The Grey Girl, The Van Tassel Murders

Annoyed, Lewis wheezed as he rubbed his eyes. Something had awakened him. Judging by the blackness outside, mixed with the stillness of the hospital, he guessed it was close to 3 a.m. It had a past-midnight-yet-not-quite-dawn feel to it. Surveying his stark room, he found nothing that seemed out of place. The pictures were still taped to the wall. His bed was where it always was. The small table was in the exact same place. But something was definitely not right. It was then he realized his door was open.

At the same moment, he found he was no longer bound by his restraints. “No, not again,” he moaned, raising himself up to a seated position. It was a monumental achievement. Lewis couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had been able to do that on his own. Movement out of the corner of his eye sent ice cascading down his spine. He sat, pretending he hadn’t seen it: the hint of a child’s dress. His heart went from frozen to pounding as an echoing giggle drifted down the hall. “Come back to torment me for my inaction?” Lewis struggled to gain his feet. His spindly legs carried him in a slow shuffle toward the doorway. A sudden scream froze his feet, clenching at his heart.

He moved as quickly as he could, his legs seeming to grow slightly stronger the more he used them. Before he knew it, he was two doors down from his room. The hall was barely lit; only every third fixture hummed its weak fluorescent glow. This had bothered him at first, as it never allowed for darkness to fill his room. Now he thanked the lights for turning back some of the shadows. His old heart beat painfully against his ancient ribs. It pounded so fast and hard he was sure it was going to either burst or break his chest.

Giggles bounced off the walls, coming from everywhere and nowhere. He couldn’t be sure now if they came from in front or behind. Using the wall for the support, he turned slowly. His foot slipped on something wet. Horror filled his sunken features when he glanced down see that his slippered foot had smeared blood across the floor. More crimson seeped from under the door. He watched it fill in where he had disturbed it. Shuffling quickly, he turned to see his own trail in blood chasing him. A tear slipped from his nearly blind left eye. Fear crawled up his spine like a lethargic tarantula.

Lewis no longer wanted to be out of his room. He no longer wanted his limbs free. Why would the orderlies have done this? Everyone knew he was a murderer, but they also knew he was old and frail. There was no way anyone would accept he had killed whoever was behind that door. Scurrying, he tried to make it back to his bed. They were going to try to blame him again. He stopped at the doorway between his room and the one that was bleeding. He tried to think if he even knew who was in that room. Had he ever even seen them?

As he stood there, he became aware of his foot getting wet. A wheezy cry escaped his lips. Blood was seeping from this door as well. Lewis tried to get his bearings. Left then right then left again. There. That light had to be the guard station. He had to find help. Even if they did think he could have done this, he wanted to not be alone. He had been alone too long, with only the dead visiting him in his dreams. They were there when he was awake, too. Where they the ones killing now? Was he actually back in his bed? Lewis screwed his eyes shut. None of the signs of a dream were there. Trying to force himself to wake up, he realized, without a doubt, he was already awake. He cursed as loud as his disused voice and ancient lungs would allow.

Shuffling along, he ignored the pain in both his back and his legs while also avoiding looking at the bottoms of the doors he passed. After gazing at the dark liquid coming out of the third door he passed, he was determined not to see any more. Gasping, he reached the window to the guard station. Head lowered, trying to calm the panic rising with each step, he weakly banged on the glass. No response. The guard must be asleep. Lewis pounded harder. He was finally able to breathe a little better. He raised his head for a proper look into the room and he croaked out a strangled cry. The guard was lying across the desk, a pool of blood spreading over the surface and dripping onto the floor. Lewis looked down at himself. He too was covered in blood.

A little girl’s laughter rang in his ears, along with the slamming of a door. Lewis needed to go back to his room. He wanted to wake up, annoyed as he was every morning because the sun in his eyes. This was a nightmare; there was no other possibility. Closing his eyes, he used the wall to guide him back. He had to be close. He counted the number of doors his hand touched as he shuffled down the hallway. He opened his eyes, looking back down the corridor. Blood-streaked handprints led back to the guard room.

It didn’t matter. Lewis was back at the door to his room. He exhaled his relief. He would just close the door, crawl into his bed, attach a few restraints, and wake tomorrow to the annoying sun and the more annoying orderly giving him his drugs. Turning the corner, Lewis’ heart skipped. Henry stood at the foot of his bed. Lewis cried out. On the bed, covered in blood, he could see … himself. He was screaming now, pointing at his own corpse. Henry advanced on him, arms reaching out to him.

***

Red and blue lights were flashing across the exterior of the hospital when Dr. Addler arrived. “How many?” he gasped, out of breath.

A large officer approached the frantic man. “Six, including the guard.”

“Six,” the doctor sighed.

“Well, seven including the old man.” The officer shrugged, scratching under the brim of his hat.

“Can I go in?” Dr. Addler asked quietly.

Inside, everyone seemed to be speaking in hushed tones. The hissed conversations, along with the overall atmosphere of horror, chilled his heart. The coppery smell of blood burned his nose. All the lights were burning, but a sense of darkness still pervaded the hallway. A policeman waved him through, gesturing to the security room. The guard’s body had already been removed and, through the glass, cameras flashed in the small room. There was still so much blood. It seemed to cover every inch of the floor and walls.

Shaking at the sight, Dr. Addler advanced down the hall. His horror only increased as he realized that each room he passed contained another corpse. He could see that each one seemed to have been stabbed multiple times, judging by the bloody sheets covering the patients of the long-term ward. “No way could he have done this,” he muttered in disbelief. Coming at last to Lewis’ room, he stared past the opening, not wanting to see more gore. Finally, he braced his nerve and peered in.

Covered in rapidly drying blood lay Lewis, a smile on his face, hands clasped over his chest. Contained in those gnarled hands was a shiny, brass letter opener. The words murder weapon barely made it into Dr. Addler’s brain. “Just like Quaid,” he whispered. “But how?”

Lewis’ legs and arms were still in the restraints. Absently, Dr. Addler fingered the key in his pocket. He watched as the letter opener was bagged by an officer. Forcing himself to move, Dr. Addler pulled the tarnished key out of his pocket and placed it in the corpse’s hand. His imagination caused him to think the fingers tightened around it.