Misery Hall

By: L. Chambers-Wright

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Copyright 2011, L. Chambers-Wright. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published by Black House Books [http://blackhousebooks.com].

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1.

She was now a felon. If caught, she would lose her professional credentials, most of her civil rights and there’s no promise she would gain ever anything back, but she knew she was meant to be here. That instinctive urge had to be satiated. Grace dusted her knees off as she entered the large reception area.

The derelict building was everything she imagined it would be. Stark, filthy, antiquated… and gorgeous. The structure had been abandoned and left to rot within the cruel passage of time. The stagnated environment still reeked of stale hospital air when she first entered. She paused a moment to catch her breath. The stuffy atmosphere lay heavy across her shoulders. Yet, she was at peace in here. She felt like she'd just come home after decades away, but this was not home. She couldn't understand how that amount of peace came from entering a structure she'd never visited before. It wasn’t logical.

There were no welcoming souls at King’s Mountain Memorial Hospital, at least none visible to the naked eye. The old establishment in the downtown area of Bristol, off State Street, had closed its doors in the 1960s. She'd always heard rumors that something hid there, something that didn’t want to be found. She didn't feel anything malevolent or frightening. Her interest was piqued in childhood and she never overcame the curiosity. Buildings were like that with her and some childhood curiosities had bled into adulthood no matter how she tried to push them away.

She did feel something in that place, an obscure sensation gnawed at her as she walked through the main area. It was as if she'd been there so long ago, the visit wasn't distinguishable. The new flashlight wasn’t nearly as bright as it should have been, so she shook it. It didn't help. She shone the beam around the old waiting room and paused. There was no mistaking the battered reception desk or the few remaining intact chairs. Big, black graffiti letters spelled out, "LEAVE NOW" at the end of the hall to her right. I don't think so. She would find some answers, especially after coming this far.

She aimlessly crept along, with no real knowledge of why she was there. There could be robbers or rapists or anyone else hidden in the shadows. Somehow, she knew there wasn't. She knew she was safe. She had to find out why she was so attached to that place, there was no turning back. The city planned to demolish it within the next few weeks and the answers would be lost forever after that.

She had to know for certain why this place haunted her, even kept her awake some nights. Something was there for her, something only for her and no one else. She had done many things in life and all revolved around logic. For once, she was doing the opposite. Logic just wasn’t enough. Science hadn’t helped her understand anything, science had failed.

Her clothes would need to be thrown away. They were likely now coated in asbestos, staph and a host of other contaminates. Cobwebs hung from her jacket and the dust had been ground into the knees of her pants. She had found a loose board covering a broken window outside and crawled through. Breaking-and-entering was a felony, regardless of intent or action after entering, but none of that mattered. It was time to satisfy that lust for knowledge. It was far too late to turn back.

Maybe she should have let someone in on her plans, but if she had let anyone close to her know, they would’ve stopped her. They would’ve tried to pull her back into bleak, answerless reality. She wanted solutions. She had reached the pinnacle where it seemed logic was nothing more than another person’s ideal. It had no substance or tangibility and no one could prove “logic” any more than they could the supernatural. There was probably a more scientific term for such an epiphany, but there was no time for science. Reason was a hedonistic notion that had the significance of a worm.

She gently lowered into one of the near-by chairs. When she was certain it wouldn’t break under her weight, she rested a moment and waited. She woke up earlier that day and followed the routine. She showered, ate breakfast and went to work. She passed by King’s Mountain as usual and didn’t really pay attention to it. She arrived at the clinic clear-headed and ready to pour over more books and attempt to solve mysteries of the mind that were impossible for reasonable human machinations.

Then, there came the fateful session with Mrs. Wagner. Wagner was a perplexing case that had baffled all of her senior psychologists. As the newest doctor at the clinic, the challenging case was passed into her work load. It was the bureaucratic passing of the buck.

Helen Wagner had been an impressive physicist in her day. She was once renowned throughout the world as a physics lecturer and professor; a position she held for decades. Apparently, Wagner suffered a similar epiphany at some point. She ventured into quantum physics and parapsychology, further worlds science often ignored. Rumors traveled of her questionable explorations and she was forced into retirement after publishing her findings on the paranormal. Science had failed her, too.

Helen was completely silent during the first few visits. She spoke today. Helen spoke only hours earlier and she couldn’t rationalize it away. “Who dictates your thoughts,” was the phrase that ultimately landed her inside the broken hospital.

It made perfect sense.

For years, her thoughts were directed towards what other people classified as "normal" and "typical." For what? What did it earn her? She merely tried to push that oppressive conformity onto others. Years of hard work had landed her a mediocre job of oppression and tedium. She worked in an office where she would be at the bottom of the totem pole until those senior doctors died or retired. She was no better than the janitor or the receptionist in their eyes.

Helen had been a genius. Who was to say what she did was wrong? Why was it wrong? She hadn’t stolen, murdered or defrauded. Of course, Helen hadn’t risked her professional career for breaking-and-entering.

She couldn’t let herself get caught, that was all. She hadn’t touched anything aside from what she needed to when she entered the old hospital. She hadn’t even left footprints as far as she could tell. She wiped the areas where her fingers touched so not even that would link her.

The windows had been boarded over to prevent vandalism years earlier. No one would see the flashlight's beam. She felt helpless now that she had arrived. What was she supposed to do? She felt it urgent that she get inside the building, but now that she stood in her destination, what did she hope to learn from the experience?

