The Seventh Ward (The Haunted Book 2)

by Patrick Logan

  Acting immediately, he forced the hacksaw into the existing groove, then started to move it back and forth, slowly at first, trying to get into a rhythm.

  But then the man on the gurney groaned and his eyes fluttered.

  “Shit,” Dr. Shaw swore. There was no time for precision.

  In one smooth motion, he hoisted himself onto the gurney, straddling the man’s legs. And then, more like a logger than a doctor, Andrew leaned into the sawing motion, running the entire length of the blade back and forth over the man’s tibia with as much vigor as he could muster.

  Grunting with the effort, sweat pouring from his forehead, Dr. Shaw failed to notice when the man’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t even notice when the man’s other leg, the one not being amputated, started to twitch. What drew his attention was the man’s hand that clumsily banged into the back of his arm as he furiously pumped the saw back and forth.

  His first thought was that it was Justine, but a quick glance over his shoulder revealed that the fat nurse was still struggling to get to her feet like some sort of obese, overturned tortoise.

  Then he noticed the man’s hand.

  “Shit! Nurse! Nurse! Hold him down!”

  Justine finally made it to her feet and she hurried over. With both hands, she grabbed the man’s arm and pressed all of her weight on top of it. She applied so much pressure that the man fully awoke, and he immediately started screaming into his oxygen mask.

  Even though the words were garbled, muffled, Dr. Shaw knew what they were.

  “What are you doing to me?” the man shouted. Then he let out a horrific, ear-piercing scream.

  Thankfully, despite being fully conscious now, the sedatives still had a hold on part of his body.

  A man as large and muscular as this one would have tossed Dr. Shaw off him like a ragdoll if he regained full control of his faculties.

  Just one more… just one more…

  But it took more than one; it took seven more strokes before the hacksaw suddenly made it all the way through the tibia. Dr. Shaw, arms and shoulders aching, gave a few more strokes to cut through the much smaller fibula, then quickly pulled the man’s leg free of his body and held it high above his head like some sort of grotesque, organic trophy.

  Then he wiped the sweat from his face with his shoulder and hopped off the gurney.

  When the man caught sight of what was in Dr. Shaw’s hands, his screams reached a fever pitch. And then, unbelievably, he started to sit up.

  Dr. Shaw jammed the limb into the ice bucket and then ran to the door to the operating room. Nurse Justine tried to follow, but the man had regained enough use of his hand to reach up and grab a handful of her dry, blonde hair. Her eyes bulged and she shouted something, but with the adrenaline pumping in his ears, Dr. Shaw couldn’t make out the words.

  He used the keycard on his hip to open the door, then pulled it wide, turning back one final time.

  Justine was trying to smack the man’s hands away, but he was too strong. There was no way that she would be able to fight him off, especially with the way his thick fingers were wrapped and twisted in her hair.

  It was too bad; Dr. Shaw needed the help.

  But Justine surprised him by yanking with her neck, and a huge clump of her hair and some of her scalp peeled away. A moment later, she was standing beside him again, and together they stepped out of the room, allowing the door to quickly close behind them, beeping as it locked.

  Justine brought a hand to the back of her head as she watched the man. When she pulled it away, her fingers were red with blood, but this did nothing to knock the grin off her face.

  “Let’s go,” Dr. Shaw ordered. “There is more work to do tonight. Much more work.”

  Chapter 17

  They walked three abreast down the hallway, keeping a good six or seven feet between them and the woman who had introduced herself as Nurse Justine.

  “Listen, uh, Justine?” Cal asked hesitantly. His hand was still locked on the crowbar tucked beneath his bathrobe.

  “Yes?” she replied without turning.

  With every step, her hair shifted a bit, and Robert noticed that there was a patch missing at the back. An area that she had tried, but failed, to completely cover by brushing.

  “I think you might have us confused with someone else. We aren’t patients of the Seventh Ward.”

  Justine stopped and the trio immediately followed suit. Then she slowly turned to face them.

