THE PATIENT IN ROOM 13
THE FIRST PATIENT
Wednesday, October 18th – 3:12 AM
The key was warm in Sloane’s palm.
She had not let go of it since she found it beneath the pillow. The metal seemed to pulse against her skin, a slow, steady rhythm that matched her heartbeat, or perhaps the heartbeat of something else entirely.
Frank had vanished again. He had a habit of that, disappearing into the shadows of the basement corridor like smoke dissolving into air. She had tried to follow him, but her legs were too weak, her mind too clouded. She needed to sit. She needed to think. She needed to understand what had just happened.
She found a chair in a small alcove near the stairwell – a folding metal chair, the kind they used for extra seating in conference rooms, left behind and forgotten. She sat down heavily, the key still clutched in her hand, her phone balanced on her knee.
Twenty-four percent battery.
She had been in the basement for nearly two hours. It felt like days.
She opened her contacts and scrolled to the name she had been avoiding for the past six months. Her mother’s name. The name of the woman who had lied to her for forty years.
Eleanor Vance.
The phone rang.
Once. Twice. Three times.
“You’ve reached Eleanor. I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message.”
The voicemail beeped.
Sloane opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.
What could she say? “Hi, Mom. I just broke into the room where Dad died. I found a key under a pillow. I think you’ve been lying to me my whole life. Call me back.”
She hung up.
She would try again later. When she had more answers. When she knew what questions to ask.
She stood up.
Her legs were steadier now. Her mind was clearer.
She had work to do.
The hospital archives were on the second floor, in a room that had once been a patient library. The books were gone now, replaced by filing cabinets and storage boxes and the musty smell of old paper.
Sloane had access to the archives through her position on the hospital’s research committee. She had never used that access before. She had never needed to.
She swiped her keycard. The light turned green. The door clicked open.
The room was dark. She found the light switch and flipped it. Fluorescent tubes flickered to life, casting a sickly yellow glow over rows of metal cabinets.
She walked to the oldest section, the cabinets labeled with years instead of names. 1970. 1971. 1972. 1973. 1974. 1975. 1976. 1977. 1978. 1979. 1980.
Her father died in 1982.
She pulled open the drawer for 1982.
The files inside were thick with paper – intake forms, treatment notes, discharge summaries, death certificates. She flipped through them, looking for anything related to Room 13, to the third floor, to her father’s name.
Arthur Vance.
His file was near the back.
She pulled it out and carried it to a small desk in the corner of the room. She sat down, opened the folder, and began to read.
Patient Name: Vance, Arthur
Date of Admission: March 15, 1982
Age: 34
Occupation: Psychiatrist
Referring Physician: Self
Reason for Admission: Severe anxiety, paranoid ideation, insomnia, auditory hallucinations
Sloane read the intake form twice.
Her father had been a psychiatrist. He had worked at this very hospital, on this very floor. He had treated patients in the same rooms where she now walked.
And then, one day, he had admitted himself.
Referring Physician: Self.
He had known something was wrong. He had tried to get help.
She turned to the next page.
Treatment Notes – March 16, 1982
Patient is cooperative but guarded. He reports feeling “watched” at all times. He has not slept in three days. He refuses to specify who or what is watching him. I have prescribed a mild sedative. He has refused to take it.
March 18, 1982
Patient’s condition has worsened. He is now reporting that the “watcher” is speaking to him. He cannot describe the voice. He cannot identify the source. He only knows that it is telling him to “remember.” I have increased his medication. He has taken it under protest.
March 20, 1982
Patient attempted to leave the hospital last night. He was found in the basement, trying to open a door that has been sealed for years. When asked why he wanted to open the door, he said, “She’s in there. She’s waiting for me.” I have placed him on suicide watch.
March 22, 1982
Patient has stopped eating. He has stopped drinking. He sits in his room and stares at the wall. Sometimes he writes. He writes the same word over and over again. “REMEMBER.” I do not know what he is trying to remember. I do not know if he knows.
March 24, 1982
Patient escaped from suicide watch last night. He was found on the roof. He was standing on the edge, looking down at the pavement. When the orderlies approached, he said, “It’s time. She’s calling me home.” He did not jump. He let them lead him back to his room. He has been sedated.
March 27, 1982
Patient is dead. He jumped from the roof at 11:47 PM. The word “REMEMBER” was carved into his left forearm. The police have ruled it a suicide. The hospital administration has ordered the sealing of Room 13. No further details are to be released to the public or to the patient’s family.
The notes ended there.
Sloane read them again.
And again.
And again.
Her father had heard a voice. A voice that told him to remember. A voice that called him to Room 13. A voice that led him to the roof.
The same voice that the others had heard.
The same voice that had killed four more people in the past three months.
She flipped to the back of the file.
A photograph fell out.
It was old, the colors faded, the edges curled. A picture of a woman in her twenties, with dark hair and dark eyes and a smile that did not reach her face.
Written on the back in her father’s handwriting:
“Marian. Room 13. 1978. I’m sorry.”
Marian.
The first patient.
The one who had started it all.
Sloane searched the archives for Marian’s file.
She found it in the 1978 drawer.
Patient Name: Marian Cross
Date of Admission: January 3, 1978
Age: 26
Occupation: Unemployed
Referring Physician: Dr. Arthur Vance
Reason for Admission: Catatonia, non-verbal, history of trauma
She turned to the treatment notes.
