The One Who Got Away

Chapter 4

‘Listen, trust me. This floor isn’t so bad. Sure, we got a few who are a bit crackers up here. It’s true. And a couple that just, well, between you and me, give me the absolute creeps and all, some creepy ones. But overall, it’s okay up here. Fewer nurses to bother you, and there are even a few sane residents here on Floor Three. But then again, the nurses don’t mind us much up here. We’re sort of the forgotten floor, you know?’

The woman knitting beside me at the table chatters on and on. Dorothy, I think she said her name was. I don’t remember her surname. I clutch the tea that the nurse gave me, my hands warming on the Styrofoam cup. No fine china here, I suppose.

A game show blares in the community room area nearby, and a few patients – residents, I stand corrected – gape mindlessly at it. One woman is parked in a wheelchair in the corner, touching the wall, repeating the name Philip with such angst, it makes my heart ache. Her whimpers rise above the announcer on the show, mixing in a strange cacophony of joy and agony, symbolic of what this place holds.

Dorothy sits, knitting some crooked, scratchy blanket. The nurse sat me at this table, told me I’d make quick friends with this woman. I don’t know. But, looking around, she seems to be one of the few who can hold a conversation. These people are just so – old. So old. So gone. Or maybe this place just does that to a person.

I sigh. ‘Doesn’t sound like a good thing to be forgotten.’

‘It all depends, Adeline. It’s Adeline, right? Did you say Adeline?’

I nod. ‘Friends call me Addy.’

‘I’ll go with Adeline for now, then, if it’s all the same to you. Too soon to tell if we’re going to be friends or not.’

I nod again. I can respect that.

‘Regardless, as I was saying, being forgotten here is not a terrible thing. Fewer nurses means less poking and prodding. It means more peace and quiet. And if I’m going to leave this world soon, I could use some peace and quiet. Of course, I suppose there are downfalls to being forgotten. That woman in 306 found out the hard way a while back.’

I look up from my tea now, staring at Dorothy. ‘What happened to her?’ My curiosity is piqued, but I suppose in a place where magazines, knitting, and some weak tea are the only excitement, it doesn’t take much.

Dorothy shrugs. ‘Murder, or at least that’s what rumour has it. Staff of course claim it was a bad fall. But I’ve never seen someone turn a hue of purple like that from a simple trip, you know?’

I blink, waiting for her to crack a smile, some sadistic joke. She doesn’t laugh, though. She stops knitting and looks at me.

‘Who did it?’ I ask, needing to know but afraid all the same.

Dorothy shrugs. ‘Some say the staff were in there to sedate her with something right before she was found dead. Apparently, she had been raving about some odd occurrences, had been seeing some strange stuff.’

‘The staff?’ I ask, making sure I’ve heard her correctly.

Dorothy looks up at me, peeks left and right as if to see if anyone is listening. Then, she leans in. ‘Did the whole tour guide bit fool you? Gets the best of most of us. But shall we say this place isn’t quite what it seems to be from the little pamphlets they give you? Sure, they give you plenty of tea. But it’s not as cosy as they want you to believe. In fact, from some of the things I’ve seen, it’s downright dangerous here if you’re not careful.’

My stomach churns. This is not what I wanted to hear. Suddenly, a wave of fear slaps into me. Regrets flood over me, a feeling that’s all too familiar. Suddenly, returning to Crawley seems like the worst idea I’ve ever had, this eerie building in an even eerier section of town stirring a sense of foreboding in me.

‘Dear, don’t worry too much, though. If you play it smart and wind your neck in, it’ll be okay. As I said, Floor Three is the perfect place to blend in. Just don’t stir any trouble, stay unnoticed, and you’ll be fine. And that Grace on our floor, she’s a true gem. Really. Besides, the talk about the woman in 306 – who really knows what happened, right? – could just be Chinese whispers, truly. Or it could’ve been one of the patients who lived here at the time. Some smarmy fellows have come through here, if you ask me.’

I study her face, trying to decide if she’s telling the truth now or if she’s just trying to calm me. I don’t know. But in my gut, something tells me that Crawley’s dark past is still haunting these grounds – and now I’m back in its clutches.

Regardless of what happened in 306, this is all a bit frightening. I already feel lost in this place – but now, I realise there’s so much I don’t know. This certainly is some unwelcome news, and not the kind of excitement I was hoping for.

‘Oh, my apologies. My late husband always said I had a penchant for ruining the mood. There, there. Nothing much to worry about. It was a couple of years ago, after all. Who knows what happened? No trouble since then. Smith Creek Manor isn’t perfect, mind you, but it could be worse. It could always be worse. Besides, few last long in this place anyway. New people all the time. Except me, I suppose. I’ve been one of the few to outlast Smith Creek, at least so far.’