  “You sure about that? I mean, if you aren’t patients, then what exactly are you doing here?”

  Robert glanced quickly to Shelly, but she just shrugged. He opened his mouth to say something, but took his time, hoping that Cal would interject. After all, he was the one who had started this dialogue.

  “Ah, I’m just messing with you. I know why you’re here,” she said with a grin.

  Alive or dead, there was something very wrong with this woman.

  “You do?” Robert asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Yes, of course.” She squinted one eye and then aimed a finger at Cal. “You are…Cal.” She pointed to Shelly next. “You’re Shelly.” She stopped at Robert, her smile growing. “And, of course, you’re Robert Watts.”

  Robert gaped.

  It was a setup; that bastard Sean set us up to be trapped here with this psychopath.

  Justine laughed.

  “Like I told you, the doc—”

  “Who told you our names?” Robert demanded, his throat suddenly incredibly dry. When she didn’t answer, and instead swiveled on her heels and started to waddle away, they stood their ground.

  “Hey!” Shelly suddenly shouted. “How’d you know our names? Did Sean tell you?”

  Justine stopped, but didn’t turn this time.

  “Sean? Don’t know a Sean. It was Leland who told me.”

  “Leland?” Cal asked, his voice but a whisper. “Who the fuck is Leland?”

  Justine sighed.

  “Leland Black…” When none of them responded to the name, Justine sighed. “You might know him better as the Goat, though.”

  Robert’s blood suddenly turned into ice in his veins.

  A flash of James Harlop, the poker embedded in his skull, reaching down and grasping his hands flashed in his mind.

  Your wife is here…so is the Goat. And he’s coming…

  “Goat?” Cal asked, shaking his head. He looked around. “Last time I checked, this ain’t Old Mc-fucking-Donald’s farm here. What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Cal turned to Robert for support.

  “Shit! Robert? You okay?”

  Robert still couldn’t move, haunted by the words that James Harlop had first said, and Justine had repeated.

  It’s a setup. It has to be.

  Justine spoke up.

  “You should ask Robert about the Goat, he’ll tell ya.”

  Now it was Shelly’s turn to interrupt.

  “What the hell is she talking about, Robert?”

  When Robert just continued to gape, fear coursing through his every capillary, she elbowed him hard in the side and he finally snapped out of it.

  “Robbo? What the fuck is she talking about?”

  “It’s just—” He struggled to get the words out. “It’s just—I dunno, it’s just something that James Harlop said to me before—”

  He caught himself before saying, before he took me to the Marrow.

  “—before I bound him to the fireplace poker.”

  Shelly squinted, a clear indication that she wasn’t buying his story. But before she could press him, the nurse whistled.

  “Come on now. You can share stories some other time—we don’t want to be late. Like I said, the doctor has one hell of a temper.”

  Robert exchanged a look with Shelly, who shook her head.

  “We aren’t going anywhere. Tell this doctor…this Dr. Shaw, if he wants to see us, he’s going to have to come to here.”

  Justine’s expression didn’t falter as she turned and ap
proached one of the several identical doors that lined the inner hallway. She used her keycard to unlock it, then held it open expectantly.

  “As I said, Dr. Shaw is busy with one of the other patients. He’ll be ready for you soon, though. Please step inside your room.”

  Justine had an unnerving smile on her face, a look that made Robert squirm.

  Something is very, very wrong with this woman.

  “I think…you’re off your fucking rocker if you think we are going into that cell,” Cal said. In his periphery, Robert saw the hand behind his back start to move, threatening to pull out the crowbar. Robert grabbed his shoulder, staying him.

  The last thing he wanted to see was this portly nurse bludgeoned to death in the Seventh Ward, no matter how weird she was. That would just give them another ghost to purge.

  If she was alive, that is—and Robert still wasn’t certain either way.

  A howl, a dry, aching sound that was only remotely human, suddenly filled the entire hallway. Robert instinctively cowered, his grip tightening on Cal’s shoulder. Shelly slid next to him.