Maybe it had been nothing more than an act of rebellion, and now that she'd accomplished it, the allure was gone. Maybe the years she wasted obsessing over a pathetic goal, now clearly insignificant, had spurned her onward. At worst, maybe it was a cry for attention and she hadn't realized it. What would Dr. Kyle Vanderbilt say about her behavior? The senior doctor barely nodded at her lowly presence in the clinic. He would, most likely, hand her both a prescription for a powerful antipsychotic along with her walking papers.

The large metal stairway went up to the second floor behind the dusty desk. She thought she heard people talking up there. For just a second, it sounded like someone was crying. She could hear the squeaking wheels from antiquated gurneys and the strange sounds of archaic medical equipment above. She shone her light up the shaft of stairs. There was nothing stopping her from looking around up there, either, and she wanted to hear more. She ascended the stairs as the noise grew louder.

She made it to the second floor and stopped. There was nothing up here now, but silence. She sat atop the first step and waited. The noises had faded into nothing. Why had she come here to begin with? It wasn’t social gain; she didn’t want anyone to know where she was. She pulled her pager from her pocket and examined it. She hadn’t been paged in weeks. Most of her work revolved around the patients the other doctors had tired of. They left her with the patients who’d grown to trust them, while they moved on to new and interesting individuals. It was difficult to fill their shoes in patients' eyes. Several had already told her they were going elsewhere.

She sighed and slipped the silent device back. Particles of dust danced in the light beam, her breath pushed them in all directions. Why didn’t someone take care of the building? It was gorgeous. The architecture was unbelievable and it had stood for nearly a century. Life came and went outside its doors while the building remained steady and solid. Now, she was the only living individual inside. How long had it been since someone had came in and actually sat down? How long since someone had enjoyed the building just for its historic value?

She imagined how the hospital was during its operation. It would’ve been busy with patients and staff. The wards and wings would’ve been buzzing with activity and observation. If she were working there at that time, she would’ve been in the midst of it.

She wanted to be a psychologist because that seemed like the cruelest fate for a person to suffer. Something only they were aware of, something that couldn’t be measured or proven. It was akin to a cancer that the rest of the world could scoff and mock, while the victim helplessly tried to state their case. In most instances their complaint only made them appear even more unbalanced.

But, now I am here.

Now, she waited for something. She closed here eyes and she was back in time. Nurses wore starched white uniforms with white caps and doctors ran between patients in the halls. Orderlies pushed gurneys and assisted the staff with the patients. There were no pagers and no computers in that time. It was all paperwork and hard documentation.

She opened her eyes and held her breath. She blinked a few times to try and clear the image.

She couldn’t wake up.

She was there. She was in the panicked and rushing atmosphere. “Dr. Grace Bale?” A doctor walked up and held out his hand. She looked down to find she was standing at the bottom of the steps. She wore a uniform much like the nurses’. Her white overcoat matched that of the other doctor and she carried a file.

“I’m so sorry for the delay, Dr. Bale.” The young physician apologized. “We are a little disorganized with the tornado victims and all. It is so exciting to be working with the hospital’s first female doctor.” He shook her hand firmly and enthusiastically.

“The first female doctor?” She spoke in a whisper. The doctor gave a light chuckled, “yes, didn’t you know? Regardless, Dr. Bale, welcome to King’s Mountain Memorial Hospital. I’m sure you can offer a great amount of help with our female patients.”

She followed the doctor as he darted in and out of the crowded halls. “The train brought the victims from Dungannon; they’re still bringing them in. Terrible tornado, just terrible. I know you’re more familiar with illnesses of the brain, but do you think you could help us?”

Isn’t that what she had wanted? To help people without the bureaucratic politics and popularity contests in the contemporary workforce? She had a chance. An opportunity to prove herself and stretch her wings with new and exciting patients. She nodded and he asked her to wait while he grabbed the paperwork on several of the new victims.

How would she get home? Could she? She looked back over her shoulder. She expected to see the derelict building behind here. It wasn’t there. King’s Mountain was beautiful and new.

She considered what it meant to leave her time. She observed the people there in the hospital. It was like a new world. People smiled despite pain, they supported and tried to encourage one another. They had obvious affection and concern for one another. Nurses politely smiled at each other and helped patients; people didn't yell or stomp through the halls because their fix had worn off.

The doctors actually looked at their patients and appeared to see people, not numbers. The halls were crowded with the new and sudden influx of tragedy, but people actually worked together. Yes, she would stay. This was where she was supposed to be. “I would be delighted, Dr.-? “

“I’m sorry. Where are my manners? I’m Dr. Heath Mason.”

“Dr. Mason, thank you. So many here that need help.” Perhaps she’d really been there before. Perhaps she knew how to go back. She was now alive decades before she was born and she didn’t feel compelled to return. There was nothing to go back to.

2.

Those damn kids are at it again. He shook his head as he pulled in the lot. Now what was going on? He’d received a call from Myrtle across the street at the Gas-n-More to find the culprits were still here. It was a pretty damned sweet car for kids pulling a prank. Probably joy riders.

He’d call the cops, but wasn't like they investigated anything on this side of town. This was something he had to deal with himself. It was his place. He unlocked the deadbolts lining the front door and stepped inside. “Hey!” He gruffly yelled. “Get your ass outta here!”

There was no response, but he didn’t really expect one. Most of those kids believed if they said nothing, they would be invisible. Stupid jerks. It figured. He shone his flashlight down on the ground and stopped. There was a line of footprints.