January 4, 1978
Patient is non-responsive. She sits in her room and stares at the wall. She does not eat. She does not drink. She does not sleep. I have tried talking to her. I have tried medication. Nothing reaches her.
January 10, 1978
Patient has been moved to Room 13. I believe the smaller space may help her feel more secure. The room is isolated, quiet, away from the noise of the main ward. I will monitor her closely.
January 12, 1978
Patient spoke today. The first words she has spoken since admission. She said, “He’s coming.” When I asked who was coming, she said, “The watcher. He’s always watching.” I asked if the watcher had a name. She said, “He has many names. But he likes to be called Remember.”
January 15, 1978
Patient 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. The truth about what we are. The truth about what we’ve done. The truth about what’s coming.”
January 18, 1978
Patient’s condition is deteriorating. She has stopped sleeping entirely. She spends her nights standing in the corner of her room, facing the wall, whispering. I cannot make out the words. I have requested a transfer to a different facility. The request was denied.
January 22, 1978
Patient attacked an orderly last night. She did not use her hands. She used her voice. She screamed. The orderly fell to the ground, clutching his head. He reported hearing a voice in his mind. The voice said, “Remember.” The orderly has been placed on medical leave. The patient has been sedated.
January 25, 1978
Patient is dead. She was found this morning on the floor of her room. She had carved the word “REMEMBER” into her throat. There was a smile on her face. The police have ruled it a suicide. The hospital administration has ordered the closure of Room 13. I have been asked not to discuss this case with anyone.
Sloane closed the file.
Her father had been Marian Cross’s doctor. He had treated her in Room 13. He had watched her die.
And then, four years later, he had died the same way.
The same room. The same word. The same method.
She looked at the photograph again.
Marian’s smile did not reach her eyes.
“He has many names. But he likes to be called Remember.”
Sloane shivered.
She looked at the other files on her desk. The files of the recent victims. Marcus Webb. Elena Vasquez. Clara Bennett. Patient Zero.
They had all spent time in Room 13.
They had all heard the voice.
They had all died.
She picked up her phone.
Eleven percent battery.
She dialed the hospital’s IT department.
“Jerry. It’s Sloane Vance.”
“Dr. Vance. It’s three in the morning.”
“I need you to pull the access logs for Room 13.”
“Room 13? The basement room?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Vance, that room has been sealed for forty years. There are no access logs.”
“There’s a keycard reader on the door. Someone installed it recently. I need to know whose cards have been used to open that door.”
A pause.
“I can try. But the reader isn’t connected to the network. If it’s standalone, it might not have recorded anything.”
“It recorded something. I used my card. It opened.”
Another pause.
“Your card? Why would your card open a sealed door?”
“Someone programmed it to. I need to know who.”
“I’ll do what I can. But it might take a few hours.”
“I’ll be in my office.”
She hung up.
She gathered the files – her father’s, Marian’s, the recent victims – and carried them out of the archives.
The corridor was empty.
The lights hummed.
The shadows watched.
Her office was on the fourth floor, overlooking the parking lot. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still dark, the clouds thick and low. The city of Ravenwood glittered in the distance, a scatter of lights against the black.
Sloane sat at her desk.
She spread the files out in front of her.
Marian Cross. 1978. Died in Room 13.
Arthur Vance. 1982. Died on the roof.
Marcus Webb. Three months ago. Died on the roof.
Elena Vasquez. Two months ago. Died on the roof.
Clara Bennett. One month ago. Died on the roof.
Patient Zero. Tonight. Died on the roof.
The same room. The same word. The same method.
She looked at the photograph of her mother.
“You said he died in a car accident.”
The smiling face did not answer.
She picked up her phone.
Nine percent battery.
She dialed her mother’s number again.
One ring. Two rings. Three rings.
“You’ve reached Eleanor. I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message.”
“Mom. It’s me. I know about Dad. I know about Room 13. I know about Marian Cross. I need you to call me back. I need you to tell me the truth.”
She hung up.
The phone died.
She plugged it into the charger on her desk and watched as the battery icon turned from red to green.
Four percent. Six percent. Eight percent.
The screen flickered.
A text message appeared.
Not from her mother.
From an unknown number.
“You opened the door. Now she knows you’re here. Run.”
Sloane stared at the message.
“Who is this?” she typed.
The response came instantly.
“Someone who tried to warn you. Someone who failed. She’s coming for you, Sloane. She’s been waiting for forty years. And now she knows your name.”
“Who is she?”
“The first patient. The one who started it all. The one who never left.”
“Marian Cross is dead. She died in 1978.”
“Her body died. But something else lived. Something that had been inside her since she was a child. Something that used her voice to speak, her hands to write, her blood to carve the word.”
“What is it?”
A long pause.
Then:
“A memory. A memory that refuses to be forgotten. A memory that wants to be remembered. A memory that will kill to keep itself alive.”
Sloane’s hands shook.
“You opened the door, Sloane. You let it out. And now it knows you. It knows your father was the one who tried to stop it. It knows you’re the one who can finish what he started. It knows you’re the only one who can remember.”
“Remember what?”
“The truth. The truth about what happened in that room. The truth about what your father did. The truth about what you are.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. When she finds you. And she will find you. She’s already in the building.”
Sloane looked at her office door.
It was closed.
The corridor beyond was silent.
But she felt it again. The presence. The weight. The watching.
“Run, Sloane. Before it’s too late.”
She stood up.
She grabbed the files.
She ran.