by Amy Cross
“Tell that to Senator Huntingdon,” Carmichael replied, heading out through the front door and finally stopping in the parking lot. He paused for a moment, taking deep breaths as he felt the morning sun on his face. “The man has apparently made it his new mission in life to ensure that I'm never again employed by a hospital in this country. His daughter's death has proved to be a major inconvenience for his election campaign.”
“But the review board cleared you of misconduct!”
“They said the case against me couldn't be proven,” he pointed out. “That's different. Brandon Huntingdon blames me for his daughter's death, he thinks she died because she was given a couple more morphine doses than she should. He doesn't seem to understand that the pain put such a strain on her heart that...” He paused again, watching as people made their way across the parking lot. “He has money and connections. He says he'll make sure that no other hospital employs me, and I believe him. Maybe if I went off to the Philippines, somewhere like that, I could get a job, but in America? Huntingdon's blackballed me from every hospital around.”
“But your work -”
“I'll get by.”
“Jonathan -”
“And you should head back in there,” he continued, turning to Wallace and holding a hand out. “It has been a true pleasure working with you, Wallace. Careful, though, you don't want to get caught talking to me in public, you might end up on the same list.”
“This isn't fair,” Wallace replied. “Why don't you fight it?”
Taking a step back, Carmichael realized he could see a figure standing nearby. He turned and looked at Sabrina, who was staring at him.
“I just need to get out of here,” he said finally. “Don't worry, I'll slip under the radar and find somewhere Brandon Huntingdon can't reach me. Maybe I'll move into research, I've got a few ideas I'd like to try out. It just...” He paused, still looking at Sabrina before finally turning back to Wallace. “I think maybe I'd like to avoid working directly with patients for a while, especially children. I've seen enough suffering to last a lifetime. I've got a few theories about pain relief and management, maybe I'll pursue those. Whatever I do, I'll be fine.”
***
Opening his eyes suddenly in the dark room, he felt a momentary sense of surprise at finding himself in bed. He blinked a couple of times, before starting to remember the previous night's events. He'd been at a bar, drinking away his sorrows, and then he'd left at closing time and obviously somehow he'd found his way home. There was a strong smell of whiskey in the air, and when he turned onto his side he felt a patch of dampness on the sheet. Leaning closer, he gave it a sniff and realized he must have spilled more whiskey.
“Great,” he muttered, reaching over to the bedside table and tapping his phone's screen, to see the time. As soon as the screen lit up, however, he saw that there was a face staring at him from next to the bed. He froze, not even breathing as he realized that he recognized her.
Sabrina.
A moment later, the phone's screen dimmed, plunging the room back into darkness.
He waited.
Silence.
Although his heart was racing and he wanted to get out of bed and run, he told himself that he was simply imagining things. He took a deep breath, before reaching out and tapping the phone again.
The screen lit up.
The face was there again, staring at him from just a couple of feet away from the bed.
He opened his mouth to say something, but the screen dimmed and once again the room became dark.
Figuring that he must still be drunk, he lay back and stared up at the dark ceiling. He didn't believe in ghosts, but he knew the human mind was more than capable of imagining such things. One thing was certain: Sabrina Huntingdon was dead, so there was no way she could be standing next to the bed.
And then he heard it.
Someone was whispering.
“It still hurts.”
He froze, telling himself that maybe he was still asleep, or that he was still a little drunk.
“The pain went away at first,” the voice whispered, “but now it's back.”
He swallowed hard, before turning and staring at the darkness by the bed where, a moment earlier, he'd seen the girl's face in the phone's low light. He couldn't see her now, not with the room in total darkness, but he couldn't help imagining her face still staring at him.
He waited.
“Sabrina?” he said finally.
“Make it stop.”
“You...” He paused. “Sabrina, is that you?”
“The pain came back. It's worse.”
“No, I...” He paused again. “You're not really here. This is just in my head.”
He waited again.
Silence.
“Sabrina?”
Silence.
He waited a moment longer, before slowly reaching out to tap the phone again. At the last minute, he held back, terrified that if he let the screen light up again, he'd see her face again in the gloom. It was better, he figured, to let the room stay pitch black.
“Sabrina?” he said out loud finally. “Are... Are you there?”
Silence.
He felt a faint hint of relief in his chest, and he began to feel foolish. The whole thing had just been a figment of his imagination, but he still didn't want to test that theory by tapping the phone again. He remained completely still for a moment, before deciding that he had to confront his fear. Slowly, he moved his finger through the darkness, ready to tap the screen. He paused again, imagining the girl's face but telling himself, at the same time, that it wouldn't be there this time. He just had to find the courage to tap the screen, and then -
Suddenly the phone began to ring, and the screen flashed.
She was still there.
Staring at him.
Watching him.
The screen continued to flash, alternately bringing lightness and dark to the room until, finally, the caller gave up. For a few more seconds, the screen remained lit, illuminating the ghostly face nearby, before the light switched off and the room fell back to darkness.
His heart pounding in his chest, Carmichael paused for a moment before rolling onto his back. All he could think to do was try to go to sleep and wait for morning to arrive. Once he was fully sober, the girl would be gone. She'd have to be.