“I got you,” he grinned as he whispered. He carefully followed the prints to avoid any noise. The criminal entered from the window on the side of the building. He needed to board that back up. He didn’t think anyone would notice the loose boards, but apparently, someone had. It was only a matter of time before others followed.

He retraced the route without smudging the footprints. He didn’t want to disturb anything. He suddenly had a strange sense that it wasn't just kids playing a prank, like it was before. This didn’t feel like a harmless effort to inconvenience or aggravate someone. He felt something cold and sinister, as if something dark and foreboding followed behind.

He shone the flashlight behind him, but there was nothing there. He shone it in all directions to see what was going on. The hospital had never felt like this before. It had never caused him alarm or discomfort. What was going on? Something changed.

He continued to follow the steps. His building had never scared him. He’d always held a deep affinity for the old facility. His daddy had been harassed more times by the assholes who ran it than was known. They didn’t have the money to get treatment when he was little. The people running it knew that. But, it all worked out. He showed them. The hospital closed and he bought the damned place.

He stepped as the intruder had, to the chair where they sat down. The chairs were still capable of supporting some weight, so the person had to be smaller. He’d always wanted to sit in them, but never found the time. Usually, he was coming here to chase off some vagrant off or see what vandal had raped his property.

Apparently, the intruder sat for a time and moved on to the steps. A sharp and sudden bang overhead made him jump. Someone was in the old operating room. Where the hell did that noise come from? He heard a machine of some kind hum and whirl overhead. The hospital didn't have electricity. There was even what sounded like a doctor yelling at someone. He followed the prints up the stairs.

He puzzled for a moment as he looked down at the dust on the top step. They had sat there, but there they left no further trace. That was bizarre. They didn't vanish into thin air. They hadn’t retraced their own footprints, they hadn’t taken their shoes off and left marks from bare feet, there was nothing. Hell, he could even see a butt print from where they sat. Now, they were gone.

He walked forward to check the noises out. There weren’t any other prints in the hall. The intruder had apparently disappeared into the air. The light coating of dust on the floor was just deep enough to show where they had walked. There weren't any other traces of people, so there shouldn't be any noise from people, but that's what he heard. He looked into the deserted operating theater. The first operating room, where the noises came from, was empty and untouched.

He continued down the remainder of the hall, but his flashlight kept going out. He shook it a few times until the beam brightened again. Was that a child’s laugh? Where were they? There weren’t any children in the hospital. Someone was playing a joke on him. Damned kids.

Another clanking noise came from somewhere again. If they weren’t in the main operating theater, where were they? The third floor was used for the loonies, more or less. There were old two classrooms up there, but they didn’t have any equipment. There was a very small operating theater where junior doctors studied the operating techniques of the experienced physicians, but it was stripped when the place closed. He was hearing things that shouldn't be there.

Morton Sykes knew all about his building. He’d studied it since he was young. He knew the layout and those sounds should not be coming from the third floor. He ascended the steps and pushed the metal door open. Light at the end of the hall radiated from the small instruction theater. So, that’s where they were. He braced himself for confrontation. They wanted his attention enough to go to a lot of trouble.

He breathed softly as he crept down the dark corridor. He would catch them in the act. It was probably some stupid junkies. Meth heads were everywhere. Well, they wouldn’t be using his place for their shit. He pulled out his cell phone, but the battery had died. He felt like kicking the wall. Well, he would see who they were before he slipped back outside to telephone the cops. Apparently, they hadn’t noticed his presence so he would just catch a quick glimpse and go back the way he came. He just had to be able to identify them.

He shut the faulty flashlight off as he inched down the hallway. The beam had been too dim for any real use, anyway. He arrived at the door and peeked inside. They probably had a make-shift stove of some sort to cook their crap on. They could burn his building down.

He peeked in, his triumphant face froze.

He quickly pulled back around into the darkness. He bit his lips to avoid screaming at the on-going surgery. None of the doctors had faces. They all wore bloody scrubs and instead of faces, massive cavities had been hollowed out. He'd seen through to the back of their skulls. He hadn't been noticed, he tried to calm his racing heart. He was going to give himself a heart attack if he didn't control it. The doctors, or whatever they were, intently studied the presiding doctor as he worked on something. He couldn't stop himself from using one eye to look back in the room. He could see inside, to the back of the presiding doctor's skull when he spoke to his audience. Bits of bone and skin barely clung to each respective face.

He couldn’t stop a whimper when he looked down onto the operating table. A pretty young woman was stretched out on the table, her rib cage open wide. She wasn’t part of the vision, he knew it. He could feel it. She had been alive and recently so. Was that her car outside?

“Ah, Doctor Sykes,” the faceless head physician called. “We’re so glad you could join us. Please come in and we’ll complete the surgery.”

When he realized the entire room had turned to watch him, even without eyes, he fled. He ran towards the steps, but the hall grew in length as he moved. There was no way he could reach the end. His flashlight wouldn’t turn back on, the batteries were gone. A hand grabbed his shoulder as if he were standing still. “Please, doctor. It’s your turn to operate.”

He stopped struggling and became spellbound with the open cavity in the man before him. “Are you staring at me for some reason, Dr. Sykes?” The doctor seemed puzzled. “Am I not dressed appropriately for the surgery?”

“You’re… you're fine. I thought I heard a nurse call me.” He answered. Maybe if he went along with them they would stop. Maybe if he pretended to be this doctor, they would let him live. Above all, maybe they wouldn’t notice his face was still intact.

“I worried I didn’t meet your approval.” The other doctor seemed soothed with his affirmation.

