The Patient in Room 2120 : Scary Stories – Short Horror Story

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“Medical Alert. Code Blue. Adult. Rapid Response Team. Room 2120.”

The measured, artificial voice from the intercom sounds stale with nonchalance.

One more check on a bingo card. No drama. No bustle. Objective as the wet shine of the ward’s polished vinyl floors.

But I know better. I’m a ghost here. I know about the patient in Room 2120.

Gabriel, a small Filipino man, lithe as a ferret, strides across the floor toward Room 2120. His sharp brown eyes hook me as he passes, almost as though he can see me, then just as quickly release me.

Gabriel heaves at the heavy wooden door that inches open with a strange pneumatic whoosh.

The thunk of the door closing can’t mute the sudden sound of a chorus of screams caught in a tornado. And the thrash of … of a broad white wing?

Angelene, the charge nurse, a black woman armored in her authority, stares into space at me.

“I’m not a troublemaker, but I can spot a troublemaker,” she growls.

I told you I know about the patient in Room 2120. I guess that’s not quite true.

We’re on the fourth floor of the hospital in the step-down unit. It’s a level of care somewhere between ICU and the General Ward.

And sometimes it’s the only place left for Containment.

The pneumatic whoosh envelops Angelene as she steps into Room 2120. No more screams.

I stash myself in an empty room. It’s 3 a.m. and quiet. Outside, the full moon casts a spectral wind against cumulus clouds that inch glacier-like across the horizon.

When you’re a ghost, you’re about as significant as a dustball to the living. You draw your last breath, and you’re of no more consequence to the material world.

I’m trapped on this ward where I died. I always feel so cold.

When you’re a ghost, though, you hear things. You see things. They don’t try to hide them. Even the ones who know you’re there.

The concourse between heaven and earth isn’t always a smooth pathway.

We have oddballs. Eccentrics. Most of them wind up here.

Can you kill a celestial? It takes the gravitational force of a black hole to wrench the ghost out of an immortal.

I don’t know exactly who the patient in Room 2120 is. But I know what he is.

Soon he’ll be like me.

I’m a vial now. A ghostly vial. No wings. No muscled arm that brandishes the light of a supernova.

The whole hospital seems to shift in on itself. A tremor shudders through the walls.

I sink into myself, too.

That awful wail commences. Even the thick wooden doors can’t diminish it.

A blackness obtrudes, gushes from the walls, wells from the floor. It glistens, too, like the skin of an eel. It shivers and twists.

My lungless howl joins with the screams of the patient in Room 2120.

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