The Cursed Man (20 page)

“No,” Anna said. “They're not. It's time you let them go.”

“I can't,” Alister said. “They're a part of me.”

Anna shook the bottle of pills she held. The contents rattled loudly and held Alister's attention. He held his head up off the pillow. “I need you to take one pill every day. If you skip a dose, I will have it administered. They will help control the hallucinations.” Anna placed the pills down on the windowsill.

“I'm not hallucinating,” Alister said. “I would like to ask you for one thing,” Alister said as he attempted to chase an itch on his scalp. The restraints didn't budge. “I have an itch.”

“Where?” Anna asked, and she moved to Alister's side.

“Above my left ear,” Alister said, the desperation quickening his words.

Anna scratched where Alister requested. “I'm assuming this wasn't what you wanted to ask for? What is it you'd like to ask?”

“I would like you to take me to see the director or bring him here. There are a few questions I would like to ask him.”

“What do you want to ask him?”

“I want to know if he blames me for the death of his friends and if I've ever been sick.”

“OK,” Anna said. Anna stood and moved toward the door.  She opened it and said, “Bruce, can you undo the patient's restraints and escort us to the director's office?”

“To the director's office?” the voice coming from the hallway said. The voice was deep.

“That's right. The patient has requested to see him, and I cannot find reason to deny that request.”

Bruce entered the room. He stood tall and wide, and he breathed heavily. A strong smell of sweat and garlic followed him and quickly overtook the room.

“Now, don't you try and give us any trouble,” Bruce said, and he unbound Alister's hands and legs.

“I'm not looking to,” Alister said as he rubbed the impressions the straps left in his flesh. “I just want to see the director.”

 

 

Alister stood behind Anna, and he could hear Bruce wheezing close behind him and smell garlic mixed with sweat. The smell was like a toxic assault designed to attack the senses. This reminded him of the officers gagging as they weaved through the pile of garbage inside his darkened house.

Anna knocked on the door and backed up a step, grinding her heel into Alister's toe. Alister groaned, and Anna quickly lifted her foot.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, and the director shouted for her to enter the room. She turned her attention to the door and, as instructed, she entered the small office. Bruce stepped in front of Alister, and Alister followed him inside.

Director Conroy sat at his desk buried behind a stack of papers. His eyes peered over the mound focusing strictly on Anna. “Dr. Lee,” he said, sounding pleased to see her. “How is the progress with Alister coming along?”

“Well,” Anna said with a hint of reluctance, “that's why I'm here.” She reached behind Bruce and took hold of Alister by the arm. She pulled him forward and said, “He requested to speak with you.”

The director slowly stood and appraised Alister as he walked from behind his desk. Alister kept his eyes trained forward, hoping the director would lose his cool and throttle him for all his loss.

“I can't tell you how happy we are to see you up and about,” the director said with a wide smile. “Dr. Lee has been reporting all the progress you have made.”

The director pointed to a chair positioned in front of his desk. “Please,” he said, “have a seat.”

Alister wrestled with his confusion and the idea that his memories were not reality. He looked to Anna for an answer, but she was looking back at him for the same thing.

“Go ahead and sit,” she said. “This is your chance to ask any questions you might have.”

“Questions?” the director asked, looking to Anna. He turned his attention to Alister. “You have some questions for me?” He moved to his seat and sat. “I would love to hear anything you might have to say.”

Alister looked to Anna and Bruce and returned his gaze to the director. He swallowed hard and tried steadying his nerves. “Do you still blame me for the death of your friends?”

The director looked to Anna then back to Alister. “The death of what friends, Alister?”

Alister shifted in his seat. He began picking at the scarred flesh on his palm. “Your doctor friends and the former director. They all died when I first came here to Sunnyside.”

The director shook his head. “No, Alister. I've been the director here for over twenty-five years, and none of my staff died because of you. The director before me retired and now lives in Maine.”

Alister continued to explore the grotesque mound of flesh, finding his attention becoming more fixated on the dimples, swirls and discoloration within the scarring. “I suppose you're going to tell me I've been sick before?”

“As in the common cold or flu?” the director said.

Alister shook his head.

The director rested his elbows on his desk and moved his hands as he spoke. “Yes, you've been sick before, but I can assure you it's no more than your average patient. Although we do try and keep the facility as clean as possible, visitors and staff bring germs in from outside.”

Alister held his palms out to show the director his scars. “Can you tell me how this happened?”

The director looked over Alister's shoulder where Anna stood. The director returned his attention to Alister.  “You chewed them. We had to fit you with a leather device that wrapped your head and cupped your chin. We had to leave that device on you for weeks.” The director interlaced his fingers and leaned toward Alister. “Do you not remember having this conversation with me only a month ago?”

Alister shook his head. “No, because I haven't spoken to you ever.”

“Well,” the director said as he sat back, “you've given me that same answer before.”

Alister thought about protesting but didn't see the sense in it. There was a certainty that the director would be insistent he was having a hard time discerning real memories from those merely imagined. “Can you take me back to my room now?” Alister said. “I'm not feeling well and would like some time to lie down.”

“Would you like to see the doctor?” the director said.

“No,” Alister said.

“Bruce,” Anna said from somewhere behind Alister. “Can you escort the patient to his room?”

Bruce helped Alister to his feet, and the director stood with him.

“You've come a long way, Alister,” the director said with a smile. “You should be proud.”

 

 

 

The vegetation that continued to flourish in the garden held Alister's attention. He pressed his face against the glass and clenched his jaw.

