The Hospital

The Hospital
Lucy’s POV

“Are you in a cab right now?” he demanded ignoring my question.

“Yes,” I answered almost immediately as though his voice compelled me to reply.

He swore softly under his breath. “Pass the phone to the driver, Lucy.”

“What’s going on? Is everything fine?” Suspicion prickled along my skin. Why is he treating me like a child? Why was he so pissed? We weren’t married or anything. He’d only moved in a couple of days ago…right? Or had it been longer? 

The timeline suddenly felt slippery the more I tried to concentrate and think. 

Ethan was acting like he owned me, like every step I took needed his permission. Although I love my man a little obsessed and possessive, there is definitely something off here. 

I tightened my fists in my lap. “I’m not a child, Ethan. I can handle this alone.”

“Lucy.” He said my name angrily, the syllable twisting with something dark and commanding that gripped my body like invisible hands. For a split second, it sounded too much like the viscous, wet voice from outside the bedroom door this morning…the one that had begged and banged and gurgled. 

I gulped hard as the memory resurfaced.

He softened immediately like he was trying his best to be calm. “I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated from work and you’re being difficult. I want to be there for you, but you’re choosing to do this alone and it’s making me feel weak.”

How does that make sense? I stayed confused, mind racing, but exhaled slowly. It’s Ethan. Ethan means well. He was there when everyone else abandoned me. 

He’s my first real green flag after years of searching. He hadn’t given me any solid reason to doubt him…so why should I?

Just as I reached the phone toward the front seat, an announcement that had me frozen crackled over the cab’s radio.

Ethan’s voice called out from the speaker, insistent, but I froze, phone hovering mid air. 

No…no… It can’t be. This must be a mistake.

I pulled the phone back as I immediately hung up and stared at the screen. The time read 1:30 p.m. The date: 17th of September.

Phew. For a second there I almost thought I had lost my mind.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “What’d you say, miss? Are you good?”

I laughed awkwardly, the sound brittle. “Nothing, sir. Wasn’t talking to you. Just… the announcement on the radio was wrong. They said it was the 22nd of November, but it’s actually the 17th of September. How could they get it wrong?” I asked, a dry laugh bubbling out of my throat.

The driver laughed, a genuine belly chuckle. “You joking, miss? It’s the 22nd of November. Today’s Thursday, 22nd November. They are correct.”

I froze as my eyes widened in disbelief and confusion. The words landed like ice water poured straight into my veins. 

A sharp, distorted pain exploded behind my eyes…high-frequency images flashing too fast to grasp…blood-slick garage floors, Ethan’s smile glitching like static, river water pouring from open mouths, dates overlapping impossibly, nights bleeding into mornings that never happened. The memories…or whatever they were…flooded in violent bursts, tearing through my skull. My head  spun violently as my vision tunneled.

Then everything went black.

Almost immediately, the world dissolved into wet darkness and the slap of river water against stone as though I was dragged into another dimension.

I was running barefoot through fog so thick it clung like wet cloth to my skin. The ground was slick with mud and something thicker…dark rivulets that stained my ankles. 

My breath came in ragged gasps, throat raw from earlier screams I couldn’t quite remember. Behind me, heavy dragging sounds echoed, punctuated by the wet plip-plip-plip of droplets falling from bloated flesh.

“Lucy…” The voice was everywhere, layered, gurgling through waterlogged lungs. “Turn back. Go home. We have to finish what we started.”

I didn’t look back. Couldn’t. But the footsteps…multiple now…gained on me. Shadows peeled away from the alley walls, faceless things with hunched shoulders and elongated limbs. They had haunted my dreams for weeks…silent watchers in the corners of rooms, breathing wetly just out of sight. Tonight they had faces. Or rather, one face.

Ethan’s face.

He stepped out of the mist ahead of me, blocking the narrow path between crumbling brick walls. But it wasn’t the Ethan I knew. 