  “What in God’s name was that?” Robert whispered breathlessly.

  “I warned you, Dr. Shaw is with a patient now. But he’ll be done soon. And he won’t be happy if you aren’t in your cell.”

  Robert, still trembling from the roar, replied quickly, “And I told you, we aren’t going in there.”

  Shelly laughed again.

  “It’s not for you—the three of you—it’s just for you, Robert.”

  “Fuck this,” Cal whispered. “No amount of money is worth all this craziness. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Shelly made a face, as if to say, I fucking told you this was going to be messed up. That it wasn’t a joke, or a game.

  “I’m not—”

  At long last, the grin on Justine’s face faded. It was replaced with something akin to sadness.

  “Please, there’s someone in there that wants to see you. She says she missed you.”

  Robert’s heart began to race again.

  “Wha—who?” He took an unconscious step forward, his hand snaking into his front pocket, fingering the picture therein.

  Even before Justine replied, however, Robert knew the answer.

  “Your daughter, silly. Amy’s in there.”

  Robert immediately moved toward the door. In the back of his mind, he knew that this was a mistake, probably just a trick, but he was helpless to stop himself.

  He had seen Amy after death, and with what little they knew about the Marrow, maybe it was possible that she could come back.

  And what he wouldn’t give to see her again.

  No matter how unlikely this scenario, the possibility was enough to propel him forward.

  Cal grabbed the back of his arm, but he shrugged the man off.

  “It’s a trick, Robbo. Stay here!”

  But Robert’s rational mind had abandoned him.

  Still keeping his distance from Justine, peered into the room. But as he splayed the beam of light into the room, the flashlight suddenly flickered and went out.

  Just as the lights had done in the Harlop house all those months ago.

  His heart skipped a beat, remembering what Shelly had said about the strange relationship between the quiddity and lights.

  Maybe she is here.

  “Robert! Robert, get back here!”

  Robert turned, but time had slowed, and he suddenly felt dizzy

  Shelly and Cal were sprinting toward him, but despite their alarm, something in the back of his mind told him that he should go inside the room.

  That he had to go in the room, for Amy’s sake.

  “Go inside, the doctor’s almost ready for you,” Justine said gently.

  Now on the threshold of the room, Robert turned his back to his friends. The flashlight blinked on again, only for a second, illuminating the beige walls. Squinting against the bright light, he caught sight of a small pink-and-purple bunny rabbit propped up on a wooden chair in the corner.

  “Mr. Gregorius!” he shouted.

  He ran for it, but when he squeezed its soft stomach, a stark realization hit him.

  It wasn’t Mr. Gregorius; it was just a plain, dollar store stuffed rabbit.

  Robert turned toward the door just in time to hear the lock engage. It beeped once, and then Justine’s face filled the small rectangular glass window.

  She was smiling again, and like in the basement of the Harlop Estate, Robert was once again alone.

  Chapter 18

  NINE YEARS AGO

  A loud thump from one of the other rooms distracted Dr. Andrew Shaw and his hand slipped, driving the suture too deep into the man’s leg.

  “Fucking hell,” he murmured from between clenched teeth. He used his shoulder to wipe away a bead of sweat before it fell into his eye, and then pulled the thick suture out of the man’s skin and reset it. He was just about to loop it again when the thump hammered the wall again.

  “Fuck, Justine, you wanna do something about that?” He cranked his neck to look at the doughy woman, who was hovering predictably over his shoulder. “Justine?”

  “Huh, what?” she asked, her grin becoming a startled expression.

  Dr. Shaw pressed his lips together tightly, trying to keep his emotions in check. It would do him no good to fly off the handle, especially while Justine still held some value.

  “The noise. Go make the man stop thumping on the wall.”

  Justine just stared at him for a moment as if trying to decipher his words. It wasn’t the first time she had acted this way; sometimes her mind just seemed to lock up even with the simplest of instructions.

