THE PATIENT IN ROOM 13
THE DOCTOR’S LEGACY
Wednesday, October 18th – 4:30 PM
The journals filled an entire shelf in Sloane’s office.
She had brought them from the attic — all of them, every notebook, every scrap of paper, every loose page her father had ever written. They were stacked in chronological order, the earliest from 1975, the latest from the week before his death.
She sat at her desk, the pile of journals beside her, the list of names Patricia had given her spread across the blotter. The voices in her head were quiet, watching, waiting.
“You are about to learn the truth,” Marian whispered. “The whole truth. Not the fragments the Watcher showed you. Not the pieces your mother hid. Everything.”
“Are you ready?”
Sloane picked up the first journal.
“1975.”
She opened it.
January 3, 1975
I have decided to keep this journal as a record of my work. My patients deserve to be remembered. Their stories deserve to be told.
Today I met a new patient. Her name is Marian Cross. She is twenty-three years old. She has not spoken in six months. She sits in her room and stares at the wall. She does not eat. She does not drink. She does not sleep.
I am determined to help her.
January 15, 1975
Marian spoke today. She said, “He’s coming.” When I asked who, she said, “The watcher.” When I asked what the watcher wanted, she said, “To be remembered.”
I do not know what this means. I do not know if she knows.
February 2, 1975
Marian has started writing on the walls of her room. She uses her fingernails. She writes the same word over and over. “REMEMBER.”
I have asked her to stop. She will not stop. I have asked her what she is trying to remember. She said, “The truth.”
When I asked what truth, she said, “The truth about what we are. The truth about what we’ve done. The truth about what’s coming.”
She will not elaborate.
March 10, 1975
Something is wrong. I feel it when I am in her room. A presence. A weight. A watching.
I have started having nightmares. I dream of a door. A steel door. A door that will not open. Behind the door, something waits.
April 4, 1975
I have requested that Marian be transferred to a different facility. The request was denied. The administration believes she is making progress. They do not see what I see. They do not feel what I feel.
May 22, 1975
Marian attacked an orderly today. She did not use her hands. She used her voice. She screamed. The orderly fell to the ground. He was unconscious for three minutes.
When he woke, he said he had heard a voice. The voice said, “Remember.”
The orderly has been placed on medical leave. Marian has been moved to Room 13. I will be her sole caretaker.
Sloane set down the journal.
She had read these entries before, in the file from the archives. But reading them in her father’s own handwriting, seeing the way his letters slanted, the way the ink pressed into the paper, the way his handwriting changed as his obsession grew — it was different.
It was intimate.
It was painful.
It was real.
“He was not a bad man,” Marian said. “He was a broken man. Trying to fix himself by fixing others.”
“He failed.”
“He tried.”
“Trying isn’t enough.”
“Sometimes it’s all we have.”
Sloane picked up the next journal.
“1976.”
June 3, 1976
I have been reading about the history of the hospital. The building was constructed on the site of an old sanitarium. The sanitarium was built on the site of an old poorhouse. The poorhouse was built on the site of an old graveyard.
The graveyard was for criminals. Heretics. People the church wanted to forget. They were buried in unmarked graves. No stones. No names. No memories.
I believe the Watcher is connected to this place. To the forgotten dead. To the ones who were buried alive.
July 19, 1976
I have found records of a child. A little girl. She was buried in the graveyard in 1689. Her name was not recorded. Her crime was not recorded. All that remains is a single word carved into the stone of the poorhouse foundation.
“REMEMBER.”
I believe this child is the source. The first forgotten. The one who started it all.
August 8, 1976
I have been to the basement. I have found the door. The iron door. The door that leads to the tunnel.
I have not opened it. Not yet. I am afraid of what I will find.
September 1, 1976
I opened the door.
The tunnel is long and dark and cold. At the end, a chamber. A tree. A tree made of flesh and bone. With bodies hanging from the branches.
I recognized some of them. Marian Cross. And others. Patients who died. Patients who were forgotten.
The tree is alive. It spoke to me. It said, “Remember.”
I ran.
October 12, 1976
I cannot stop thinking about the tree. The bodies. The word.
I have started having nightmares again. The door. The tunnel. The tree. The child.
The child is sitting at the base of the tree. She is crying. She is always crying.
I tried to talk to her. In the dream. She looked at me. Her eyes were red.
“Help me,” she said. “Help me remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Remember my name.”
November 5, 1976
I have been searching the archives for the child’s name. I cannot find it. It has been erased. Forgotten.
But I found something else. A record of other children. Other forgotten. Other buried.
There were dozens of them. Hundreds. All of them buried in the same graveyard. All of them forgotten.
The Watcher is not one child. The Watcher is all of them.
Sloane set down the journal.
Her hands were shaking.
“The Watcher is not one child,” she said. “The Watcher is all of them.”
“Yes,” Marian said. “The first child created the Watcher. The others fed it. Made it stronger. Made it hungrier.”
“And my father?”
“Your father tried to save them. He tried to give them a voice. He tried to help them remember.”
“And he failed.”
“He failed. But he planted the seeds. He wrote the journals. He kept the memories alive.”
“So that I could finish what he started.”
“Yes.”
Sloane picked up the final journal.
“1982.”
January 3, 1982
I have not written in this journal for years. I have tried to forget. I have tried to move on. I have tried to be a good father to my daughter.
But the Watcher will not let me forget. It speaks to me at night. In my dreams. In my waking hours.
“Remember,” it says. “Remember the child. Remember the tree. Remember the forgotten.”
February 14, 1982
I have returned to the basement. I have opened the door. I have walked through the tunnel. I have stood before the tree.
The child was there. Waiting.
“Help me,” she said.
“How?”
“Become the Keeper. Hold the memories. Give us a voice.”
“I cannot. I have a family. A daughter. She needs me.”
“Your daughter will need you more if you do not help us. The Watcher is growing. It will not stop. It will consume everything.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Write. Remember. Prepare.”
March 27, 1982
This is my last entry.
I have made my choice. I will go to the tree. I will become the Keeper. I will hold the memories.
But I am not strong enough. I know this. The Watcher will consume me. I will become another branch on the tree.
But my daughter — Sloane — she is strong. She is stronger than me. She will carry on my work.
I have hidden the journals. I have told Eleanor to protect Sloane. To keep her away from the hospital. To keep her safe.
But I know she will find her way here. She is my daughter. She is curious. She is determined. She will not rest until she knows the truth.
When she comes, tell her I am sorry. Tell her I love her. Tell her to remember.
Remember the child. Remember the tree. Remember the forgotten.
And remember me.
The journal ended there.
Sloane closed it.
She sat in the silence of her office, the voices in her head murmuring, the warmth of the tree pulsing in her chest.
Her father had not abandoned her.
He had prepared her.
He had believed in her.
He had loved her.
“He did,” Marian said. “He loved you more than anything. More than the Watcher. More than the tree. More than his own life.”
“And now?”
“Now you carry his memory. You carry his hope. You carry his legacy.”
Sloane stood up.
She walked to the window.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red.
She had work to do.