He passed by the mirror on the left side of the theater and stopped so suddenly he nearly fell. He was in the same gory scrubs as the other doctors and he had no face, either. An antiquated scalpel was pushed into his hand. “Please, show these understudies the famous Dr. Sykes method.”

He looked down at the table and the young woman was gone. Now, his own body was stretched out on the gurney. He now lay on the operating table with his torso wide open. He watched his heart was beat, his lungs expanded and contracted, but everything was so slow. His body’s processes were coming to a stop.

Please don’t…

He couldn’t cut his own body. His heart was barely beating once every now and then. The presiding physician guided his hand to start slicing the heart.

Please stop.

He couldn’t protest as it beat the final time and his lungs ceased operation.

Please…

Author Biography:

L. Chambers-Wright has been prolifically writing since 1988. She has had many short works published and has held various positions with newspapers, magazines and ezines.

Her primary web site is: http://laurawrites.net. Information on all her books is available through this site. Fans of traditional horror can find a web site celebrating the genre at: http://vacreeper.com. Wright also spends time on her obscure history, folklore and fiction writing blog, "Appalachia Obscura," located at: http://appalachiangothic.com/.

Story Preview from Black House:

The Black Gash

He finished the property deed transcriptions by the sixth week. With the more tedious documents out of the way, he triumphantly placed the last record book on the final stack. It was a visual affirmation, even if slight. He'd been virtually enslaved by his work for weeks; at least some progress had been made for it.

The courthouse work hadn't been what Ash expected when he volunteered. It had been nearly two months and all he'd encountered was brittle mountains of stale papers. Countless musty volumes of antiquated court proceedings still lay out before him. He sighed, despite the stifling air. It was easy to doubt when the records seemed to multiply as he watched. He'd volunteered at the courthouse for extra lab hours, but the only experienced he gained was shuffling stacks from this corner to that. He had naively believed he would be gaining his credits in the nice, air-conditioned courtroom. That was where he wanted to be, not in the company of cobwebs and deterioration.

The county was transitioning to digital archives, a change which required electronic copies of all documentation. He had to sort the record room before the data entry people could scan them. The rest of his summer would be filled with transcribing thousands of documents, if he ever completed the cataloging. Initially, he'd felt sick to his stomach. Thank God, he'd finished with the land deeds.

He organized and arranged the decaying file on the town's only brothel before moving on to a double-homicide from the same era, 1945. He couldn't imagine a double-homicide or a brothel in this town. The last murder, as far as he knew, had occurred over five years earlier and even that was a simple domestic dispute. He stacked the files in order as he checked for the necessary paperwork to move to the next. The files which lacked the proper paperwork were to be set aside for clerk inspection. At least life was a little exciting back then, a far different world than the one he experienced now. Death, deception and murder seemed to occur on a routine basis.

He was tempted to blame it on his instructor. The entire ordeal was Mr. Mann's fault. The well-meaning college advisor wasn't entirely truthful in his suggestion for summer break credit. The project would be far more tolerable if they would put something in to control the humidity. He assumed that he would be performing tasks inside the courtroom, with air-conditioning and without decades-old grime.

He shuffled a few stacks around as he decided where he wanted to go next. He had his choice of over half the storage room. He scooted a stack of three record boxes from the far left corner. The writing on the bottommost box intrigued him enough to stop. The heavily inked date read "1825." That was the oldest box he'd came across, even including the land records. They shouldn't need an evidence box from that period. Any sort of biological samples or evidences would have rotted decades earlier. The cardboard box seemed thin and wobbly with age, but that wasn't two hundred years old. The tiny, misaligned typed caption beneath the date read, "Courthouse Organization 1955." The materials inside must've came from 1825. He pulled the two top boxes off and sat them side.

He carried the package to the nearest chair and sat down. There was a stack of fragile papers inside that rattled in the slight breeze from the window. The box felt strange. The weight seemed to be off, somehow. It wasn't distributed as it should be. It felt like someone had placed a couple of small boulders in the bottom.

He pulled the numerous files from the top and sat them aside. A filthy ball of burlap caked with rusty dried clay lay at the bottom. At least he didn't have to worry about fingerprints or DNA. Everyone involved that case had been dead for nearly two centuries.

He ignored the bundle for the moment and returned his attention to the brittle paperwork. "People of Virginia vs. Annabelle Lynch." The scrolling penmanship was difficult to decipher. Annabelle. "What did you do, Annabelle?" He whispered as he flipped through the paperwork. What he could interpret portrayed Annabelle as ruthless, evil killer.

He sat the folders aside and focused on the burlap. He unfolded the crusty material, bits and clumps of powder fell to the floor. The burlap almost crinkled as he tugged the folds apart. A light breeze came from the window and hit the paperwork. He dropped the crudely wrapped package to capture the documents before the wind blew them through the office. He would complain about his job all summer, but he still wanted to perform it adequately. All that now remained of the once neatly organized paperwork was a sketch on a thick piece of yellowing paper. He had two handfuls of haphazard papers he lightly tapped on the surface of the table. Eventually, the papers conformed and became a somewhat organized stack.

He started to reorganize the documents by month, but worries of reorganization disappeared when he paused to stare at the paper which didn't move. The drawing had faded with time, but the girl in the picture was the most beautiful he'd ever seen. The artist's charcoal and paper had aged well. She had light hair and eyes. The artist captured the delicate features of his subject with precision. "Annabelle Lynch. Portrait drawn April, 1825. Born June 6, 1808. Hanged May 26, 1825." was written at the bottom. The paper felt like an old cotton sheet.