I stir in my seat, readjusting to try to get comfortable. I don’t know if I can. Murder isn’t the sort of thing I’d envisioned in a place like this. True, when I came here, I knew it was a final stop. I just hadn’t imagined going out like that. I close my eyes, thinking about the strangling ivy on the stone walls. It’s almost like I can feel it all constrict a little more, like the air is going out of this place. The all too familiar feeling of being trapped resurfaces from long ago. It’s a claustrophobic feeling I don’t welcome.

‘Anyway, enough about me. Tell me about you. First day’s always tough. Have you chatted with anyone yet?’

‘My roommate doesn’t talk, don’t think she can. And then just you. Not much to tell, I suppose. I’m simply trying to sort everything out.’

‘Not much to it. Everyone essentially keeps to themselves. But I will say, there are a few fit ones here if you’re searching for that sort of excitement.’ She winks, causing me to smile.

‘I’ve been there before. Not sure that’s really what I need right now.’ I grin.

‘Oh, I do. And when you see the few gentlemen Floor Three has to offer, well, maybe you’ll change your mind. Room 313 has quite the smouldering eyes. I imagine he was a good catch in his day. Oh, and I think it’s 310, the priest, he’s got some nice features, too. I’m not picky, after all – religious or not, he’s quite a feast for the eyes. But you do have to look out for him. Temper on that one. Nice to look at, but that’s about it. Still, got to get our fun where we can.’

‘What room are you in?’ I ask, letting my guard down. She seems nice enough.

‘305, dear. On the other side of the nurse’s station and down the hall a bit. Stop down anytime. I keep a lovely stash of digestives and Jaffa Cakes. The food is depressing around here. So start stocking up any time family comes. Stash all the sweets you can. Trust me. Insider tip.’

I nod, taking a sip of my tea. It’s weak, but not terrible. Better than the water, I suppose.

‘Oh, and one more thing.’

My head turns as I look at Dorothy, who continues her knitting. Her face is serious now, her gaze hardened.

‘Be careful not to ask for anything at night if you can help it. The night nurse who takes care of your end, well, he’s one you want to avoid.’ Her warning is quiet but stern. I know there’s no joke there.

‘Why?’ I ask, my head aching from so much new information.

‘Let’s just say he’s not the kindest man. Gives me the downright creeps, if I’m being honest. His name’s Jones. Seems to have a strong fancy for the female nurse on the second floor, which is all right by me. It means he’s not up here when he should be sometimes. But, well, trust me – when he’s up here, be careful. Other than that, it’s all great here on Floor Three. Yep. Absolutely perfect.’

I take another sip of tea, turning in my seat to look out into the common area. The Philip Woman has drifted off to sleep, her head lolling at an awkward angle. I wait for someone to come and fix it, but no one does. Her hair is lurched forward, a tangled mop of grey curls covering her face. She looks like an abandoned, mangy sheep dog. I guess Dorothy’s right. The nurses here are few and far between. It looks like we may just be on our own around here in more ways than one.

***

I jump up in a cold sweat, my heart racing as I clutch my chest. The moonlight shines through the window onto my bed. But this isn’t my bed. Where am I? I don’t understand. What’s happening? I don’t know where I—

‘You’ll die here. You will. Get out now. Get out while you can. You’ll die here,’ a bewildered voice pleads as a wrinkled hand clutches my arm. I startle. There is a figure standing over me, muttering over and over, repeating the phrases that send true terror to my heart. I yank back, but the person seems to climb towards me, closer and closer. I flinch, trying to pull away, ready to scream. My lips tremble and my breathing is ragged. I open my mouth, but no sounds come out. What’s happening? My mind wildly flails about, trying to settle on one interpretation of the scene.

‘You’ll die here. You will. I’m telling you, lady. Get out now. Get out.’ The words spew faster and faster, and spit lands on me. The figure is close enough that I can make out her short, curly hair, her feminine jawline. She is frothing at the mouth as she yanks at my arm and claws at me. She shreds the shoulder of my nightshirt with one hand as the other vehemently digs into my arm. Saliva leaks from her lips as she repeats the lines endlessly in a racing fury. I move my arms about, trying to startle her away, but she doesn’t flinch. Her fingers are crusty with what, I don’t know. Her nails, long and sharp, scratch into my arm painfully, and I’m afraid to look at the damage she’s causing. A warm, sickly feeling oozes down my arm. I think I must be bleeding. I struggle away, shifting on the bed, trying to back up. The call button. I need to push the call button.