“It'll never last.”

“What won't last?” Bruce asked. He had escorted Alister to his room after meeting with Director Conroy.

“Everything being so alive outside.” He moved away from the window. “It is all going to brown again, and that will force Anna to cover my window.”

Bruce pursed his lips, shook his head and looked away. “You should try and get some rest.”

Alister sat in his chair. “I'm not tired.” He crossed his legs. “I'm curious to know why I've never met you before.” He folded his hands in his lap and looked at Bruce with a forced smile.

Bruce made no attempt to hide his amusement. He moved to the window and pointed toward the bench in the garden. “I think we've seen each other before. I believe I waved hello to you from over there, but you ignored me.”

The memory widened Alister's eyes. “You were the guy in the garden digging holes for the plants.” He stood. “But you're a patient.”

“Don't be silly, Alister,” Bruce said. He walked to the door, opened it and stepped into the hallway. He looked left and right and turned back to Alister. “You have no idea how crazy you sound sometimes.”

The door closed, and Alister listened to Bruce's laughter fade. He moved to the bed and, lying prone, he began to count out loud. He planned to stop when he reached a thousand. Tired of the lies and constant confusion, he decided the best way to get the truth was by becoming proactive.

 

 

Alister extended his count to fifteen hundred before he got out of bed and moved toward the door. He peeled away the corner of the paper that covered the small window and scanned what little he could see of the hallway.

“It is time to get some answers,” he said.

Confident the hallway was unoccupied, he pulled the door open enough to fit his head through. He looked left and right, and everything was clear.

He drew a deep breath, stepped into the hallway, paused and listened. The complete silence kept him still. No moans, no screams. No doctors or orderlies moved about.

There should be screams, shouldn't there?

He trudged forward and settled in front of a door directly across the hall from his. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he peered into the small pane of glass. The contents of the room were almost identical to his. It had a small table pushed against the wall, a twin-size bed and a chair positioned in front of a window. There was an obvious outline of a person that sat in the chair and remained still.

Alister raised his knuckles to the door and paused. “No,” he said, and he lowered his hand.

He turned away from the door and started to walk down the hallway.

“Keep your thoughts straight.”

When Bruce had escorted him back to his room from the director's office, he was determined to memorize every turn, fire extinguisher and numbered room.

“Now let's see how good my memory really is.”

 

 

When he arrived at the director's office door, Alister didn't hesitate. He twisted the handle and pushed the door open. The lights in the room were off, and the closed blinds allowed slivers of horizontal beams of sunlight bathe the director's desk in a blinding brilliance that cast eerie shadows. Director Conroy was seated behind his desk, facedown with arms spread wide on the desktop.

“Director Conroy?” Alister said. “May I have a moment of your time?”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The director didn't stir, and Alister edged toward him.

“Director Conroy?”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He paused.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Alister crept closer still.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A stream of blood that came from the director's nose stained his upper lip and glistened in the strange light. Alister stood over him, unsure what to do.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Where is that coming from?”

A small pool of blood that surrounded the director's head brought Alister close to the director, to his knees and then underneath the desk.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The blood dripped off the desk and into an open drawer that held a book. Alister took possession of the book and inspected it. It was old and smelled that way, too. The overstuffed binding was split and pages hung out, unattached.

“You shouldn't be out of your room.”

Alister jumped back and dropped the book. Newspaper clippings, photos and other unidentifiable contents spilled out onto the floor. He turned toward the door with wide eyes, and the powerful thump of his heart hammered inside his chest.

“You need to return to your room and pretend you never saw this,” Michael said. He closed the office door.

“Is she making you do this?” Alister said.

The sweat reflected off of Michael's head, and his skin was so pale he appeared to glow in the dark.

Alister picked up a photograph that had fallen out of the book and held it in the light. It was his precious Becca wrapped in a towel. Her lips were blue and her eyes partly open.  “It's all true, isn't it?”

“It is.”  Michael took a step forward. “And she warned me not to talk to you about it. She has my wife and daughter.”

Alister saw that same desperate expression staring back at him once before. It was in the mirror the day he placed the gun in his mouth and it misfired.

“She's evil,” Michael said. “She's going to torture them.”

Alister examined the photograph and saw his wife lying in a pool of blood, her wrists slashed. He looked away from the photo. He leaned against the desk and tried to catch his breath.

“Has she begun to kill again?” Alister said.

Michael looked over his shoulder, his focus toward the door. “Keep your voice low. I don't know where she is, and I don't want to think about what will happen if she finds us in here with him.” He gestured toward the director.

Alister dropped the photograph. “The killings?” he asked. His teeth showed and a sudden surge of defiance helped him stand upright. “I want you to tell me everything you know about the killings or I'll start shouting. I swear I will.”

 

 

 

 

The past.

 

Compressors rattled loudly and made the floor vibrate. Michael leaned against the wall to rest his hip, which thundered with pain. The intense heat of the boilers working to warm the entire hospital brought sweat to his brow, and the smell of oil was strong. He covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief.

 “Michael do this, Michael do that,” he said as he shined a flashlight on the low hanging pipes and made his way to the compressors. He examined the machinery as he hobbled by it, looking for obvious signs of a malfunction. A leak, smoke, fire, anything that might tell him in his limited knowledge that there might be a problem.

“Now I'm a maintenance man, too. Why don't they get themselves a replacement when he goes on vacation?”

He came upon a boiler butted against Terry's makeshift wall. A cool breeze touched Michael's arm, and he shined his light down the tunnel, which consumed it.