THE PATIENT IN ROOM 13
THE FATHER’S CONFESSION
Thursday, December 14th – 8:00 AM
The journal was old, the leather cover cracked and faded, the pages yellowed with age. Sloane held it in her hands, feeling the weight of it, the history, the secrets. She had read her father’s journals before — the ones from the hospital, the ones he had written during his years of obsession. But this one was different.
This one was personal.
She sat at her desk, the morning light streaming through the window, and opened the cover.
“For Sloane.”
She turned the page.
January 3, 1982
My dearest Sloane,
If you are reading this, I am gone. I have made my choice. I have opened the door. I have faced the Watcher. I have given Eleanor a chance to escape.
I do not know if I will survive. I do not know if anyone will survive. But I know that I had to try.
I have spent the past seven years studying the Watcher. I have read every book, every journal, every record I could find. I have spoken to everyone who knew anything about the room. I have tried to understand what it is, where it came from, what it wants.
And I have learned the truth.
The Watcher is not a demon. It is not a ghost. It is not a monster.
It is a child.
A child who was buried alive. A child who was forgotten. A child who refused to disappear.
February 14, 1982
The child’s name was Ruth. She was seven years old when she was buried. Her parents thought she was possessed. They paid the church to make her disappear.
She was placed in a small chamber beneath the sanitarium. No light. No air. No food. No water.
She died slowly. Over days. Over weeks. Over months.
And in her dying, she created something. A presence. A memory. A Watcher.
She did not mean to. It was an accident. A side effect of her suffering. Her need to be remembered was so strong that it took on a life of its own.
The Watcher is not evil. It is not hungry. It is not vengeful.
It is lonely.
March 27, 1982
Today, I will open the door.
I do not know what will happen. I do not know if I will survive. But I know that I must try.
The Watcher has been feeding on the patients for forty years. It has been growing stronger. It has been growing hungrier. If I do not stop it, it will consume everyone. Every patient. Every doctor. Every nurse. Everyone who has ever set foot in this hospital.
I cannot let that happen.
I cannot let it take you.
You are my daughter. My legacy. My hope.
I love you, Sloane. I have always loved you. I will always love you.
Remember me.
— Dad
Sloane closed the journal.
The voices in her head were silent.
She sat at her desk, the morning light warm on her face, and wept.