[Boy: And... that's the most of it. For now.
Ms Williams: For now?
Boy: Still trying to remember. *bows head down* Forgive me if I said I pictured it vividly. Guess I fooled myself.
Ms Williams: Wasn't expecting you to remember much. Although, you did say the truck knocked you down. Maybe it gave you memory loss?
Boy: *shakes his head* I doubt it.
Ms Williams: Those two doctors... Wazlow and McAdams, they really did well, taking care of you.
Boy: *nods, breathing shakily* Yeah, they did.
Ms Williams: And I hope nothing else bizarre happened after that.
Boy: Yeah— *suddenly looks at her* Wait. I didn't tell you?]
That evening;
Dr McAdams had left early, leaving the boy and Dr Wazlow in the intensive care unit—although he didn't look like he was injured. Dr Wazlow tended to the life support while the boy was on the bed, looking at the ceiling, silent. All previous events were still fresh in his mind, but what really intrigued him was the offer Father Jacob gave him. To stay in a monastery wasn't that kind of bad, he thought. What he really dreaded was the fact that he might become a priest against his own will. That is, after he was "healed."
"Okay," Dr Wazlow brought the boy out of his daydream, "your IV fluid has been replaced. You can now sleep without any trouble."
"Yeah, what about the nightmares, ever thought about that?" the boy muttered sarcastically. Lucky for him, Dr. Wazlow didn't hear his comment.
"Okay... everything's settled now. Blood pressure's normal, heart rate's normal, injuries...," he trailed off, clearing his throat. "Injuries are healed, mostly."
The boy nodded. "Thank you, Doctor. For everything."
"No problem, kid. Just get yourself some rest," he replied curtly. "You'll be discharged very soon."
But, just as he was about to leave, the boy called out, "Wait... before that..."
Dr Wazlow turned around. "What's up, kiddo?"
"What do you know about the monastery?"The boy asked.
His eyes widened slightly. "Wait, St. Louis?," he thought for a moment. "Not much, to be honest. Just that the building had a dark past."
"Huh?"
"See, it used to be a hospital some years back. Way before this place even had a foundation. Patients went in and out, some healed, some...," he trailed off.
The boy's eyes narrowed, not liking where the backstory was going.
"Some weren't the same," Dr Wazlow continued, "Their eyes... all were empty, cold. Their posture... it was... mechanical. Even I was confused. It alerted the police, obviously, and the investigation went on. Upon reaching the rooms, they witnessed what would be the most revolting, evil exhibition of their lives."
The boy froze. The image of what Dr. Wazlow summarised shook him to the core.
"W-w-what did they see?" the boy stammered.
Dr Wazlow shuddered slightly. "Strange deaths, mutilated bodies, and they said it was in the name of... mercy killing. I... my dad was a policeman. But after that, he couldn't... even get out of the house. Anyway, the hospital was shut down the very next day. The staff responsible were arrested and executed two days later."
"That's... a very... detailed summary," the boy replied, eyes shaking. "Then what happened next?"
"Ten years later, I heard Father Jacob bought the abandoned hospital and renovated it. That's how come we have St. Louis right now. I thought he was insane. A lot of people did," Dr Wazlow replied. "But that's all I know."
The boy nodded, calming down slowly. At least the worst was over. He slowly reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand and drank slowly, his tense shoulders slumping slightly.
"But...," he spoke after drinking, "Don't you have the feeling that something about Father Jacob is... off? Or is it just me?"
"To be honest, I don't know. He somewhat has the ability to be seen and invisible at the same time. But I'll be damned if I said you're wrong."
That only fueled his worries even more.
"But for now, get some rest. Your recovery matters more than a forgotten backstory," Dr Wazlow suddenly spoke. "I'll come check on you from time to time."
He nodded. "Okay... okay. Goodnight, Doctor."
"Goodnight, kiddo," he replied and left, leaving the boy alone in the room, darkness engulfing the whole area.
"Goodnight," the boy muttered finally and fell into a deep, bit fitful sleep.
Meanwhile:
Dr Wazlow stood in the hallway, cigarette in his mouth, puffing out smoke like he was already done with the world. He leaned on the wall, eyes closed, tired of remembering the past. His father had seen it all—the killings, the blood, the sacrifices—and he was never the same again. But now, something else was on his mind.
"This... this shouldn't be possible. Kid shouldn't be able to heal so fast. It's... it's humanly impossible," he murmured. His hands were trembling, either from stress or fear, he didn't know. But he knew one thing:
The boy needed all the help he could get. And fast.
His thoughts were still spiralling—from the past to the present and back. He didn't notice the light above him flickering violently, his mind numb to his surroundings. All he could think about was the boy; his fearful expression, the dark circles under his eyes, and his slumped shoulders anytime he breathed in and out, like he was carrying a burden he wasn't even supposed to go through. And his account on the crash, he was certain it might be true, but it felt like a story. After all, kids can be delusional, Dr Wazlow thought.
