Respect

Thriller Stories | Aug 31, 2011 | 8 min read
112 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
"Haunted? Bah!"

"That's why we call it - the haunted hospital."

"Nonsense!" Reilly roared. He shook his graying head. "Pure nonsense!"

"With all due respect," Blake said calmly. "you know nothing about it at all." He stared past his new partner to the dark edifice looming into the shadowy distance; the place that frightened Blake so badly. "You've seen plenty, I know. But you're new here. I'm telling you, Sister Mercy is haunted."

The sprawling complex was, in the beginning, a single three-story building, named after a Saint (which one, escapes memory), that was already weather-beaten and losing bricks when its' staff was treating casualties in the War between the States. The hospital, like some of the luckier soldiers, survived the conflict and was added on to. It grew out, rose up, consumed the neighboring properties, changed names, expanded, consumed more, changed names again as the century turned and the decades passed. And as those years went by, so too passed the joys and horrors of human life within her walls; birth, death and every imaginable injury, illness and mental breakdown in-between. Lives were saved and plagues were fought. Screams of agony reverberated, limbs were amputated, and souls were lost. Somewhere along the way, the hospital (now many buildings connected to the original with several free-standing dormitories) became known by one all-encompassing euphemism, Sister Mercy. The hospital fell on hard times. Then harder still and, like many a patient over the years, Sister Mercy finally died. Like the dead, it decayed. And vermin laid claim to the basement and halls, and graffiti the walls, and the windows surrendered to rocks and to rain, and it stood, seedy and abandoned, decomposing for all the world to see. The century turned again and stories spread that Sister Mercy, that fallen relic, was haunted.

"I don't need to have been here." Reilly shook his head again. "There are no such things as ghosts. Here, or anywhere else."

"I've seen them," Blake said.

"Go on! Pull the other one! What do you think I am, anyway?"

What Blake thought was that Reilly, his partner, was too stubborn and self-centered for his own – or anyone else's - good. He was a new hire. And was considerably older than the other officers in this; his new security firm. After years of unrequited loyalty, the bad economy had forced him out of a command position with his former employers. He felt seriously disrespected. Blake, his much younger, senior officer here, understood. He gave Reilly credit for his knowledge, his life experiences, and tried to show him the respect he felt he was owed. But it wasn't easy. Reilly lacked humility. He was pompous, a know-it-all, and rarely returned any respect. Rather than show gratitude for Blake's firm taking him on so late in life, in such dire times, he acted as if the position was owed him and, worse, as if he had nothing to learn.

"I'm telling you," Blake said. "Sister Mercy is haunted. The troubled spirits here do not want to be bothered. They've claimed the hospital as their own. And, like you, Officer Reilly, they want their respect. I'll drive to the other side, walk the front perimeter and around the south dormitory. You walk this side, from the old emergency entrance, past shipping, and around the north dorm."

"You don't go inside?"

"No! I just told you."

"How can you call it secure if you don't walk the halls?"

"They secure the halls. Just..."

"They? Who?"

"Does it matter?" Blake was losing his patience. "You don't know. Things... things happen in there... Our men, myself included, made our rounds the first night we got this contract. Never again. The officers, not just me, all of them, began to hear things, and see things, and feel things, and fear things. To be blunt, we were chased out. And.. let's just say we were left with the certain understanding that... whatever walks there now... wants to walk alone. Just stay out of the buildings. Walk the perimeter and leave them alone. They don't want us there. Respect their wishes." Blake drove off, leaving Reilly agog.

Respect their wishes! Reilly had never heard such a load of... After all, they were just empty buildings. And he'd been hired to see that what remained of the decaying facility didn't fall to smash. Screw the ghosts! And screw his wet-behind-the-ears partner. He was going to do the job he'd been hired to do.

Reilly entered the north dormitory through a web-covered door that complained miserably at his intrusion. He would never have believed it but, ten steps in, his nerves were already a-jangle and his hackles up. No electricity, of course, meant no lights and no elevator. He drew the Kel-lite from his belt and, as he always secured a building from the top - down, looked for and found the long-unused stairs.

Reilly started up. Dirt, debris clutter, and light fixtures dangling on their own wiring made for atmospheric stumbling blocks. Rat squeaks, the skitters of god-knew-what in the dark, creaking stairs, a wavering groan (that he could only attribute to the aged building itself), and the wind whistling through the broken windows made for background music. Reilly arrived on the top, the fifth, floor a far more shaken man than he would ever have thought possible. He paused, inside the door, in the dark hall, to catch his breath (less winded by the climb than by the climate) and to curse Blake for putting crazy thoughts in his head. Ghosts, tommy-rot! Ghosts demanding respect! Foolish bastard!

He directed his torch down the long, musty hall, carving the darkness with the thin beam of light. A dozen doors, peeling paint, some closed, most open, lined the hall on either side all the way down. Reilly started forward to the echo of his own steps. Tough guy that he was, even Reilly had to admit he was on edge; and growing angry. Respect! If the so-called ghosts here can read minds, he thought, they're not going to feel deeply respected when they get to me.