“It hurts,” a scared voice whispered in the darkness, coming closer. “Please, it still hurts.”
Chapter Thirteen
Today
“No, I'm fine,” Elly replied as she stepped down off the bus. “I'm just taking a little detour before I come home. I'll probably be another couple of hours.”
She sighed as she heard her mother telling her that she was pushing herself too hard, that she should get straight home and go to sleep.
“I just need to pick something up for someone,” she explained, making her way along the bright street until she spotted an arched doorway leading into the tall, imposing beige-bricked building. It was just as Mr. Lacy had described. “I promised.”
Her mother demanded to know who she'd promised.
“A patient.”
Now she wanted to know why she'd made a promise to a patient.
“It's not a big deal.” Hurrying up the steps, she pulled the key from her pocket and slipped it into the lock. “I'm doing a favor for someone, that's all.” She pushed the door open and headed inside, finding herself in a gloomy, high-ceilinged hallway with a wall of mailboxes on one side. “I have to go now. Just stop worrying about me, I'll be fine.”
Once the call was over, she made her way to the foot of the stairs and looked up. The building was rundown, which she'd expected, but the place also seemed almost abandoned. Thick layers of dust covered almost every surface, and more dust floated serenely through the air. Just as she was starting to wonder if the entire apartment block was deserted, however, she heard someone coughing in the distance, and she figured that it wasn't that odd for people not to be out and about at nine
in the morning. Most were either off at work already, or in bed after working all night.
As she headed up the stairs, she began to realize that she really was getting out of sync with the rest of the world. Becoming nocturnal, almost. The craziest part was that she didn't really mind, that she actually like the idea of fading back a little from everyone else.
Thomas Clay Lacy's apartment was on the very top floor of the building, and since there was no elevator Elly had to take the stairs all the way. Her legs began to ache a little, but finally she reached the corridor on the eighth floor. Following the sign on the wall, she made her way past a row of identical doors until she came to one at the end of the corridor, with a brass number 9 screwed into the center. Still a little worried that maybe she'd got the wrong apartment, she knocked on the door and waited for a moment, before finally sliding the key into the lock.
“Hello?” she called out as she pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Pearl? Cat, are you here?”
She let the door swing shut as she stepped forward, finding herself in a small open-plan kitchen filled with clutter. Every surface was piled high with papers, books, magazines, folders and various other items. The place wasn't dirty, she could tell that immediately, but it was untidy and disorganized, and when she opened the door to the refrigerator she felt a twinge of sadness when she saw that it was almost empty. The cupboards were mostly bare as well, with just a box of cereal and a large bag of sugar, and she began to realize that Mr. Lacy's budget for food had been almost non-existent. Seeing no bowls on the floor for the cat, she grabbed a couple from the cupboard and set them down.
“Pearl?” she called out, waiting for some sign that the cat was home. “Hey, where are you? Food's up!”
Leaning down, she began to fill the first bowl from the box of dry food she'd bought at the store. She assumed the cat would come running as soon as it heard the sound, but there was still no sign of movement anywhere in the apartment.
“There's no need to be scared!” she added. “Your owner sent me especially to make sure you've got food and water.”
Picking up the second bowl, she headed to the sink and filled it with water, before putting it back in place. She wandered through to the main room, which turned out to be even more cluttered than the kitchen. There was a fusty smell in the air, which she assumed came from the hundreds, maybe even thousands of books that were piled onto the shelves, the tables, even the floor. Picking a couple up at random, she found that they were old war novels, and she couldn't help but smile at the thought of Mr. Lacy sitting around reading a bunch of adventure stories. Heading over to the far wall, she found a framed photo showing a group of young men sitting next to a train, and after a moment she realized that the guy on the left, the only one who wasn't smiling, looked like a much younger version of the old man in the hospital bed back at Middleford Cross.
“Thomas Clay Lacy,” she muttered with a smile. “So that's what you used to look like, huh?”
Turning, she made her way across the room until she reached the door to the bedroom. The blinds were down, so she immediately pulled the cord to raise them, and then she looked around and saw piles of clothes all over the floor. She tried to imagine Mr. Lacy living alone in such a mess, and after a moment she realized that he might well have been very happy with his life. She knew from bitter experience that some people just didn't like too much company, and she figured that maybe a cat was all he really needed.
“Pearl!” she called out again. “Can you show your face, just so I know you're okay?”
Crouching down, she pulled some old sweaters out of the way and then reached under the bed. Feeling a handle, she began to pull and found that the suitcase was much heavier than she'd imagined. By the time she'd managed to get it out, her arms were aching and she was already wondering how she was going to lug it all the way back to the hospital. A taxi would be easier than the bus, but she couldn't really spare the money so she figured she'd just have to do her best. Struggling to get the case up, she laid it on the bed and saw that although it was for the most part battered and old, a fairly new and hefty lock had been attached to the front. Remembering Mr. Lacy's insistence that she mustn't even try to open the case, she grabbed the handle and then lifted it from the bed, before struggling through to the hallway. Even that short distance was enough to make her feel as if her arms were about to be pulled from their sockets, but she was determined to do what she'd promised.