All other worries evaded him. Hanged? She was hanged? She was around his age. She was hanged, repeated in his mind. That brutality seemed only fitting for robbers or murderers. What could a young girl possibly do to warrant an execution? He felt a twinge of sadness for her, as well as a pang of guilt that he enjoyed a world so different.

A page within the files, appropriately titled, "Bills of Mortality," listed fifty men and women along with their dates of death. There were farmers, hunters, a lawyer and two bankers listed among them. He skimmed the paperwork slowly. At that time, the court found all deaths were linked to her and committed by her.

He flipped over to the notes on the court proceedings. The formal documentation was not formally handled, that was apparent. There were details in the wrong places, a variety of handwriting throughout. Several dates and signatures had been omitted, whereas other areas carried too many of both. It seemed of the multitude of people who had written in the file, only a few were as literate as they should've been. The cover document was no better, someone scrawled, "Lynch the witch!" across the page. He tried to read through the proceedings. Annabelle was the daughter of the widow Ivy Lynch. Ivy was also in the Bills. Annabelle was charged with murdering her own mother and, apparently, did not even attempt to defend herself. Matricide is rare today, it was probably even more scarce during those days.

He shifted in his seat, but his leg accidentally kicked the sack still at his feet. Something hard inside clanged against the old industrial tile flooring. He picked the package up, but didn't see anything broken. He unraveled the contents and two strange pieces fell to the floor. He stared at them for a moment, attempting to glean something from them. They didn't appear to be knives, but they didn't look like spears either. They were too large to be arrowheads. They were stone pieces, but sounded nothing like stone when they hit the floor. It was an almost metallic noise. He knew knives didn't look like that in the Nineteenth Century. Perhaps they did in the Stone Age, but not in any recent century.

The pair felt like they were made out of leaded glass, heavy and impervious. He scratched the flattened end of the handle with his fingernail, to see if paint would flake. The stone, metal or whatever it was wouldn't scratch. He tried using a near-by pencil. He could write on it, but not scratch it. He pulled his pocket knife out. He had to be gentle. If he destroyed them, he'd never be able to reimburse the county. He carefully held the knife and scratched the same spot on the bottom. He still couldn't mar the glossy surface.

He scraped the tip of the blade, but didn't do anything aside from clean some of the gunk away. More of the dark and powdery rust-like substance fell onto the papers. The idea of removing gore from a killer's blade made him stop. Were those things her weapons?

The Moon Sees Me

Chapter One

She barely opened her eyes before she had to shut them again. God, what happened? She had no recent memory. Where was she and what was she doing there? There was nothing familiar around her. She could feel it. The simplest questions which should've been easily answered remained elusive and mysterious. She was afraid.

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes more slowly. Dark silhouettes against a sea of white surrounded her. Deciphering details or intricacies was impossible. It was an attempt to decipher seamless black clouds against an ashen sky. The fog across her vision stubbornly lingered, regardless of how many times she blinked. She lifted one heavy arm up and rubbed her eyes. After a few moments, her vision finally tried to adjust. There fluorescent lights above her, stark, utilitarian. She hadn’t been staring into the powerful light of the sun.

A shadow emerged from the corner of her eye and hovered closely. It seemed to take an interest with her right eye and moved to the left. After a moment, she could tell they were human. Their clothing faded into the white surrounding them. The person held a black device with a white spot on the tip. She looked away from the hovering mass and tried to study the rest of the room. The lingering haze finally subsided enough for her to see where she was. How did she get in a hospital room?

The figure that towered above her was a doctor. He smiled and finally spoke. "Good to see you're awake." His deep hazel eyes were strange, as if he felt none of the warmth his voice implied. She wasn't at ease with him, even though something about him seemed so familiar. She feared the man before her, but couldn't remember why.

He had neatly trimmed black hair with a hint of gray at the temples and an equally neat moustache. His dark hair and eyes contrasted with his pale skin. He raised a cold hand and gently felt her pulse in her throat. There was something off about his touch. "How are you feeling?" She'd felt that before, but where? He was a stranger, his touch shouldn't be familiar. He wore a muted peach dress shirt and coordinated gray tie beneath his white smock.

"Not so hot," she struggled to sit up. Her entire body felt fifty pounds heavier than she remembered. Had she gained weight?

"Be careful… easy now." His hands shifted pillows behind her to accommodate sitting up. "You’ve been out for a while. You will need a period of adjustment. Have patience with your body, it's going as fast as it can."

"How long is 'a while'?" What was happening to her? She woke up in a hospital, but couldn’t remember how she got there. The chilly air smelled of antiseptic, she tugged the covers closer to ward off a shiver.

"First, you weren’t comatose so please don't be alarmed. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for the past two months. You were in a car accident and obtained a severe concussion. We have been administering a regimen of therapies since to alleviate the trauma from the wreck."

"Wreck?" That was ridiculous. She couldn't remember any incident with a vehicle. She was... She was walking with someone. That was her last memory. Her head throbbed as she strained to recall. The pictures stubbornly eluded her mind's reach. Something wasn't right, something didn’t agree with the story of a car crash. It was deep within the pit of her stomach. He wasn’t telling the truth about it. Or did he even know the truth about it?

He sat on the stool by the footboard of the bed and waited for her to clear the residual fatigue. "Since you obtained such an injury, we need to go over some things. Just to make sure you didn't suffer any damage which we couldn't find earlier."

