Rebecca, according to her file, was a difficult resident. Biting, screaming at high decibels, refusing to take her medicine. She fought back, especially against the female nurses. And at the time, the notorious Nurse Hope—an ironic name, certainly—was in charge of floor two. In addition to accusations of sexual abuse with some of the male residents of floor two, Nurse Hope was accused of physically abusive tendencies. These, of course, were ignored thanks to her highly qualified medical knowledge and her father’s reputation as one of the board of directors at that time.
Rebecca’s death at the age of twelve was written off and forgotten, expunged from memory by the officials and the records and the society that failed her. But in the walls of Redwood, her story passed down, of the drowning in the toilet one late night by a frustrated Nurse Hope. And it passed down in the sight of her spirit, depraved and lost, meandering through the hallways in May, a horrifying sight to those not accustomed to it.
As with all things, though, the staff of Redwood grew familiar with her appearance. She was just another sight in the hallways of horrors. Still, at Redwood, there is scarcely a lack of frights to be seen. What could be more startling than a human mind gone rotten or gone altogether? A few ghosts and spirits lurking about, therefore, do not really stir those who have committed to a career at Redwood. They are just living legends in the walls of an exotic community of confusion, complexities, and abandonment. Then again, as many of the workers will admit, their own places in society, for one reason or another, are tenuous at best. Many of them have their own connections with loss, with guilt, with potential madness. Perhaps, thus, the Drowning Girl and the others like her fail to scare the staff away because at least in the madness, there is company and companionship.
Or perhaps it is the curse of Redwood, the other rumored legend that flies through the lips of the gossips—that once Redwood gets its claws in you, there’s no leaving. No matter how badly you want to.
Just ask the long-time residents who have become fixtures in their own right, exhibits in the decaying museum that Redwood has become. Their clammy fingers on the windows paw for freedom, but their time on display is never over. Not even after death.
Chapter Six
Acrash behind me startled me from my focus on my computer. I turned from the archaic machine, swiveling back in my chair on floor five. Anna was making rounds alone while I tidied up some paperwork and entered some information. My legs and feet were relieved to be at rest, but my heart pattered at the sound. My eyes scanned the nearby hallway.
No one.
I exhaled. Josephine. At it again.
But a gurgling noise echoed behind me. The computer screen flickered, and the noise continued. This time, it was close enough to give me chills.
“Go away, please. There’s no helping you now,” I replied, assuming Josephine must be up to her antics. After the words were out, I felt ridiculously guilty for the harshness of my words. I shook my head, knowing madness really was all about perspective. We’re all a little mad, in truth.
Besides the guilt, I quickly came to regret the words I spewed into the darkness. Because as I straightened the stack of paperwork on the edge of the desk, my chair flew backwards, and I was face to face with a stapler punching at my arm.
“Shit,” I proclaimed, the stapler an inch from my face as I was pinned against the desk. The being holding the stapler emitted a muffled scream, as if he were shouting from ten feet underground. My heart beat wildly. I was ready to call for Anna.
And then behind me, from a distance, the gurgle from before. Over and over, as if moving in on me, the gurgle and the scream continued. I was certain any second the staples would be in my forehead, in my eye, on my lips. Clink, clink, clink, the stapler erratically shouted as the horrific smelling body leaned over me. Pleading, begging for mercy, tears started to fall.
And then, a quick flash. A glow of light, some gurgles and screams, and they were gone. The stapler clattered to the floor. The smell slowly dissipated. Shaking my head to rid myself of the image of the feral stapler, I caught my breath, slowly, steadily. What the hell? Anna came back a few moments later, but I hadn’t moved. I was frozen in place, wondering how anyone could work at Redwood. I began to think that Anna and Roxy had lied, that there were far more paranormal activities than they’d described. And there were far more dangerous paranormal occurrences than they’d like me to believe.
“What’s wrong?” Anna asked, and I turned to look at her as she maneuvered around the desk.
“I don’t know. The ghosts. There were several I think. They had a stapler. And he was covered in dirt.”
Anna stared at me, shaking her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Me neither,” I said. Anna picked up the stapler and the scissors that had also fallen to the ground, setting them back on the desk. I realized somberly that if you were already mentally unstable, it would be enough to drive you mad.
Anna perused me, as if she wanted to say something. I looked at her, shaking my head.
“You don’t believe me,” I announced incredulously. My stomach sank at the thought that here, with all of the things accepted as gospel truth, I wasn’t believed.
“No, it isn’t that. It’s just—they seem to be heightened around you. The spirits. I’ve never seen them so active. You’re seeing