His skin was mottled gray and swollen, water streaming from his mouth and nostrils in steady sheets. His eyes were milky, pupils gone, yet they tracked me perfectly. A slow, loving smile split his lips, revealing teeth stained brown with silt.

“You feel so good when you’re scared,” he whispered, voice twisting into that viscous, doubled timbre from where he stood. 

One of the other faceless monsters peeled its featureless head back like wet paper, revealing Ethan’s face underneath. Another did the same. Then another. They were all him. Every single one.

What the hell?

I skidded to a halt, feet slipping in the muck. “Ethan…no, please—”

He lunged. Not walked…lunged, joints cracking unnaturally. His hands stretched toward me, fingers elongating into thin, bony talons veined with black rot, nails splitting as they grew longer, reaching, reaching. The skin on his arms tore with wet pops, revealing glistening muscle underneath as his limbs extended far beyond human limits.

I screamed and bolted sideways, crashing through a rusted gate into an open lot that smelled of decay and old blood. 

The other Ethans followed, their bodies bloating and deflating with each wet breath, kidneys missing from gaping surgical wounds in their sides…clean, precise cuts where organs should have been. One of them laughed, the sound bubbling up like drowning.

“Lucy…it doesn’t matter how fast you run. I’ve chosen you. You’re mine now. You can’t hide from me, Lucy bear,” the voice drawled coldly and teasingly.

His hand shot out again, impossibly long now, bony fingers brushing my hair. I felt the cold, slimy touch…

I screamed, thrashing violently, and my eyes flew open.

Bright fluorescent lights burned overhead. Hands…many hands…pinned my shoulders and legs to a narrow bed. I bucked against them, heart slamming against my ribs, still half-convinced the river and the stretching fingers were real.

“Easy! Easy, miss…we’ve got you!” A woman’s voice, professional but strained.

I blinked rapidly, chest heaving. White walls. Beeping monitors. IV lines tugging at my arm. Nurses in scrubs surrounded me, one muttering to another, “She’s been like this since they brought her in…delirious.” 

A doctor in a white coat leaned over me, shining a small light into my left eye, then my right. The beam stabbed straight into my skull.

“What… what’s going on? How did I get here?” My voice came out a cracked whisper, throat like sandpaper. “Where am I?”

The doctor clicked the flashlight off and slipped it into his coat pocket. He touched my forehead gently with the back of his hand, then stepped back with a soft, reassuring smile. 

“You’re at Central Hospital. I’m Dr. Russ. You were brought in by a cab driver who said you fainted in his vehicle. Gave us quite a scare with those convulsions.”

Convulsions? I was literally almost torn apart by a couple of Ethans!

Memory slammed back just then…the radio announcement. November 22nd. My phone saying September 17th. The pain. The flood of impossible images.

I jerked upright…or tried to, but the nurses held me firmly as hysteria clawed up my throat. 

“No…no, you don’t understand. I think I’m losing my mind.” My eyes were wide, wild, darting between their concerned faces. 

“Just last week…or was it two weeks ago? I had the most terrible layoff. This crazy married man didn’t tell me he was married, and I was accused of being a slut and a home wrecker. The whole internet ate it up, pictures, comments, everything. I was drowning in it. Then Ethan came and saved the day. He’s been my knight in shining armor ever since. That was September. Even my phone says it’s September! Why did the driver say it’s November? How can a whole month pass and I didn’t realize it?!”

They stared at me. The nurses exchanged glances…the kind people give when someone has clearly cracked…except I haven’t. One older nurse whispered something about “possible psychosis” or “trauma response.” Dr. Russ’s soft smile faltered into professional neutrality immediately.

Then, as if someone had snapped their fingers, the room erupted into hurried motion.

“Prepare 2mg lorazepam IV,” Dr. Russ ordered sharply. “We need to calm her down before she she starts hurting herself.”

Hurting myself? When did I ever?!

“Wait…listen to me!” I cried, struggling harder. Tears streamed down my face. “Why is no one listening to me? Something is wrong! I don’t want to sleep…the nightmares are horrible. Please, don’t—”