Bellevue

Chapter 27

Thursday, July 4, 5:06 a.m.

Although Mitt did try to prepare himself, he was still startled as Lashonda pulled the door wide open. Pressing up against the outside of the door was the horde of patients he had glimpsed earlier. The angry but silent crowd had not vanished, as he’d hoped, but rather completely filled the entire corridor in both directions. Front and center were two individuals Mitt recognized. To the left was a one-eyed man teetering on one leg while holding his other mangled leg, which had been amputated mid-thigh. The amputated ends were bloody, as if the operation had just occurred. He was dressed in homespun clothing. His facial expression was of pure fury. Instantly, Mitt knew the one-eyed man had to be John Mercer.

Immediately to the right of John was Charlene Wagner. Although she’d been only eight years old, she was almost as tall as John. Her pale, otherwise cherubic face was twisted into an expression of anger, and she was again holding an orbitoclast, presumably the one that killed her.

“Dr. Fuller!” Lashonda yelled. She was staring at him, seeing his shock. She reached out and grabbed his free hand and slapped it back onto her shoulder, maintaining a grip on his fingers. “Shut your eyes! We’re leaving here now!”

Although Mitt meant to comply, he didn’t do it instantly, and to his utter astonishment, he saw Lashonda step forward despite the doorway and the entire hallway being completely blocked. In the next instant, as if defying belief, he saw Lashonda glide out through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. At that point Mitt did manage to shut his eyes, and with his hand firmly clasped onto Lashonda’s shoulder, he, too, moved into the hallway without impediment.

In the next instant, he felt himself being turned around and heard the door to the housekeeping storeroom close and click shut. “Keep your eyes closed,” Lashonda repeated hotly. He felt her hand clamp down even tighter on his fingers as they turned around yet again and began to move along the corridor.

“Is the hallway clear?” Mitt asked after twenty or so steps.

“Mostly,” Lashonda answered. “But keep your eyes shut, otherwise you’ll bring them all back.”

“Okay,” Mitt said, although he had to fight against opening his eyes. The concrete basement floor was not completely uniform, and he was stumbling over occasional debris as he walked.

“We’re making a right-hand turn,” Lashonda warned.

“Okay,” Mitt said. “Thanks.” He was surprised it was so difficult to follow someone this closely while keeping his eyes shut. On several occasions, their feet and legs ended up making contact. He was glad that Lashonda was keeping hold of his hand on her shoulder.

“Okay, now a left-hand turn,” Lashonda said.

“Got it,” Mitt responded. He knew they were now on the relatively long stretch of hallway leading to the circular stairs, meaning they were making significant progress. As he lurched ahead, Mitt found himself again marveling at how they had been able to walk through the crowd that appeared to be so substantive but clearly wasn’t. Obviously, he had a lot to learn about being a portal, if that truly was the case.

“We’re now approaching the circular stairway,” Lashonda said.

“Good, can I open my eyes now?”

“I prefer you wait if you don’t mind.”

“I suppose not,” Mitt said as he felt the floor change from bare concrete to tile. In his mind’s eye, he could see the circular helix-style stair curving up in the darkness. Then he felt Lashonda stop and he followed suit. “How about now with the eyes?”

“Yes, I think we should be okay,” Lashonda said. “And it will make going up the stairs a good bit easier.”

Mitt opened his eyes and directed his flashlight along his line of sight. He immediately glanced around the area and then up the circular stairs. It was a relief to see no apparitions. Twisting around, he shined his light down the central corridor from which they’d come. Again, there was nothing, at least as far as the light penetrated.

“Come on!” Lashonda urged. She’d already started up the stairs. “I’m afraid it’s going to be lighter outside than I’d like as it is.”

Gaining the stairs, Mitt rose rapidly, catching up to Lashonda so that they both reached the ground floor in tandem. Without hesitation, she headed directly across the lobby area and into the foyer, toward the oversized double doors. Mitt followed but just before he entered the foyer, he glanced at the arched opening of the west main corridor. Standing there alone in the darkness was Charlene, her blond hair and pale shirtdress nearly luminescent.

Mitt slowed but didn’t stop, nor did he shine his light in Charlene’s direction. And in the instant that she remained in view, he had the distinct impression she was frantically motioning for him not to leave but to come toward her. But that was the last thing he wanted to do, and her gesture gave him one last chill up and down his spine. In the next instant, Charlene was blocked by the intervening foyer’s wall, and Mitt joined Lashonda, who was already outside holding open one of the oversized double doors. He immediately passed her, glad to get out of his first haunted house none the worse for wear. Outside it was already getting light even though sunrise wouldn’t occur for another fifteen to twenty minutes.

While waiting for her to lock the door, he glanced up at the building’s ornamented façade, truly amazed that such a ghostly menagerie could exist in the middle of such a vibrant city. Once again, he was struck that the building had not been razed or converted despite its central location and despite having been empty for almost forty years. Its mere continued existence afforded a degree of credibility to Lashonda’s claim that it was supernatural power that kept the wrecking ball at bay.

“Come on!” Lashonda urged as she now passed him in a leap-frog fashion, hurrying out to the gate to deal with the padlock. “Grab the paper bag for me!” she called over her shoulder as she fumbled with the heavy chain.

Following orders, Mitt stooped to retrieve the folded bag from the side of the gate’s granite stanchion, and by the time he had it in hand, Lashonda had the gate open. Now it was time for him to pass her, and as he did so, he collected her flashlight. While she pulled the gate closed, replaced the chain, and relocked the padlock, he put both flashlights away inside the bag.

