Friday Fiction: The Murder in Ward 23

In this weekly series called ‘Friday Fiction’, I challenge myself to write 500 words every Friday, using a ‘fictional story’ prompt and publish my work (whether it is good or not!). I hope this will work the writing muscle and also reduce the fear of putting my writing out into the world.

Today’s prompt: Horror, for halloween. A very very short spooky scene, more than a short story!

She first saw him at the hospital. Ward 23. 3:05am. Sarah’s time of death. A nearby machine beeped like a relentless alarm clock, the only sound in the ward. Not a shuffle, or gust of wind, or even the sound of snoring from the beds beside her. The beeping kept her alert, and she was glad of it. Hailey had not slept fully since ‘the event’. Which makes it sound like a gig or a birthday party, she realised. A murder is an event, she supposed. Just not the type you would like to attend. She knew that all too well. It was more of a feeling that alerted her to his presence. Not a shiver, like she might have expected. More like…nausea. Bile rose in her throat, and she found herself unable to move, just like the first time they met. She was disappointed in herself for freezing again, but this time it felt physical and not psychological. Like she couldn’t move her arms if her brain wanted her to. She wanted to run and run and run. This time, however, she knew that it wouldn’t help her. The curtain around her bed twitched, opened slowly. As the gap widened, she saw him. Piercing black eyes, manic grin, cheekbones slicing the sides of a gaunt face. He was clean-shaven, skin pale as paper, and he was staring into her soul, daring her to make eye contact. When she could avoid his eye no more, his smile widened, like he’d found a prize. The curtain rippled again, and she begged her ridged body to move, do something, as she saw a glint of a sharp object. Recognition dropped within her, a bag of sand to the stomach. Someone coughed, breaking her trance. Then she coughed too, it was all she could think to do, and found that she could move her arms. Quickly, she jumped down from the bed and instinctively began to run, forgetting about her broken ankle. After a few strides, hot pain had begun to sear up the length of her leg and she screamed out in agony. A young nurse ran out from a nearby room. Hailey, screaming a warning, looked frantically around in all directions, but the corridor was empty. The same nurse helped her hobble to wheelchair and took her back to bed. Her screams had subsided and immediate fear was replaced with a chilling realisation. No, he would not chase her, not this time. Dead people don’t chase, they haunt.

The same young nurse from down the corridor took her back to bed that night and placated her for an hour, attempting to soothe with inane chatter, painkillers and sleeping pills. The latter worked best. Whilst similar in age, and in fact, rather similar in appearance too – tall and slim, dark hair and freckles – the nurse adopted a comforting mothering role that night, stroking her hair until she fell into a deep, medically-induced sleep. She was aware that the nurse would know who she was. The girl who was admitted yesterday after witnessing the violent murder of her best friend, and who had escaped narrowly herself. A competitive athlete who would likely never run again due to a horrific ankle injury the same night. The girl who screamed that she could see ghost of the dead serial killer who killed her best friend.

The nurse was found dead the next morning. She threw herself out of the window. Video footage showed no-one beside her, just sleeping patients. Suicide. But Hailey knew. The nameless man with the blade would not stop until his final challenge was complete. She begged to be discharged, tried to explain what had happened, that she was putting everyone in danger. She had tried to escape her bed three times, crushing her shattered bones further, the pain unbearable. She was sent to the psych ward instead. That night, the ward was not silent. The terrified screams comforted her, a demonstration of her inner turmoil. She could not cry, but her body convulsed with constant shivers. When the lights went out, she waited. She thought of Sarah’s bloodied body, then nurse’s kind eyes. The digital clock on her bed side showed the glowing red numbers: 3:05am.