"Okay.” She was certain there was no accident. She knew it. She was terrified of car wrecks, even passing them on the road had made her nauseous. She wouldn’t be involved in one without some kind of recollection. Who told him that happened?

"Let's start with some simple questions. What is your name and where do you live?"

She stared at him for a moment, unsure of how to answer. What an odd question. Why would memory loss last so long with just a concussion? Was it a medical joke of some kind? The doctor seemed completely serious. She answered, "I'm Clarissa Grace Tyler. I live in Evansville, Indiana."

"Street and number?"

"3659 Rosewood Park."

"Good," he smiled. "Now, how old are you and what do you do?"

"I'm twenty-three, a full time student at Evansville University. I’m working towards my MBA in business administration."

"Great," he became more enthusiastic. "Now, recite the alphabet."

"What?" It was just a concussion, not a major trauma. People sustained concussions all over the country on a daily basis. It wasn’t really substance for panic, but it seemed to be one here. She ignored the taunting internal dialogue and recited the letters. She felt silly, but the doctor’s face remained dire.

Her mind returned to a sense of urgent and relentless worry. She lost something important in that black time. She couldn't ignore the feeling that she had forgotten someone or something more valuable than anything else. That massive shadow of the unknown lurked in the back of her mind.

"Where exactly is, 'here'?" There was something wrong. She didn't want to hear the name of where she was. She didn't want to be there or in the company of the doctor. The cloud of distrust lingered over her and aggravated her developing migraine. She didn’t have a reason to doubt the doctor. Why would he lie? He was a professional. Maybe her imagination had become overactive during her stay. She did wake in a strange place to a strange doctor.

"You are at the Bittersend Medical Clinic, located in Bittersend, Tennessee. If you go fifty miles south on Highway 33, just a few miles away from the clinic, you will be in Knoxville, Tennessee."

"All right." She continued to dismiss the unsettling urgency. There was no reason for desperation. She was fine. "Why am I here instead of a hospital closer to home?"

"Your mother visited several times. We considered arranging transportation and accommodations for you to return to Indiana, but she wanted you where you would receive the best attention. Naturally, that would be here."

"That's mom," she agreed. "Wait-" she remembered. A bolt of lightening shot across her brain and she remembered. "Where's Nick?"

"Clarissa, I want you to relax. Promise me you will relax." He was apologetic. She didn't want to hear it. She hated that tone. He didn't need to talk to her like that. She could've slapped him if she could've lifted her arm fast enough. Why was he being so damned infuriating? She just wanted to know where her fiancé had gone. Was Nick at the clinic, too? Her stomach knotted --Wait-- She didn't want to know. She didn't want to know what he was going to say.

"Mr. Foster was dead when we found your car."

"What?” A wave of sorrow flowed through her, she couldn't stop it now. She couldn't tell him not to say it now. The agony wasn't acute or immediate, but it was maliciously sharp. He was dead and she had been asleep for two months. She pressed her mind as hard as she could to remember last seeing him. She could see Nick yelling, but his voice was silent. She could see him clearly in her mind. He had been motioning for her to go on with his arm.

Was that before or after the wreck? She recalled they fled in the dark and something was wrong. There wasn’t an accident anywhere in memory. She could even recall the delicate crescent moon above, the countryside was dimly illuminated. Nick had limped alongside her. He couldn’t keep up. He was so upset. She couldn’t help him. She tried to run back to him and he angrily glared at her. What was he saying?

"Doctor? Are they certain it was a car wreck?"

"Please, call me Jeff. Yes, the authorities found the car shortly after I found you. You were wandering about a half mile away from the vehicle. Why?"

“I don’t remember a car accident. I…” She didn’t want to confess what she recalled in detail. Something instinctive made her hesitate. She reasoned, “I don't know what I remember, but it doesn't seem to be that.”

“It’s probably a hallucination. Don’t let it bother you.” He went back to his notes and dismissed her worry as though it were nonsense. Was she being ridiculous? Maybe she was. Maybe it really was all just a hallucination.

"You said I had been asleep, but not in a coma… Why did I sleep so long?"

"We had to sedate you frequently, Clarissa. You had violent nightmares. You often woke up screaming and fighting anyone near you. That started the night you arrived. I wanted to observe you and see if I could locate the source of that unreasonable terror. I brought in a neurologist from Knoxville for observation, as well.”

He shifted in his chair and looked back at the file. "I ordered you to be sedated while I worked with you. Subconscious therapy, if you will. It’s a simple variation of the widely-used cognitive reprogramming. While you were semi-conscious, I could smooth over the distressing images and make them less disturbing. It’s a new form of desensitization. You have done remarkably and it’s time you went back to your life."

"Where was I was found?"

"Just outside of town," he gestured left with his free hand and laid it back on the file. "I have the weekends off and travel around the state. I was returning home and you were wandering on the outskirts of town. I brought you here and we examined you. We watched you for any reactions to your injuries and the medication we used: seizures, vomiting, any abnormal symptoms at all."

He handed her a Styrofoam cup and let her drink some water. "Physically, you were doing well until the nightmares started. We were going to release you after the typical night of observation. That was the only negative issue that arose from your injuries. Your vehicle was found the next morning."

"So… you found me? Have the nightmares left?"

"Yes, and I believe the nightmares are over. You haven't suffered any in two weeks. I think it is time for you to return to living and to school." He smiled widely, “A young lady of your physique must have a demanding social calendar.”

The comment sounded inappropriate, but he wasn’t looking at her when he spoke. His eyes remained on his notes. What if she hallucinated that? Had he even said what she thought? She couldn’t decipher his implication or his tone. He looked back up and continued grinning, “It isn’t often we have such a lovely patient.”

