THE PATIENT IN ROOM 13
THE KEEPER’S LEGACY
Friday, December 15th – 9:00 AM
The morning was cold and bright, the sun reflecting off the frost on the windows. Sloane sat at her desk, the file of the next patient open before her, her pen in her hand. But she was not writing. She was thinking.
The voices in her head were quiet. They had been quiet since she read her father’s journal, giving her space, letting her process. But now, they stirred.
“You have been sitting there for an hour,” Marian said. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about the future. About what comes next.”
“The future is uncertain. It always has been.”
“I know. But I need to make a decision. About the work. About the children. About the Watcher.”
“What decision?”
“Whether to continue. Whether to keep helping the forgotten. Whether to keep carrying these memories.”
“You have been carrying them for months. Why would you stop now?”
“Because I am tired. Because I am afraid. Because I don’t know if I can do this for the rest of my life.”
“No one is asking you to do it for the rest of your life. Only for today.”
Sloane looked at the file.
The next patient was a woman named Helen Cross. No relation to Eleanor. She was sixty-five years old, a retired schoolteacher who had been experiencing nightmares for decades. She had been referred by her therapist, who suspected the nightmares were related to childhood trauma.
Sloane had read her intake forms. Helen had grown up in Ravenwood, near the hospital. Her father had been a patient there. He had died in Room 13.
“Another child of the forgotten,” Sloane said.
“Yes. Another who needs your help.”
“I don’t know if I can help her.”
“You have helped others. You can help her.”
“What if I fail?”
“What if you succeed?”
Sloane took a breath.
She picked up her pen.
She began to write.
Helen Cross arrived at 10:00 AM.
She was a small woman, with gray hair and kind eyes, dressed in a sensible coat and sturdy shoes. She moved slowly, carefully, as if afraid of taking up too much space.
“Dr. Vance?”
“Please, call me Sloane.”
Helen sat down in the chair across from the desk.
“Thank you for seeing me. I know you must be very busy.”
“I have time. Tell me about your father.”
Helen’s eyes filled with tears.
“He was a good man. Kind. Gentle. He worked at the mill. He came home every night and read me stories. He loved me.”
“When did things change?”
“When I was twelve. He started having nightmares. He would wake up screaming. He would talk about a room. A dark room. A room with writing on the walls.”
“Room 13.”
“Yes. He was sent there. For treatment. He never came home.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He died there. They said it was a heart attack. But I never believed them.”
“What did you believe?”
“I believed that something in that room killed him. Something that wanted to be remembered.”
Sloane leaned forward.
“Your father’s name?”
“Arthur. Arthur Cross.”
Sloane’s heart pounded.
“Arthur Cross was my father’s patient. He was in Room 13 in 1978.”
“You knew him?”
“I know his file. I know what happened to him. I know that he was not alone.”
“Can you help me understand? Can you help me remember?”
“I can try.”
The session lasted two hours.
Sloane guided Helen through the memories, helping her confront the pain, the fear, the loss. It was not easy. There were tears. There were moments of silence. But there was also healing.
When Helen left, she was different. Lighter. Freer.
“Thank you, Dr. Vance.”
“You’re welcome, Helen.”
Helen walked to the door.
She turned.
“Dr. Vance?”
“Yes?”
“My father. Do you think he’s at peace?”
Sloane thought about the tree. About the bodies hanging from its branches. About the memories that had been consumed.
“Yes,” she said. “I think he’s at peace.”
Helen smiled.
She left.
Sloane sat alone in her office.
The voices in her head were stirring.
“You helped her,” Marian said.
“She helped herself. I just showed the way.”
“That is what Keepers do.”
“I am the Keeper. I hold the memories. I give voice to the voiceless. I remember the forgotten.”
“And what will you do now?”
Sloane looked at the empty chair.
“I will continue. I will keep helping. I will keep remembering. For as long as I can.”
“That is all anyone can ask.”
Sloane picked up her pen.
She opened the next file.
The work continued.