“Let’s go Montgomery.” Martin sighs, motioning for me to come with him. He has a thing where he calls everyone by their last names. Dr. Beverly hates it. There’s a reason she goes by her first name and it’s not so patients will feel more relaxed around her. It’s because her last name is Pincock, and it’s safe to say some unflattering nicknames come with that.
I give the doctor a quick curtsy before I follow Martin out. He’s silent most of the way to my room, but he eventually breaks down.
“Winslow, as much as I like to see the doc get her panties in a twist, you need to stop. If you’d only put the same effort into the program as you do in pissing her off, you’d be out of here in no time,” he tells me as he opens another metal door with his keycard. “You’ll feel so much better once you accept the help that everyone here is offering.”
“Martin, I like you, but I’m never getting out of this place. It’s cute that you think so, though.”
My parents made sure I’d never see outside of these cold, sterile walls again. I guess having a daughter who believes she can see dead people is a real public image disaster.
Martin leads me down the hallway where my room is in, the squeaking of his sneakers echoing off the empty walls. When he pauses at my door, he turns to look at me. I can see the pity written across his face. “You know why you’re in here Montgomery. You need to stop blaming your parents for all this and accept responsibility for your actions.”
He holds the door open for me, motioning with his head for me to enter the small, jail cell-like room. I pause and narrow my eyes at him. “How are you enjoying your new salary, Martin? If you’d like, I can give you my parent’s address for you to send them a thank you card. I’m sure they’d appreciate knowing you were able to buy the car you always wanted.” His face whitens, and his eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he grabs my upper arm and pulls me into my room.
Before he can slide the metal door shut, I give him a knowing smile. “Oh, by the way, Little Goose, your mom says hello.”
We both know his mother used to call him that when he was growing up, and we also know that she’s been dead for fifteen years.
I used to wish on shooting stars and four-leaf clovers that I could spend time alone. Between my parents, the staff hired to care for me, and the weekly ghosts that haunted me, I was never left alone. Now, I’m alone more often than I’d like. I guess they were right when they said, “careful what you wish for” because the amount of time I spend alone here is enough to make me truly go batshit crazy.
I’ve done every puppy puzzle available in this joint, and the only books here are self-help nonsense written by whack-jobs. And because I’m so freaking bored in here, I’ve read every single one of them.
It’s been two months since I was ripped out of bed at the shelter in the middle of the night by men I didn’t recognize. Two months since my parents had me drug me in here kicking and screaming, two months since I watched my spiteful mother smirk at me as the metal doors slammed behind me, and two months of listening to the patients cry and wail all night long, keeping me awake most nights.
I always try to go to bed early, hoping that by the time the screaming starts, I’ll have already slept for a couple of hours. But tonight, the cries started earlier than usual, and I’ve been awake, just staring at the opposite wall for an hour.
I’m wondering what the original paint color of the walls used to be since they’ve now turned a yellowish color when a chill runs down my back. The hairs on my arms rise and my skin breaks out in goosebumps.
I know what’s coming before I see them. This isn’t the first time this has happened, it’s not even the first time this week that I’ve experienced this, but I was hoping I was going to have the night off.
With a huff, I roll off the bed. The mattress springs creak and groan under my shifting weight. The room has already dropped thirty degrees by the time I’m standing in the middle. I shiver and reach for the sweater that’s thrown over the chair, even though I know the extra layer of clothing will do little to help.
I scan the room, waiting for him or her to show themselves. Sometimes this can take a while. It takes a lot of energy for a spirit to make themselves visible, and time to build up the strength. But I can tell this one is strong by how fast this is all happening. The temperature drop is usually a gradual thing, but I can already see my breath in front of my face just after a minute.
“Hello?” I whisper, just in case there’s someone in the hallway who can hear me. I see something flicker from the corner of my eye and spin around, but nothing is there. Yet.
When I turn back, I glance at the mirror bolted to the wall and notice that a layer of frost as already formed there and when I check the window, I see the same thing. They can rarely make the room so cold ice forms, but it would appear this spirit is strong enough.
I anxiously rub at the scars on my wrist and shift back and forth on my feet, waiting for him or her to show up. My fingers feel numb and stiff and my teeth chatter from the cold. The sound of squeaking draws my attention back to the mirror, and I see the word HELP has been written across the frosted glass.
“Help