  He tied off the suture, then put the needle down on the gurney and surveyed his work. It wasn’t perfect—far from it—and the fact that the man’s twin had awoken during the amputation hadn’t helped any. As it was, Andrew thought that this leg was a little shorter than the other, but it would have to do.

  With a heavy sigh, he turned back to Justine, who was still standing there expectantly.

  “Just go over there. Make him stop so that I can concentrate. I don’t care how you do it. Just make him stop.”

  The nurse finally seemed to understand and she swiveled on her heels, a sloppy, uncoordinated movement, and then went to the door. Before she pulled it wide, however, Dr. Shaw spoke again.

  “Shut him up. I’ll be over there soon…almost done here.”

  Justine nodded and then left the room, leaving Dr. Shaw alone with his current patient.

  For the tools that I have? Not too shabby. Not too shabby at all.

  The skin tone didn’t quite match—the lower half was a little darker than the upper—which was odd considering that the donor was his twin. Maybe one had just come back from vacation?

  Dr. Shaw shook his head.

  Aesthetics didn’t matter. What mattered was proving his theory. Proving Dr. Mansfield wrong.

  His chest suddenly started to itch, and he used his gloved hand to scratch at the think pink scar that ran from his throat nearly to his navel.

  There’s someone in here with me.

  Those had been Andrew’s words, not Dr. Shaw’s, but they held so much meaning, so much power.

  A smile crossed Dr. Shaw’s lips as he thought back to the last time that Andrew had surfaced, nearly five years ago.

  That had been a productive day, as not only had Andrew been buried, but it was also the first time he had killed.

  His eyes clouded over as he remembered…

  “Fuck! Andrew, go take care of that woman!” Dr. Mansfield shouted.

  Something inside him clicked, just like it had after the transplant and after his attendant had screamed at him. He could feel the other person inside him start to rise, to bubble to the surface.

  Andrew walked slowly, trying to keep the other at bay, to remain in control. It was a constant struggle, because he was there—Dr. Shaw was always there…watching…waiting for just the right moment to rise
up.

  The lights in Mrs. Dupius’s room were off, which was strange, as the patients never had control of their own lights. Andrew’s hand found the switch, but when he flicked it up and down, the room remained dark.

  What the fuck?

  By squinting hard, he could just barely make out Mrs. Dupuis’s outline on the bed. Her sheets had been balled up and tossed on the floor, and her hands were off to her sides, suggesting that she was asleep.

  Wasn’t she just screaming? Was it her? Could it have been someone else?

  Andrew wondered if perhaps sheer exhaustion from her near constant fits over the past few days had finally taken over. With this in mind, he moved closer to the bed, while at the same time looking about the room as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.

  He was nearly beside the plain wooden bed when he realized that Mrs. Dupuis was completely naked.

  Holy—

  Embarrassed, Andrew looked away, his face immediately reddening. He was about to turn and leave the room, to let one of the nurses know that Mrs. Dupuis needed dressing, when she moved, drawing his eyes back.

  The elderly woman was staring directly at him, her eyes wide, somehow bright despite the dim lighting.

  “Jesus,” he gasped, startled by the sudden movement. He was about to move away, when her hand darted out with speed that belied her age. Before he could react, her fingers locked onto his balls and squeezed.

  He cried out, but she squeezed even harder, stopping the sound before it could leave his throat.

  “I want you to fuck me,” she demanded, her voice nearly sinister. “I want you to fuck me hard.”

  Andrew swallowed, and his eyes moved down her eighty-year-old nude body, Dr. Mansfield’s words echoing in his head.

  Go to the fucking room and take care of her!

  Confusion started to pass over him in waves.

  Dr. Mansfield couldn’t have meant that, could he?

  Mrs. Dupuis’s tongue darted out of her mouth and flapped rapidly, her eyes seeming to grow even larger.

  Andrew’s eyes moved about the room, trying to find inspiration or answers in something, anything. But as his gaze passed the square window over the door, he spotted the nurse’s cart. There was a reflective object on top, sticking half out of a blue bedpan.