The One Who Got Away. L.A. Detwiler

The One Who Got Away - L.A. Detwiler


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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


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