I reach around the figure, my eyes adjusting. I grab for the button, my sanctuary. I push it over and over and over. No one comes. I push it again as the woman paws and mauls me, scratching and clawing incessantly as she repeats her mantra. I look up at her, trying to calm her, pleading with her to stop. Her eyes are glazed over and white. They look like they’re oozing in a supernatural way. Her gaze is blank, marred by the milky white haze of cataracts.

I’m ready to shout out, to scream, when suddenly, a cackle rises from her slimy lips as the hand lets go of my arm. The woman turns and slowly trudges out of the room, the deranged laugh bellowing as she does. Tears drip from my eyes. I push the button again. And again. But the person is gone. All quiets down, and I wonder why no one is coming. A few minutes pass as my heart beats wildly. I pant and wrap my arms around myself. Tears trickle down my face. I stare at the doorway, wondering if she’ll come back, trying to assess the situation. I’m too afraid to look down and see what sort of condition I’m in.

After a few more moments pass by, I reach for the cord of the lamp. I turn on the light and take stock of my arm, of the room. My arm is bleeding, scratches up and down it like a rabid animal has mauled me. In some ways, I suppose it’s true. The curtain that separates Rose’s area of the room from mine is pulled across, so I can’t see her, but I hear a raspy gurgle from her side, a sputtering inhale that does nothing to calm my frayed nerves. I touch the blanket on the bed, rubbing the threadbare material between my thumb and forefinger. It’s real. All of this is real. It’s not a nightmare. It’s happening. I’m not home. I’m not at Quail Avenue. I’m here. That’s right. I’m here now.

What was that? Who was that? I don’t know. Grogginess lifted, I slink out of bed, stand, and slowly stretch my stiff legs. After a long moment of staring out the window, a voice bellows into the room.

‘What is it?’

I startle, jumping out of my skin. I turn around to see a man in a nurse’s uniform, standing back from the doorway. He is bald, but his dark moustache curls up on his lip, giving him a sneering look. Or maybe he is sneering.

‘Th-there was … someone was here … I saw someone.’ I want to ask why he didn’t come sooner, but something stops me from uttering the words.

The man crosses the room in three quick strides. ‘Get back to bed,’ he orders gruffly, not waiting for me to explain.

‘Sorry, there was someone—’

‘Come on, old woman. There’s no one here. Get in bed.’ He grabs my arm, the same one the person – there was a person, wasn’t there? – was grabbing. He roughly hurries me towards my bed, ignoring the scratches and blood dripping on my arm. My skin burns at his touch, the flesh still raw. I fall a little before he forces me into bed and roughly adjusts the blanket around me. He cocoons me in as if the blanket will keep me hostage in the bed and he won’t have to deal with me again.

‘I won’t be having any more trouble, will I?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow. He leans in now, closer and closer. He is centimetres from my face.

‘No, sir,’ I whisper, a new fear gripping my heart.

‘Goddamn right, I won’t,’ he whispers harshly into the space between us, and I shudder at the way he looks at me. It’s a threatening glance, one that challenges me to defy him. I don’t dare consider it.

He backs up, looking at me for an uncomfortably long moment, before pulling the lamp cord. But before he does, I notice a nametag. I see the familiar name.

Jones.

Why do I know that name? Why is it ringing a bell? I search in my mind for the answer. Was it the knitting lady? Did she say something about him?

My head throbs as I try to sort all of it out – the mysterious figure, the nurse, the name. Jones curses again under his breath, the darkness plummeting about me, as he leaves the room. When he’s gone, I begin to wonder if there’s more to worry about on Floor Three than I could have ever imagined.

Chapter 5

A hand startles me awake, and I sit up, gasping. It takes a moment for me to recognise where I am, the sunlight now streaming through the windows and illuminating the room. I stare at the pink wallpaper, faded to a dusky, decaying rose colour. The floral pattern is so muted and miniscule that it looks like scratches on the wallpaper instead of the ornate design the decorator probably intended. My eyes absorb the depressing sight of the room, my home now, as I take another deep breath. Exhaustion pounds in my skull, crackling against my brain. I didn’t sleep well, not at all, and my neck is stiff from the tension.

‘Mrs Evans, it’s breakfast time. Are you going to the dining room to eat with the others, or shall I bring your morning meal to you?’ I peer up at the nurse standing above me. Her red hair is pulled tight into a bun, the pasty skin on her face stretching back so tautly her cheek bones look like they might rupture through. Her face is placid, stoic, as she says my name with tart condescension mirrored in her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s just got a permanent poker face or if her hairstyle prohibits any expression from showing through. My head spins and aches. It craves to be plopped back down on the pillow and to let sleep wash away all of last night’s calamities.

