THE PATIENT IN ROOM 13
THE NEXT GENERATION
Monday, January 8th – 9:00 AM
The new year had brought new patients, new challenges, and new opportunities for healing. Sloane’s practice had grown steadily since the hospital closed. Word had spread among the families of the forgotten, among the survivors of the third floor, among those who had been touched by the Watcher’s influence. They came to her seeking answers, seeking closure, seeking to remember.
Today’s first patient was a young woman named Cora Delaney. She was twenty-four years old, a graduate student in history at the state university. She had been researching the history of Meridian Psychiatric Hospital for her thesis when she stumbled upon something unexpected.
“I found my grandmother’s name,” Cora said. “In the records. The ones you helped release.”
Sloane leaned forward.
“What was your grandmother’s name?”
“Eleanor Cross.”
Sloane’s heart pounded.
“Eleanor Cross was a patient at Meridian. She was in Room 13. She survived.”
“I know. I found her. She’s living in a cabin in the mountains. I visited her last week.”
“How is she?”
“She’s dying. Cancer. The doctors say she has a few months, maybe less.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She wants to see you. Before the end. She said you would understand.”
Sloane looked at the calendar on her desk.
“I’ll go. When?”
“Today, if you can. She doesn’t have much time.”
Sloane stood up.
“I’ll clear my schedule.”
The drive to Millbrook took two hours.
The roads were icy, the trees bare, the sky gray. Sloane drove slowly, carefully, her mind racing. Eleanor Cross had been hiding for forty years. She had survived the Watcher, survived the hospital, survived the decades of silence. Now she was dying, and she wanted to talk.
The cabin was at the end of the gravel road, just as Sloane remembered. Smoke rose from the chimney. A car was parked in the driveway — a different car than last time, newer, cleaner.
Sloane parked behind it.
She walked to the front door.
Cora was waiting.
“She’s inside. By the fire.”
Sloane stepped into the cabin.
Eleanor Cross was sitting in her chair by the hearth, a blanket over her lap, a cup of tea in her hands. She looked thinner than before, more fragile. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Her eyes were sunken.
But her gaze was sharp.
“Dr. Vance. Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for seeing me.”
Eleanor gestured to the chair across from her.
“Sit. We have much to discuss.”
Sloane sat.
“Your granddaughter told me you’re sick.”
“I’m dying. The doctors say I have three months. I say I have three weeks. I’ve never been good at following instructions.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve lived a long life. Longer than I deserved.”
“You survived the Watcher. You survived the hospital. You deserved every year.”
Eleanor smiled.
“You sound like your father.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is. Your father was a good man. He tried to save me. He tried to save all of us.”
“He succeeded with you.”
“He gave me a chance. I took it. I ran. I hid. I survived.”
“And now?”
“Now I want to help. Before I die, I want to help you remember the others.”
“The others?”
“The children. The ones who were never buried. The ones who are still out there.”
Sloane leaned forward.
“Where are they?”
“Everywhere. In the hospitals. In the prisons. In the streets. They are waiting for someone to remember them.”
“How do I find them?”
“Your father left a map. In his journal. The one I gave you.”
Sloane’s heart raced.
“A map?”
“A map of the graveyard. The one behind the hospital. The children’s graves were not all in one place. Some of them were moved. Some of them were hidden. Your father found them. He marked the locations.”
“Why didn’t he tell anyone?”
“He was afraid. Afraid of what would happen if the truth came out. Afraid of what the Watcher would do.”
“And now?”
“Now the Watcher is at peace. The children can be remembered. Their names can be spoken. Their stories can be told.”
Sloane reached into her bag.
She pulled out her father’s journal.
She opened it to the last pages.
There, in his handwriting, a map.