As if the very thought had been its cue, a gust of wind developed, from nothing, out of nowhere, and raced down the hall straight toward him like an angry child. And every open door along the hall slammed shut in succession in its wake. It happened quickly, like firecrackers going off, and both the hall and Reilly shuddered.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Reilly, frozen, fought to breathe. Was it possible, in this day and age? Could the hospital actually be... haunted? Aaacchh. The very notion embarrassed him and he shook it from his mind. The haunted hospital; like the title of a bad movie or a putrid graphic novel. The ghosts want to be left alone! Respect their wishes!

"Respect this!" he shouted. His voice reverberated as he waved his middle finger in the air. Yes, it was childish. But Reilly felt better. He started forward again, picking up his pace, determined to get this over. Screw the ghosts. He was wearing the badge. "There's a new sheriff in town, Casper!" he shouted. His echo agreed. He had advanced nearly to the end of the hall when a new sound, strange and impossible reached his ears. Running water.

He was outside of a door bearing a dirty tin plate reading: Lavatory. The sign was decades old. The glass door knob below older still. And beyond the door, Reilly could hear... water running. Of course, it couldn't be. There was nobody in the building. More than that, the water like the electricity had been shut off ages ago. It wasn't possible. Still, he heard it; water running inside.

Reilly turned the knob, opened the door a crack and plainly heard water running from one of the taps. What the hell? "Security," he called out.

He listened but received no response, just the continuing sound. He knocked, several quick, loud raps that could not be missed or ignored. He dropped his voice an octave and repeated, "Security." Then he waited. No response; just running water. What the hell? "Nobody's supposed to be in here," he called aloud. "Identify yourself."

He pushed the door open and peered around. It was a small room, thin and long, with faded green paper peeling from the walls in sheets. A web-filled urinal in the corner on his left, two stalls with (he imagined) a commode in each along the left wall. Two porcelain sinks on the right hand wall behind the door. And on the far end, a stall the width of the room, enclosing an old bathtub.

He expected to see someone behind the door, at the sinks, but was mistaken. Not a soul in sight. Both sinks were rust-stained, filled with dust and bits of broken tile, and dry as a bone.

He opened the stalls on his left and found both commodes dry as well; unused and unusable save for the spiders that had claimed them. Still, Reilly clearly heard water running. In a building that had no running water. What the hell? Impossible. Yet it continued. And now he localized it, in front of him. Someone was using the bathtub.

"Security," he announced again, this time speaking directly to the door of the tub stall. "No one is to be on these premises. You're trespassing. Please, come out immediately. If you need to dress..." (God, he couldn't imagine taking a tub in this disgusting...) "If you need to dress, say so, and I'll wait outside the door."

No answer. The sound of running water ceased. It was quiet as the grave. And then a new sound started... Splashing. In the tub. The sound of splashing water.

He rapped on the stall door. "Security. Come out of there!" No answer. He pushed on the door and, of course, found it locked. Great! Reilly's shoulders sagged. Just what he wanted... to crawl under the stall on this dirty floor and drag some wet scum bag out of the tub. He peered through the crack at the edge of the door. The tub, as dry as a desert, was coated in the dust of ages.

He stared... as the hairs stood on the back of his neck. Reilly could clearly hear the splashing. Could clearly hear someone, some thing, taking a tub in front of him – in an empty, dry tub!

"My God," Reilly whispered.

The splashing stopped. And a shrill, terrified scream erupted from the tub – a scream that turned Reilly's spine to jell-o. Behind him, the bathroom door burst open as if it had been kicked. But the door frame was completely empty. And, from the vacant doorway, came a thundering scream of rage and hatred.

 

A concerned Blake searched the hospital property – unsuccessfully - for several hours. A nearly panicked Blake called in the police and, with them, searched the property again for several more. Nothing was found and all agreed they would have to conduct a search inside the hospital buildings. They also agreed to hold off doing so until the sun came up.

Officer Reilly's body was found, sitting upright in – of all places – a bathtub in the north dorm's fifth floor lavatory. The tub was dry as dirt but Reilly was soaking wet from the top of his matted gray hair to the soles of his squishy Oxford shoes. (Otherwise he showed no hint of trauma or injury.) An autopsy determined he had drowned; in a building with no working plumbing, in a tub that hadn't held water in decades.

Two other strange facts surfaced when the toxicology reports came back a week later. First, the water in Reilly's lungs was neither fluoridated nor chlorinated. It could not have come from the city's municipal supply. More likely, the medical examiner believed, the water had come from a well. And second, and stranger still, Reilly's lungs contained residues of animal fat and lye, the chief ingredients of bath soap; bath soap, that is, as it was made by hand around the time of the Civil War.

 

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Reviews

Doug Lamoreux Sep 18, 2011

Thanks everyone. Really appreciate the nice comments!

Diana Sep 8, 2011

so interesting and fearful. Nice story

Triss Sep 8, 2011

awesome....I really enjoy it...

Erik Sep 6, 2011

Creepy! good stuff

Jagrit Sep 2, 2011

Hey Doug, again a very good story... thoroughly enjoyed reading...

Chanchal Sep 1, 2011

Well written ........read this...:)

James Sep 1, 2011

very well scripted doug. rested souls do need to be respected.

Amit Sep 1, 2011

I enjoyed this, Well done and keep writing... :)

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