the hallway, something small and black in their hands.
“What?” Brett asked.
Two suppressed shots answered him, the bullets smashing into his chest. He slumped slightly, tried to catch his breath but discovered he couldn’t. Warmth spread out across his breast.
Oh, Brett thought numbly, I’m dying.
Chapter 37: Preparing for Battle
“Do you think it’ll work?” Dom Francis asked.
“What’s that?” Shane asked. He passed the whiskey over to the monk.
Dom Francis accepted it, took a long swallow and then said, “The betony.”
“I hope to hell it does,” Shane said. “Otherwise, the Nurse will pick off both Matias and Doc Kiernan, and we won’t be able to do anything about it. At least if they’re awake when she comes they might be able to do something. Anything to get away and to give them a fighting chance.”
The monk nodded.
They sat in Shane’s car, passing the bottle back and forth while Shane indulged in chain smoking. When the meeting with the others had wrapped up, Shane and Dom Francis had walked out to the parking lot together. Neither of the men had wanted to leave, so the decision had been made to hang around in one of their cars.
Since Shane couldn’t smoke in the monk’s vehicle, the only logical choice was Shane’s own ride. For hours, they had talked about the military, their first taste of combat, and how different the world was outside of the armed forces. The conversation had then drifted, wandering from education to families, and finally to ghosts.
And Shane had told Dom Francis everything.
It had been good to tell his whole story. The struggle of growing up in the house on Berkley Street, the nightmares that continued to plague him, and even of the death of Courtney.
Dom Francis returned to the subject after he passed the bottle back to Shane.
“You said she’s a ghost now?” Dom Francis asked.
Shane nodded. “Yeah.”
“Can you tell me how her ghost is with you?” the monk said. “Not her death, but how she became bound to your tags.”
“I don’t know how exactly,” Shane said. “All I can do is guess. At some point, when she was dying, she must have focused on my dog tags. I’m sure there are books out there on how a person becomes bound to an item, but I haven’t read any of them.”
Shane cleared his throat, rubbed at his eyes and said in a hoarse whisper, “It’s tough, you know?”
Dom Francis waited for Shane to continue.
“I mean,” Shane said, stumbling on the words, “it was hard to lose her. Really hard. I buried friends. Saw them wounded. Lost my parents. All sorts of crap. Yeah, it hurt, but not like this. Not like this at all.”
Shane closed his eyes and sighed.
“I swear,” he whispered, “it feels like someone reached in and tore a chunk out of my heart.”
“I’m sorry,” Dom Francis said.
Shane nodded, wiped his eyes again and said, “Well, she’s with me in one way at least.”
He looked at Francis. “You know, I feel like I killed her.”
“How so?” Francis asked.
“If I hadn’t been there in the first place,” Shane said, “she wouldn’t have come. If she hadn’t come, she’d be alive.”
“You know better than that,” Francis replied. His voice was firm. “You can’t think like that. You’ll end up second guessing yourself about everything, and it’ll cost you. And considering what you do on the side, it’ll more than likely be your life.”
Shane cleared his throat and said, “Enough of that talk, huh? Tell me, what do the Catholics have to say about ghosts?”
“You know,” Dom Francis said, “the Catholic Church doesn’t say anything against ghosts, contrary to what many people believe.”
“Really?” Shane asked, surprised. “Honestly, I thought they would have been against the whole ghost idea.”
“Why?” the monk asked, grinning. “Spirit is a pretty essential part of our faith. And there are more than a few mentions in the Bible about ghosts. Anyway, I suppose my point is I’m curious about how ghosts come about. I don’t mean any disrespect concerning Courtney.”
A wave of sadness washed over Shane as he heard her name.
“It’s alright,” Shane said. “I know you didn’t. I wish I had an answer for you.”
“Have you asked Courtney if she wants to leave?” Dom Francis asked. “I know it sounds silly, but in some of the haunted house movies I watched as a kid, they always said to ask the ghost if they need help going to the light.”
“I haven’t asked her, no,” Shane said. He took a long drink of whiskey. “She knows she’s dead. There’s no light she’s avoiding. Pretty sure she’ll make her way along when she’s good and ready.”