Then—
A sudden sound filled the air. Wind gushed through, rattling the windows. All while this was going, an inaudible chant rang in Dr Wazlow's ears, like an Aztec Death Whistle, but the hallway only amplified the sound. He was growing more uneasy, the chants growing louder and angrier. Light bulbs continued to flicker, winds growing louder and moving faster. Then, all of a sudden, it stopped, leaving Dr Wazlow in his room, face pale and confused. He thought he was free.
Until— the light bulbs blew up one by one. And for the first time in his entire life, a bead of sweat rolled down his head. And his hands trembled—this time from pure fear.
The room suddenly felt heavier around him, his hair standing on edge, fear gripping him like a demon possessed. He was suddenly hyper-aware of his surroundings, realising something was very off, the hallway growing colder. How quiet it was, how the slightest sound felt like it was amped up by an invisible speaker, and the boy...
The boy...
"He's still in there!" Dr Wazlow's eyes widened in fear. Whatever that was haunting him... what if it got to the boy, too? With that thought in his head, he suddenly took to his heels towards the ICU—he knew the layout of the facility like the back of his hand. Upon reaching the door to his room, he suddenly stopped as he noticed something.
The door was slightly ajar.
"No," he muttered as his hands trembled again. The thought of the boy already dealt with by the sudden malevolent force made his blood run cold. Quickly, he opened the door, and to his sudden surprise and gradually growing anxiety:
The bed was empty.
"Oh, God," Dr Wazlow muttered under his breath, fear laced onto his voice. He looked around frantically, searching for any remnants of the boy's presence, but to no avail. It was like he had vanished out of thin air.
"Hey, kid, this isn't funny! Where are you?!," Dr. Wazlow's voice grew louder and fearful. But the quietness of the room seemed to make fun of his turmoil, shadows growing around him as the realisation kicked in.
Then—
A low, guttural growl snapped him out of his spiral. That alone made his hair stand on edge even more. He felt like a cornered animal—the air between him and the source of the growl slowly diminishing—with no escape. He felt helpless.
"W-w-what's that?! Show yourself! What did you do to the boy!? Answer me!!," he screamed in pure terror, which only fueled the anger and bloodlust in the answered growl. It felt like a surround sound to his ears, taunting, almost mocking, and Dr Wazlow knew... there was no escape. Breathing heavily, he huddled himself to the corner of the room, hurriedly removing a rosary from his left pocket as the growl intensified rapidly.
In a hurry, "Hail Mary, full of grace, The Lord is with you. Blessed art you amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mar—"
He was suddenly interrupted as a trail of saliva trickled down to his forehead from the ceiling, freezing him in place. The slimy and sticky lines, diverging from the main source, slowly made their way down his face. Shaking, he looked up at the ceiling, revealing an entity, shrouded in darkness—the only thing visible was its white, soulless eyes—but he could see it very clearly.
"N-n-no," were his last words as the entity scooped him away, his pleas for help muffled in the darkness, the sound of tearing flesh and squelching blood echoed in the hallway, then everything went quiet.
The next day:
The sun shone through the cracks in the curtains, adding some light, soothing, feeling in the room, until the alarm went off, slowly waking the boy up. The dark circles in his eyes had faded slightly—very slightly, as if he didn't sleep at all last night—even though the exhaustion on his face was as clear as moonlight.
"Mmm... five more minutes," he muttered sleepily as he tried to turn it off but slipped off his fingers and found its way under the bed, the sound still ringing in his ears. Reluctantly, he pushed himself off the bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
"Note to self," he muttered, "Look left, look right, then look left again anytime you're crossing the roa—"
His mutter was suddenly cut off when a loud scream was heard outside the door. Confused, he slowly removed the IV tube from his arm and slowly walked to the door.
"What did I miss last night?," he rubbed his back as he walked, "Shit, my body feels so sore—"
He suddenly felt himself hovering in the air, body stiff before landing on the ground with a loud thud. He'd slipped on a puddle, groaning in pain. But that pain quickly disappeared when he realised what he slipped on.
"What the-? *sniffs and gags* Ugh, saliva!? Where did this come from?," he muttered as he looked up, his answer laid out before him.
A hole on the ceiling was revealed to him, dark, and hollow. A drop of saliva fell from the edge of the hole and onto the boy's head. His face drained of colour as he realised the implications of the situation and the reason for that scream.
"No, no, no, no, no," he scrambled up to his feet and ran towards the door. Opening it, he realised the trail of blood that led deeper into the hallway to the main area. He muttered, "That's not good...," and practically sprinted to the main area.
Upon reaching the main area, the boy suddenly cursed under his breath as he skidded to a halt, the surroundings making his blood run cold. He couldn't believe his shock.
The main area was already beautiful, flowers and hedges of leaves pruned to perfection. Benches were placed at vantage points for patients, doctors, and patients to relax. The Union Jack was mounted in the middle, flag waving majestically. That was what the boy would've thought if he didn't see what—or who—was hanging on the pole.
It was Dr Wazlow. Or... what was left of him.
Half of his body was missing, leaving the bones, but half of his ribs were gone. The other half was intact, but we're lacerated with vicious cuts and bruises all over. The remaining eye was completely white—irises and pupils missing—and half of his mouth hung open like he had witnessed something terrifying before meeting his end.