Opening the door, she dragged the case out into the corridor.
“Is he dead?”
Turning, she saw that an elderly woman was watching her from the next door along.
“Mr. Lacy?” she replied. “No, he's just in hospital.”
“What's wrong with him?”
“I... I really can't discuss his case. Are you a friend?”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Is he gonna die?”
“I certainly hope not.”
“Well, there's still hope.”
“There sure is.”
“Hopefully he'll be dead soon,” the woman added.
“I -” Elly paused. “I'm sorry, what did you say?”
“Good riddance to him,” the woman continued. “I don't even know why anyone bothered to call an ambulance. If they'd just left him there a little while longer, he'd've been no more trouble to another soul.”
“You can't mean that!”
“Can't I?” She eyed Elly with suspicion for a moment. “How do you know him, anyway? I didn't think he had any friends.”
“I'm a nurse at Middleford Cross,” she replied, feeling a little uncomfortable. “I just came to fetch a few things for Mr. Lacy. He was worried about his cat.”
“What cat?”
“He has a cat. Her name's Pearl.”
“Him? A cat?” She clearly found the idea amusing. “That old fool never cared for anyone but himself. The only cat he ever saw was the stray that lives in the building. I've no doubt it gets into his apartment sometimes, same way it gets into all of ours, but Thomas Lacy sure as hell doesn't have a cat of his own.”
“Well...” Elly paused, figuring that there had obviously been some kind of misunderstanding. “Listen, I really should -”
“Pull the plug,” the woman said firmly.
“I'm sorry?”
“Is he on a machine? If he is, just pull the plug. Or give him too much of whatever drug he's on, or not enough, it doesn't matter, just...” She paused, before looking along the corridor to make sure she couldn't be overheard. “I'm a Christian woman,” she continued, “truly I am, but that man... If God has placed him in your care, it can only be because he wants you to do the right thing and rid the world of Thomas Lacy's evil. That man is a monster!”
Elly frowned. “Why? What did he do?”
“Shuffling in and out in the middle of the night,” she replied, clearly exasperated. “I don't know exactly what he was up to, but I'm telling you, I know a monster when I meet one and Thomas Clay Lacy has a soul as black as night. You've looked in his eyes, haven't you?”
“Of course, but -”
“So how can you not have seen it?”
Elly paused. “I'm sorry, I really don't -”
“The man is a beast,” the old woman sneered, stepping back into her apartment. “As sure as you're standing in front of me now, I'm telling you that Thomas Clay Lacy is the most evil man I've ever seen with my own two eyes. You go knock on any other door in this building and they'll all tell you the same thing. None of us ever needed to have seen what he did, not exactly, we all just know. Any decent person in the company of such a monster can sense it immediately. If you don't, then... Well, there must be something wrong with you too. Maybe there is. You've got, I don't know, kind of a shifty look about you.”
“But -”
Before Elly could get another word out, the old woman slammed her door shut.
“I have a shifty look?” Elly said finally. “Really?”
Standing in silence for a moment, she f
elt a little shaken by the outburst. She'd met her fair share of crazy, angry people over the years, but never one who seemed so absolutely certain about what she was saying. Despite the old woman's bizarre claims, she'd seemed otherwise normal. Grabbing the suitcase's handle, Elly began to drag it along the corridor, but although she was tempted to knock and ask to talk to the woman again, she finally figured she should get going. The old woman was clearly just upset about something, probably some mundane neighborly dispute that had gotten out of hand and -
“She's right,” a voice whispered suddenly.
Stopping, Elly looked around, but there was no-one to be seen.
“Every word of it,” the voice continued, barely loud enough to be heard. “We all heard him.”
Realizing that the voice was coming from behind one of the other doors, Elly stepped closer.
“He's a monster,” the voice hissed. Whoever she was, she sounded extremely timid.
“Are you...” Elly paused. “Are you talking about Thomas Lacy?”
“Don't say his name,” the voice replied, clearly terrified. “Please, don't ever say his name.”
“What did he do?” she asked. “I don't understand, does everyone in this building really hate him?”
“I don't hate him,” the voice continued, “I just... Please don't let him come back. Every night I hear him walking past my door on his way home from another of his long walks, and I know that one day he'll stop instead of passing, and he'll knock, and I won't answer but then he'll...” Silence for a moment. “Please, don't let him back here. If he comes, I'll die. We'll all die.”
“Can you open up for a moment?” Elly asked. “Can I at least talk to you?”
She waited, but a few seconds later she heard footsteps scurrying away from the other side of the door.
“Hello?”
She reached out and knocked gently, but she could already tell that the person was gone. Pausing, she looked along the corridor at the other doors and found herself wondering if she'd get the same kind of response if she knocked on each of them. Finally, figuring she needed to get going, she grabbed the suitcase and began to drag it toward the top of the stairs. She had no idea quite how she was expected to get it all the way to the hospital, but she knew she'd manage somehow. She also knew that the old woman and the whispering voice had to be wrong. Thomas Clay Lacy was a friendly, kind old man, and she was certain she'd have picked up on it if there had been any darker shades to his character.