“Perfect,” she said, taking the bag from him before passing him yet again and rapidly crossing the old section of 29th Street.

Dutifully he caught up with her as they retraced their steps back toward the high-rise, but then he forced himself to stop for a moment, turn around, and give the psychiatric building one more quick glance before it passed out of sight. Now that it was getting light, it was significantly less forbidding. Having overcome his fears in the dead of night and confronted its ghosts or spirits or whatever they were, he felt a significant lessening of the sense of the unknown. Besides, thanks to Lashonda, he now knew he could handle the phantoms by ignoring them, so he knew he could return, and he thought he would, with or without her.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Lashonda said, surprising Mitt. He’d been certain she’d continued on without him.

“I’m not really thinking very much,” Mitt blurted out guiltily. “I’m just relieved to have weathered the experience and come out safe and sound.”

“You did brilliantly,” Lashonda complimented, making Mitt feel even more guilty.

“I hardly think that’s the case,” he said. “You’re the one who has done brilliantly by somehow learning how to deal with the spirits of Bellevue.” Despite what he’d just been through, he was still reluctant to use the term ghosts.

“I never had to face the animosity your presence obviously arouses in them,” Lashonda said.

“I’m afraid I’m learning it is justified hostility,” Mitt added.

“I’m glad you recognize it. That was the goal, but now you need sleep, a lot of sleep. And after you rest, I hope you take to heart what you’ve learned tonight. Remember, I’ll be back on duty Friday night, Saturday night, too. Let’s meet up when it suits you. As I said, it is for your own good and for the good of your future patients. But enough for now! Come on! Let’s get inside before someone questions what we’re doing out here.”

“You’re right,” Mitt agreed. They headed for the door to the laundry building. “I’ll certainly be in touch with you, most likely sometime during your shift on Friday night. Since I’m off today, I can sleep the entire day.”

“That’s good. You need it.”

Once they were inside the laundry building, Lashonda said that there was someone she needed to see in the laundry department, so they took their leave of each other. Mitt thanked her sincerely for her concern about his safety and for taking so much time on his behalf and even seeking him out. She modestly downplayed the effort and instead brought up the issue of her own family legacy and allegiance to Bellevue.

“Whatever the motivations,” Mitt said, “I’m immensely appreciative. I’ll look forward to seeing you probably tomorrow night. By then, after digesting all I’ve learned tonight, I’ll have a lot more questions for you.”

“I will look forward to it as well,” Lashonda said before heading into the laundry offices.

For a moment Mitt watched her go, duly impressed with her and thinking how lucky Bellevue Hospital was to have her and her family as part of its history.

Less than five minutes later, Mitt keyed open his on-call room door and stepped inside. He first eyed the bed and then looked toward the bathroom with the idea of possibly taking a quick shower. He didn’t debate long. The bed won out hands down, and without even taking off his white coat, he stretched out, crossed his legs, and let his tense body begin to relax.

For a moment, he stared up at the ceiling as his exhausted mind replayed the extraordinary experience of visiting the deserted psychiatric hospital, especially the anxiety and then the terror it had evoked. It had been an ordeal, there was no question, yet he knew he had to return. The cache of old hospital records was just too tempting a draw, especially since the vast majority of them were presumably written by his ancestors. In many ways he felt he had no choice. It was incumbent on him to go through them. Would they all be as damning to his family legacy as the first two? Although he didn’t know for certain, he feared it was likely, but he had to be certain. The critical decision of whether or not to remain a resident at Bellevue hung in the balance.

“Good God!” Mitt voiced out loud. It seemed so unbelievably incredible that a bunch of ghosts, which he still wasn’t entirely sure he believed existed, were forcing him to make the most important decision of his life. If he did resign from his NYU surgical residency, what could he possibly offer as the reason? He’d have to come up with something other than blaming it on ghosts! The thought alone brought a wry smile to his face as he pictured saying such an outlandish thing to the director of the Surgical Residency Program. And even if he came up with a reasonable explanation, what would it do to his chances of finding another residency, especially considering how difficult it was to get a surgical residency slot in an academic medical center? Resigning from the program without something like a significant health issue was going to be career suicide, at least as far as being a surgeon was concerned.

“Shit!” Mitt called out in utter frustration. It seemed he was caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Yet he had to decide. If Lashonda’s concerns were correct, all his future patients were in danger even if he himself wasn’t.

As he fretted, one thing was certain. He couldn’t put the decision off, meaning he had to go back into the psychiatric hospital, and it had to be sooner rather than later. Luckily there were two significant things he hadn’t shared with the night-shift housekeeping supervisor despite how much he respected and appreciated her. The first was that he didn’t particularly care about possibly being caught in the building by Bellevue Security as she obviously did. After all, it had been empty for an interminably long time, his ancestor had been one of the institution’s higher-ups, and it was owned by Bellevue Hospital, where he was currently a surgical resident. If he was to be caught visiting it, which he doubted would happen since he planned on being careful, the powers that be would probably tell him it was off-limits and that would be that.

The second thing he didn’t share with Lashonda was her determination not to move the records. What Mitt had in mind was to find his own way into the psychiatric hospital so he could merely borrow a box or two and bring them back to his apartment. There he’d be able to give them the attention they deserved, rather than trying to read them standing up in the basement of a filthy, hundred-year-old, haunted building while holding a flashlight. When he finished with the first set of boxes, he would return them and exchange them for others. In the end, he planned to read as many of the records as he could without ultimately violating Lashonda’s or her mother’s promises.

Mitt sighed. With at least the backbone of a plan, he felt considerably better, and with that decided, he exhaled and finally allowed his eyes to close. A second later, he was asleep.