She felt uncomfortable beneath the weight of his stare. She quickly changed the subject and hoped her nervousness remained unnoticed. They made small talk a moment before he left. She was in no position to storm out or confront. There was no way she could walk a long distance, if she could walk at all. She could feel her body’s weakness already, even after such a brief conversation. She looked out the window at the vast forest. She got lost in the growth. The trees and vegetation appeared to go on forever and looked so empty.

There was no accident. She had never received a speeding ticket, let alone been involved in a wreck. Driving... That came back. She had driven that night. Recollection invoked a great and unknown fear that kept her apprehensive. Why did she fear that night? Was it like what the doctor said? Did all those nightmares and outbursts stem from the wreck? Recollection was no reason to fear.

She remembered Nick sitting in the passenger's seat and a curvy rural road that wound through dense trees and undergrowth. The drive had been so long that they navigated the countryside in shifts. The two lane road was well maintained for such a remote location, with a full gravel shoulder on either side for pulling off. Jeff implied it was a little road, but it hadn't been.

Her headache worsened as the nurse walked in. The younger woman couldn't have been over twenty-five. Her long straight hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She had the strangest eyes that looked so much like the doctor's. "Hope you're hungry," she cheerily announced as she placed a covered tray on the stand.

"I am." She was ravenous.

The nurse moved the trolley over and arranged it over the bed. Clarissa lifted the lid and paused, it was disappointing. She was expecting lunch, not a snack. A dollop of white mashed potatoes sat beside two steamed broccoli florets. Two equally tiny strips of broiled chicken and a dipping container of honey was the main part of the lunch. A tiny pat of low-fat margarine sat on the side of the plate. A single-serving cup of chocolate pudding was her desert. The nurse sat a small Styrofoam cup of iced tea beside the tray.

"This is it?" She realized for the first time since waking that she was starving. She had two months of appetite to contend with and, with the empty state of her stomach, what lay before her was barely an appetizer.

"You eat that and tell me if you want more." She chuckled, "I'm Amy. I've been your attending nurse for the past two months. I am glad to see you are recovering."

"Me, too." Clarissa talked between bites. "Amy? Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," she clicked the plastic thermometer and placed it in her ear.

"Do you know anything about the accident?"

Amy paused until the device beeped. "Jeff has given me strict orders about discussing the accident. He's afraid your nightmares will return, but I will tell you this: the vehicle was not scorched or crushed. It was a bad accident, but your fiancé did not suffer."

"Not at all?"

"No. Jeff told me death was instantaneous. I’m so sorry you had to hear it after what you've been through. I know it doesn’t offer much consolation, but I’m sure he felt no pain. Now, you must get better. I'm elated you've made such progress. Jeff has extraordinary skills to eliminate those awful memories. He's a gifted doctor."

"Eliminated?" Clarissa whispered aloud. She was going mad. Everything she thought she recalled could be nothing, but a dream. It might not have existed at all. The idea that someone could get in your mind and toy with any memory seemed obscene and unnatural. Dr. Killian hadn't satisfactorily explained himself and she still wasn't certain. She had been nearly exhausted just from waking when he was there. He left before she could really get into details. She just had to throw around questions and hope something would knot all the loose ends. "He just removed them?"

"He had to," Amy comforted. "Honestly, I was here when you had the nightmares. It was as though you were dying, you shrieked and screamed, you even threw punches at several staff members. He feared it would cause long-term damage if he didn't intervene. It isn‘t ‘removed’ so much as just blocked. He simply made it very difficult for those traumas to reassert themselves into your life."

Amy smiled and patted her shoulder, "Don't worry, it’s nothing major. It’s covering traumatic imagery with positive imagery. With a strict regimen of medication and hypnotherapy, it can help you avoid many complications associated with a major shock in life. It’s called, ‘cognitive reprogramming,’ but it simply means he covered the bad with good."

She couldn't accept it with any comfort. They had no right to take those precious last moments away. She was a big girl. She would deal with any consequences or repercussions. She didn't need to be coddled or nursed through memories. She couldn't picture herself physically lashing out at anyone. Maybe she was hallucinating back then. It didn't seem likely that the entire hospital or clinic would lie about it, they had no motive. Still, the idea of someone tampering with such invaluable moments were unimaginable. "What did my mother say about it?"

"Of course, we talked it over with her before we began therapy. She thought it was best for you.” Amy stood tall with apparent pride. "We are professionals. Trust us. Your nightmares have vanished and you are alert and well. Your vitals signs are excellent. We were all so impressed by your mind’s response to the procedure."

“But, I think I remember something different…” Maybe the nurse would slip up and an inconsistency would reveal itself. She had to hope. It couldn't all be lost. What was she saying? They could be correct. She may be still hallucinating. She couldn't deny that she hadn't felt herself since waking. She hadn't felt normal in any regard. She was so tired.

Amy looked squarely at her, “It’s a hallucination. Dr. Killian said those might happen.”

Either she was crazy or they were. She wanted to stand on the bed and scream; but, she was so exhausted. She wanted to make noise and be heard instead of humored. She wouldn’t get answers with the nurse, either. She would have to try someone else or just deal with what she could recall. Regardless of what they said, she knew there was no wreck. She wasn't crazy. She couldn't be.

"Do you have any television?" She looked around the room. Everything which was normally in a hospital was there, except a television.

"No, I'm afraid not." Amy grinned. "We do still lack on the superficial amenities." She sat on the same stool Killian had occupied earlier.