‘Can I just take my meal here today?’ I ask.

‘Fine. I’ll bring it back around when I get to it.’

With that, the harsh-looking woman is off to jostle Rose, who doesn’t have a choice in the matter since she can’t speak up. The woman flings back the curtain, the only semblance of privacy in our room now foiled. Rose coughs and sputters, squealing at the sight of the nurse. As the serious woman rousts Rose up from the bed, my frail roommate stares at one thing – me. Her arm, trembling from the effort, rises just a bit. I notice her hand, curled into a fist, is shaking violently. Is she shaking it at me? I don’t have time to decide because harsh woman is complaining about the mess Rose has made and how she’ll need to tend to that before breakfast. I sigh in my bed, transferring my gaze to the window. There’s so much wrong in this place, but I feel a little guilty. It could be worse. Rose has it harder than me, for sure. I suppose I should be grateful that at least I can choose where to eat my breakfast. At least there’s still that.

When the nurse has gotten Rose into the wheelchair with the assistance of some brute of a man, she wheels her out of the room. Rose’s head is cocked towards me, shaking to the side. She mumbles as they wheel her away. I feel terrible, but I am gloriously thankful when they are gone and the room is quiet again. I settle back into bed, but I find that sleep doesn’t return. I blink, lying on my side as I peer out the window into the dismal greyness of the day. What day of the week is it? I don’t much know anymore. It seems time in here is a whirling enigma. Truthfully, I guess it doesn’t matter much anymore what day it is. They are all the same, and I have nowhere I need to be. No one is expecting me anywhere, and no one is remembering me, in honesty. That’s a lonely thought. I decide to push it aside.

I blink a few times, thinking about last night, about the arm on my hand. I think about Jones and his reaction. I think about the blood-curdling feeling that all is not well on Floor Three, that this place isn’t quite what it seems. The faux homey appearance they try to create with the dusty, dried bouquets of flowers sitting on archaic stands in the hallways. The cheery-coloured paint in the common room, the bird cage with tiny finches near the lift. It’s all a façade to make us feel at home. But this isn’t home. And something tells me I might not want it to be.

Whoever was in my room last night had a warning, clear and painfully frightening. It’s not safe here. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut so tightly that I see specks in the forced blackness. It’s nonsense. It must be. What real danger could there be in a place like this? Who would come here to carry out malicious plots? What would be the point, after all?

The harsh nurse drops off a tray a few moments later with a spot of tea, some eggs, beans, and what I suppose is meant to imitate breakfast ham. It looks rubbery and grey, an oozing film coating it in an unnatural, unappetising way. After wrestling with the thought of tucking myself back under the blanket and making this whole place disappear with sleep, I decide there’s no use. There will be no serene sleep today, my nerves battling my mind’s need to rest. I sit up wearily, gently folding the scratchy blanket back from my legs.

After plodding to the loo, I gather my strength to get dressed. I’m supposed to push a button to ask for help to change. I find that insulting. I have a heart condition and some forgetfulness that comes and goes. I am not a child. I slowly, painfully pick out an outfit from the chest of drawers, tucking myself into a plain grey pullover and some comfortable trousers. I don’t dare look into the mirror. Goodness knows I don’t need to be any more depressed than I already am.

I snatch the tea from the tray and I wander out of my room, glancing first towards the staircase. It still irks me that it’s locked. I take a breath, though, knowing it’s pointless to worry about it now. I need to focus my mind on other things. Thus, I turn to the right and set out for the common area, deciding that some exploring may do me good.

I plod onward, peeking into rooms here and there, the doors all flung open. When I get to Room 312, though, I notice the door is still shut. Odd, I think. I stop for a moment to catch my breath and wonder what curiosity the room holds. I’m tempted to reach out and touch the door knob, to peek in. I don’t, though. Wouldn’t do to make enemies here by intruding. Still, there’s something unnerving about Room 312, a murky horror that evades all reasoning. I don’t know what it is, but something about the door both lures me in and repels me with all its might.

I keep walking, passing a man in a wheelchair, his head slumped slightly backwards, his throat exposed. He rolls gently back and forth. His eyes pierce into mine, and I shudder, feeling like there’s something he wants to say but can’t. Agony drips from his watery eyes. It seems like tears want to fall from them but can’t. Slowly, methodically, careful not to trip, I march on until I finally reach the common room.

‘There you are. We thought you escaped already,’ Dorothy announces, cackling over a cup of tea. Another lady sits beside her in a wheelchair, but she just stares up at me and grins. She’s missing an eye. I tell myself not to stare at the gaping socket, not to be rude. I sit down in an empty chair beside her, my tea in hand.