Chapter 3 #2
Our movements are in unison now, and I find I can’t quite stop the movement of my fingers on my leg.
It’s comforting, especially when, on every tap, the gash on my palm twinges just a little bit.
Curious, I look up too, though all I see is a corner of the room that looks like it hasn’t been dusted in too long of a time.
“Fern Hollis.” I hear my name spoken by the desk attendant.
“Twenty-three.”
“Sent by Whippoorwill Baptist.”
My new least favorite hospital, and one I will definitely never be patronizing again, even if I’m in danger of dying. Especially then, quite frankly, since I’m not sure how a doctor on an iPad could help me at all.
“Seventy-two hour hold.”
Fuck, that sounds worse every time I hear it.
Tap-tap-tap.
When I blink, I realize the girl is looking at me, though with a jolt it occurs to me that I have no idea when she turned away from staring at the ceiling.
She hasn’t stopped tapping her arm, and neither do I.
It’s like some inpatient morse code that I don’t understand, but I can’t stop doing it now.
Her head tilts, and she looks almost…concerned. She mouths something I can’t understand, and mouths it again, then again, until finally it hits me what she’s trying to say.
Go home.
As if I fucking can, I wish I could howl back. I bite my lip and frown, glancing up in an exaggerated way at the orderly as if to remind her of where we are. I doubt an escape attempt would go well here, and I don’t want my seventy-two hours to be extended to seventy-two days.
But she mouths it again.
And again.
Then finally the shape of her words change, and again it takes me a few tries to read her lips.
They’re coming.
They’re here.
They’re coming.
They’re here.
Suddenly, my view of her is blocked by the orderly, who grins down at me with the obliviousness only the neurotypical can achieve. She doesn’t even notice the tapping of my fingers, or if she does, she doesn’t remark on it.
“Ready to get out of that chair?” she asks, reaching out one hand like a benevolent deity offering me sacrament. I sit up immediately without waiting for her to actually give me permission, though I duck away from her offered hand.
I don’t need help. Especially from Bluebone Ridge, and I can’t help but be resentful of my situation.
The orderly gives a small frown, which she quickly hides, before smiling at me again.
This time, however, it’s a little forced.
Not that I care. Her feelings aren’t on my list of things to give a damn about today.
All I care about is her approval of me so I don’t end up somewhere worse.
If there even is somewhere worse…
“I’ll explain everything while we walk, if that’s all right with you. You can call me Esther, by the way.” Her smile feels even a little less genuine now, and almost a bit wooden. But I only return it politely as I glance back at the corner where the strange tapping girl was.
But she’s not there anymore. No matter where I look in the large room with benches and an almost cathedral-like appearance, I can’t find any trace of her at all.
“Is this place meant to look like a replica of a hospital from the 1800s?” I murmur, following the orderly, Esther , away from the desk.
“Oh, it isn’t a replica,” she assures me. “While there have been updates made and conveniences put in, this building is almost just as it was when it was originally built. Though it’s not from that long ago. It was built in 1924 and has always been a wellness center.”
Wellness Center is a new one for me, but I keep my mouth shut.
“So I should be on the lookout for flapper-era ghosts, instead of pre-colonial ones?” I can’t help but ask mildly. Esther stops in front of me, turning that wooden smile in my direction that I meet with slightly narrowed eyes and a plastic grin of my own. “It’s nervous humor,” I assure her.
Somehow, that seems to mollify her a little bit, even though it’s a lie.
While I’m terrified as hell, I’ve always had opinions about Bluebone Ridge, ever since I first heard the stories.
“There are no ghosts here, Fern,” she assures me.
“Especially any that are out to hurt you. No matter what rumors float around about this place, there’s nothing harmful about Bluebone Ridge, all right? ”
She turns suddenly, reaching out to grip my shoulders in a way that’s probably supposed to be comforting. I see her smile, though I look away, over her shoulder to stare down the hallway lined with thick-glassed windows casting wavering shapes on the floor from the light outside.
But that’s not what holds my attention.
At the end of the hall—dressed in the plain powder blue outfit of a Bluebone Ridge patient—a man leans against the doorframe, his hair black enough to soak up the sun from outside as it falls across him.
He meets my gaze, though from this far, I can’t tell what color his eyes are. And the whole time that Esther talks, he seems unnaturally still and almost not breathing.
“There’s nothing here to hurt you, all right?
” the older woman promises, her smile still so fake it hurts.
“We’re here to help you, Fern.” Her fingers tighten, then loosen on my shoulders, but I still don’t look at her.
I’m too focused on the man. There’s nothing particularly special about him, save that he’s olive-skinned and good looking as hell. So I don’t know why I’m so interested.
A smile twitches at his lips, though it isn’t quite a friendly look. Slowly, he reaches up to press a finger to his lips, nodding at the orderly before stepping away from the door and disappearing down the far hallway, just as Esther turns to see where I’m gazing.
“What are you looking at?” she asks, interested rather than accusatory.
“Nothing,” I murmur, not hesitating to lie even for a second. “Just the sunlight through the windows.” Blinking, I snap myself out of it, offering her a smile that probably doesn’t look very genuine. “Is that glass from the 1920s too? It looks weirdly thick and wavy.”
Her suspicion fades, and she immediately launches into an explanation about glassmaking that I couldn’t care less about, before leading me on this nonconsensual guided tour through the totally haunted asylum up in the mountains where it’s already feeling like someone is watching.