"Why did I end up in a clinic and not a hospital?" Maybe something would help her comprehend why she doubted the doctor and his story. What if it all were just a hallucination? What if she wasn't remembering events that actually happened? What motive would they possibly have for lying about anything? They didn't know her or Nick. They made no profit from deceit.

"When you came here, you were extremely frightened. We sedated you and gave you something for pain. Afterward, during that delirium, you started having the terrors. At that point, we were positive that you would need major hospital care. However, after x-rays, EEGs, and a few routine exams we found you didn't suffer any dangerous physical trauma. It was all psychological. We contacted your mother. She wanted you here because we are fully staffed and aren't a large hospital. We could give you greater attention."

It was the same story she heard earlier. The notion that everyone had rehearsed their story seemed paranoid. What flaw in her brain refused to believe it? There had to be something wrong with her. Something, somewhere, would not let it go. She didn't have any legitimate reason to suspect them or doubt their version of the events. She certainly couldn't recall that night herself. It would just be easier to accept what they said and try to put life back together. But, she couldn’t. She couldn’t dismiss that suspicion. It felt so wrong. How could she forget her fiancé of two years when she didn’t even know what happened to him?

She finished her food and Amy carried the tray back out into the hall. She looked back out to the woods through the window across from the bed. He was lost. Somewhere, out there, she lost him and lost those final moments with him. Nick had been so affectionate and loving, even at the end, he had protected her. She couldn’t remember much, but she knew he sheltered her from something. Her mind returned to the images that came while she talked to Jeff. Nick yelled and wildly motioned for her to move on ahead, but where was she going?

Amy returned with a few stacks of magazines. Some were current and some were old, but she wasn't interested in reading. She flipped through them to pass the time. Her thoughts revolved around Nick. She couldn't remember their last evening because of the doctor’s therapy. Regardless of how helpful it was supposed to be, it felt like the worst betrayal. The most important period in her life was now the most elusive.

She vividly recalled the day prior to its end. They were going to meet their friends in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Everyone wanted to fly down, except Nick. He was afraid of flying. She had laughed at his refusal to board an airplane. Why had she laughed? Guilt draped heavily on her heart. She laughed at him. God, how could she've done that? He laughed along with her at the time, but it didn't help. He never laughed at her.

They left two days early to reserve accommodations for everyone. Everyone had arranged their vacation at the same time. The plans started as just a romantic get-away for the two of them. Soon after they realized their friends would be graduating and leaving the state by the end of summer. That was when they changed their minds and asked everyone to go with them.

She remembered so much of those final days so clearly. They started on a Wednesday, they planned to arrive with plenty of time to reserve the rooms for the rest and enjoy some time alone. The drive was slow and lazy. They concentrated more on one another than the coming weekend. She remembered their wedding plans and her eyes welled. He was dead and she had to accept it. But, something happened and it wasn’t a car wreck.

She plucked a Kleenex from the box on the stand. Those final days were beautiful. If only she had known it was going to be their last trip. She didn’t get to tell him good-bye. She wanted to run to him. She closed her eyes and lay back on the pillow. If only she could ask him what to do. If only she could talk with him just a moment.

Chapter Two

She was surprised to wake a second time to a dark world. Her body must've been more tired than she noticed. Her focus on Nick was so intense that she drifted off. She sat up with less resistance from her body.

Someone removed the I. V. in her left hand while she slept. She was now free of the tube and the fatigue that plagued her earlier. She felt intensely bright-eyed and awake. She rubbed her newly freed hands together, her skin was dry. The area where the needle had been was sore. Residual tenderness was better than having the constrictive tube hanging from her arm. She probably needed to walk since she felt so alert. Her body was probably weak and inflexible after two months of bed rest.

She scooted her legs off the side of the bed and prepared for her body's inevitable hesitance. She ignored her leg muscles' protest even though she gently put her weight on them. Her body felt heavy and uncoordinated. She needed a moment to gain the balance to shift weight from one foot to the next. She slowly became accustomed to stepping. She walked from one side of her room to the other to test her strength. Her legs would probably be unbelievably painful, but she couldn't stand sitting in that bed any longer.

She opened the door to her room and slipped out in to the dim hall. She didn't really want to see Killian or Amy, she still didn't know how to take them. Maybe they were gone for the day. She just needed some time to process everything without the unsettling feelings they evoked.

The corridor floor was tiled exactly like her room. From all appearances, it looked just like a regular hospital level, just in compact form. The nurses’ station was almost as dim as the hallway and the nurse on duty held an issue of Cosmopolitan. There was a radio at the station turned on low. She pushed herself towards the desk.

Clarissa walked towards the station and smiled at the nurse. "Can I have something to drink?"

"Of course," the nurse smiled. "Hello, Clarissa. I'm Eileen Davis. I'm on duty at night."

They discussed simple things that had nothing to do with the wreck or her recuperation as she walked forward with the help of the wall. They discussed where Bittersend was located and even the current events in Knoxville. Clarissa eventually arrived at the chair beside Eileen. Her leg muscles throbbed, but it was a relief just to speak with someone who didn’t have those bizarre eyes and didn’t appear to be hiding anything. The longer she spoke with the night nurse, the more she realized how strange Killian and Amy were. Amy more-or-less just recited the same things he said.

Eileen’s eyes were clear and honest. They sparkled when she laughed. Only a few minutes after meeting Eileen, she felt as at ease with her as she recalled feeling with her friends. "Is there a different doctor who works at night?"

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