Doctors, patients, and visitors were all at the scene, some in silent shock, some screaming, and the rest... they said nothing, but their eyes spoke too many volumes.
But for the boy... he felt like throwing up.
He quickly turned around, face green, and ran to the bathroom, hand clamping his mouth. The moment the door opened and he reached the toilet, everything was out of his system within a second, vomiting all the contents. Once he was sure everything was out, he slowly got up and flushed the toilet, suddenly feeling lightheaded. He staggered to the left, then to the right, before slumping to the ground with a soft thud. What he last saw was the door barging open, Dr. McAdams rushing in with another doctor before passing out for the second time.
Six hours later:
The boy woke up slowly to the sound of the beeping life support like it cared too much for his safety. It was ironic, really. A life support beeping like it cared for you while you rarely do care about yourself. His eyes were blurry, and every muscle in his body was screaming in pain as he tried to get up, but his efforts were futile. Right next to him was Dr McAdams, who looked like she had cried for a very long time, her tear stricken face giving her away. Her puffy eyes opened the moment she realised he had woken up, smiling softly despite the emotional turmoil in her head.
"Kid, thank God, you're awake...," she said with a sigh of relief.
The boy was still disoriented. "Wazlow...," he muttered.
"You... you saw it too, didn't you?"
"We... we didn't know. This wasn't... in our power. I'm so sorry, Dr. McAdams. I'm sure he meant a lot to you," the boy added.
"He did, that bastard," she said, voice laced with pain, "I loved him with all my heart."
The boy flinched slightly. "You... you never told me you... were married," he said quietly.
"Our parents never approved. We married in secret. Not even the hospital knows."
She hung her head down, crying silently. The boy wasn't that good in comforting someone, but with her, he couldn't stand feeling helpless on the bed and doing nothing. So he placed his hand on hers, a silent comfort from one who understood loss and saw too much. Dr McAdams stiffened a bit at the gesture, then relaxed slightly, grateful for the boy's support.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
She nodded, "I know... *sighs shakily* They've taken the body to the morgue. They're about to cremate it. The ashes will go to his family," she added.
The boy nodded.
"But... something else happened last night."
"Wait. You were still here?!," he exclaimed.
"Yeah," she muttered.
Dr McAdams POV:
D:[I was in the bathroom when the lights suddenly went out. I thought the meter was out of electricity. I was lucky I had a flashlight at the time. Then... I felt a hand brush my shoulder, followed by a growl. I turned, nothing was there. Took a step back and huddled to the wall. Then the lights came back on like nothing happened. That's... that was all I can remember.]
Reality POV:
"That's all?," the boy asked.
She nodded. "That was all I heard. And felt. I... I'm not a fan of the supernatural... or paranormal, but after what I saw, my... my doubts about the world are back."
"So... what're you gonna do now?"
"What can I do?," she emphasised on "can,"
"The police are already on the case, but there's little to no evidence. It's growing cold by the second."
The boy shook his head silently, empathising with her. He knew there was nothing they could do, as far as the strange death and lack of evidence were concerned. He spotted the business card Father Jacob left for him, and an idea suddenly popped in his head.
"Uh... hey?," he called out.
"Hmm? What is it, kid?," she asked.
The boy looked at her, eyes narrowed slightly.
"Where's the nearest phone line?"
Meanwhile;
Father Jacob was seated on his desk, gathering some papers he was working on, his brows slightly furrowed. He then continued working on the document, his thoughts running to the boy. His eyes narrowed as he recounted the events. He just hoped he would call as soon as possible.
Then—a knock on the door. Father Jacob responded:
"Come in."
A servant, dressed in a white cassock, came in, bowing before him silently.
"Father, they're ready for you," the servant said.
"Very well," he replied. "I'll be there shortly." The servant nodded and left, leaving him back in the office. He let out a sigh and continued working, stress slowly creeping onto him.
Speaking of calls:
The telephone on his desk rang, startling him a bit. "Huh? Who would call me by this time?"he muttered to himself as he picked up the telephone. "Hello?"
A brief silence. Then, a voice from the other end of the line:
"Father..."
Father Jacob instantly recognised his voice.
"Ah, kid. It's you," he said happily, then noticed his weary but sad voice from the end of the line. "Anything wrong?"
"Dr. Wazlow is dead."
He froze. "What!? When?!" he asked in terror.
"Just this morning," the boy replied, "It was unexpected."
"I could tell," Father Jacob said, voice tinged with sadness. "My deepest condolences."
"You should be saying that to Dr. McAdams," the boy corrected him. "After all, they were married."
Silence from Father Jacob's line. Then, "That's new," he muttered. "Anyways, may his soul rest in perfect peace."
"I hope so...," the boy said, then trailed off.
Father Jacob noticed. "You sound like you have something to say," he said.
That's when the boy remembered. "About the... offer you gave me...," he trailed off again.
"Yeah, what about it?", Father Jacob asked, liking where this was going.
The boy—who was at the telephone booth across the hospital—nodded, thought for a moment then, spoke in a determined tone, his mind made up.
"Where do I sign?"