They were silent for a minute, and then Dom Francis said, “If you were to wear your dog tags, would she come with you?”
Shane nodded. “Yeah. That’s how it works. She’s bound to them. If I were to mail them to Timbuktu, she’d go along. She doesn’t have a choice, not until she either frees herself, or someone does it for her when she’s ready.”
“Can she free herself?” the monk asked.
“Honestly, I have no idea,” Shane said.
Faintly, Shane heard the sound of a siren, and as he twisted in his seat to look out the back window, Dom Francis did the same. An ambulance raced up the road, its lights flashing and the siren screaming louder. When it reached the main lot, the vehicle went silent, but its emergency lights continued to spin. The ambulance cut around into the back lot and sped to the rear bay.
Shane watched as the driver deftly cut the wheel and reversed into the parking space. Both doors opened, and the paramedics inside leaped out. They ran into the building and disappeared.
“Do you think it’s for one of our guys?” Shane asked, looking at Dom Francis.
“I hope not,” the monk said. He frowned. “They’d call, right?”
“It’s why we gave them my number,” Shane said. The phone rang and he took it out.
He answered it. “Hello?”
“Shane? It’s Doc.”
“What’s going on?” Shane asked.
“Someone murdered Brett!” Doc said. His voice was tight. “He was shot. Two rounds, center mass.”
“Anything we can do?” Shane asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Stay where you are,” Doc said. “I think you’d draw too much attention if you came inside.”
“Alright,” Shane said. He ended the call.
“Who was it?” Francis asked.
“Doc,” Shane replied, putting his phone away. “Brett’s been killed.”
In silence they looked at the ambulance, and Shane wondered who had murdered the man.
Chapter 38: Parking Lot Troubles
The air didn’t feel right.
Shane had gotten out of his car to stretch, but the strange scent in the morning breeze, and Brett’s murder left him uncomfortable. Dom Francis had gone inside the building to check on Matias and Doc.
It’s a musty smell, Shane realized, tilting his head back a bit and inhaling deeply. Like someone’s opened an attic that’s been closed off for years.
He sensed an electrical charge in the air, static electricity building up around him.
Carefully, Shane leaned into his car and took out his backpack. He scanned the parking lot while he grabbed his knuckledusters and then his shotgun. Shane slipped the iron over his fingers and put the shotgun in the crook of his arm. He looked back at the hospital.
If I fire this off, he thought, I am going to have an incredible amount of explaining to do.
&nbs
p; But, having to explain myself beats being dead, Shane told himself, grinning. From the pack, he pulled out a handful of shells and stuffed them into his back pocket. He looked around and tried to see where he might be able to establish some sort of defense for himself.
Shane knew nothing offered him protection, then he grinned.
There, he thought, the far end of the parking lot. A clear field of fire.
Shane checked quickly for any vehicles in motion, and when he saw it was clear, he moved towards the open pavement. As he did so, the air at the edges of his vision flickered, light paled and intensified.
The dead were coming.
He picked up the pace, his heartbeat quickening. A smile slipped onto his face, and he felt a familiar, joyous sensation.
The thrill of a fight; the chance to destroy something. All of it spoke to a deeper, darker part of him.
Remember who you are, Shane thought. They don’t know who it is they’re dealing with. Or what you’ve done.
By the time Shane reached the far end of the lot, five spirits had appeared. They were all men. One of them was the bloody young man he had beaten the night before, and another was an old, naked man. The rest of them were of various ages and races, yet all five wore the same expression, one of anger and determination.
Shane understood them perfectly.
He came to a stop a short distance from them and nodded.
“Good morning,” he said.
“You’re Shane,” the old, naked man said.
“And you’re Jacob,” Shane replied, remembering the man’s name from the story Brett had told.
A smile flickered across the old man’s face. “I am.”
“What can I do for you, Jacob?” Shane asked.
“You can die!” the young, bloody man spat.
Jacob held up a hand, and the young man took a cautious step back.
“He is impetuous,” Jacob said. “He is, however, correct. If you don’t leave the Nurse alone, you will die.”
Shane shrugged. “I appreciate the warning, but I can’t leave her alone. She’s killing people.”
