In a past life, Cassey had taken a short nursing course, caring for the elderly on the weekends while making some extra cash for smokes and marijuana. A little enhancement to her resume, a few lies here and there, had transformed that course into something grander, a diploma in nursing, and turned the six short months into graduation with a three year certificate from a hospital based school of nursing.

She knew how to take blood and insert an IV line - a junkie acquaintance of hers, an ex-professional nurse himself, had taught her the needle tricks just a few days earlier in exchange for a bag of crack. 

The Hudson River Psychiatric Hospital gave her the job, despite her (fake) experience being in geriatric nursing, not psychiatric. They needed the staff, and Cassey got her ‘in’ more easily than she’d thought. Today was her first day and only the second time she’d visited the hospital. 

Sat in her car in the lot fronting the hospital, she checked her watch. Ten minutes early, and this is my first Monday morning shift. Thank god I got mornings.

Beyond the lot, past a row of well-manicured trees, the hospital was an ugly, square, red brick building, eight stories high not counting the smaller two floor section on the flat roof. Two, two story, gray roofed structures flanked the lot, attached to the east and west sides of the main building, the Female and Male Wings respectively.

The main building was for administration, the head nurse, Cynthia Bryant had told her on the day of the interview. Its brick façade was lined with scores of windows, and unlike the wings’ windows, these were unbarred. Cassey resented leaving the safety of her car, but got out and walked across the concrete toward the hospital with a confidence that her plan was going as well, no better, than expected. All she needed was to keep up her charade, and not make any stupid mistakes.

She entered the Female Wing’s reception, an area painted sky blue with green carpet tiles underfoot. The landscape portraits on the walls made the place look cheery, not like a nuthouse at all. 

A sterile hospital smell pervaded the room and Cassey wondered just how soon it would take her to grow accustomed to it, and if she’d be here long enough before being either discovered, or successful with her task. She showed an overweight, spotty male receptionist with straw colored hair in a ponytail her ID card, signed in, then made her way toward the staff changing room beyond his desk. 

A maze of dark green metal lockers and slim wooden benches, the room smelled stale and sweaty, with a hint of surreptitiously smoked cigarettes. A few of her new colleagues were present, bored looking women slowly changing into their scrubs before a day of changing adult nappies and dodging faeces. Within the metal rows, she found her own locker and to her chagrin discovered a bright yellow ‘Post It’ note stuck above the grille.

It read: 

‘Cassey Walker. Report to the reception at the Male Wing and ask for Christopher.’

Cold water trickled down her spine. No. Don’t be paranoid she told herself. Still, with growing trepidation, Cassey opened her locker and quickly changed into a pair of fresh green scrubs.

***

The man beside her was a veritable giant, almost seven foot tall and all of it muscle. He had red hair and a moustache, his round face pleasant and his eyes sleepy looking. His bare arms, beneath blue scrubs, were thick with red hair, his large hands too. Christopher, the orderly, holding a clipboard in his shovel-like hands, spoke as they walked down the Male Wing’s first floor corridor, a yellow painted area with white tiles underfoot.

“This wing is all men, but geriatric men so they are no trouble, yes?”

His accent was Polish, she guessed, and he pronounced her name Kay-Cee.

Cassey didn’t bother correcting him, still happy as she was that she hadn’t been discovered, just moved to a different wing for her next week’s shifts.

Her companion paused outside one of the white, steel reinforced doors along the left side of the corridor.

“This is Patient Two-Twelve. He is mostly sleeping, but he wakes up and screams. We give him the sedatives then.” Christopher waved the clipboard towards the door facing it. “Two-Eleven can make some noise too – thinks birds fly around in his room.”

They walked on and Christopher talked about the patients and their ailments. She was beginning to switch off when his mellow, broken words caught her attention.

“—he was found two months ago. No name, no identification. He was brought here and we call him John Doe. Man doesn’t talk. He just draws the pictures. Another quiet one. As I said – no trouble.” Christopher went to pass the door then paused in his tracks. “Come meet Mister Doe. Other patients in dayroom.” He unclipped a large set of keys from his belt, tucked the clipboard under his armpit, and thumbed through the keys before finding one he was satisfied with. 

He unlocked the door, smiled encouragingly at Cassey, then walked into the room. She followed behind and stepped into a brightly lit, nine by five feet space. It was sparsely filled, with a bed to her right and a desk and a chair facing her. The walls were pea green to the halfway mark, white above, but mostly covered with hand-drawn pictures. A bald man sat hunched over the desk, his left arm moving furiously as he scribbled away.

“Mister Doe, new nurse here,” Christopher said, then turned to Cassey, eyebrows raised. “Lots of tests. Man maybe retarded?” He pointed to his head and tapped it. “Maybe little deaf too. I don’t know.”

Cassey nodded and took a few steps forward. “Hello,” she said, but the patient gave no hint he had heard her.

John Doe was thin to the point of emaciation, his white pajamas hanging off him like rags. His skin was dry with a yellowish tinge, and like his head, his arms were hairless.

She flinched when she saw his eyes, for they were devoid of lids and bulged from the sockets like yellowed, tainted eggs. Combined with the hooked nose and thin lips, pursed above a lantern jaw, the parchment-skinned man was unsightly, to say the least.

“His eyes?” Cassey asked and turned a questioning glance to Christopher.

Her companion shifted uncomfortably. “Birth defect? I dunno. We give him sleep mask for nighttime. I don’t know if he uses it.”

Cassey returned her gaze to Doe and the picture he worked on. 

The in-progress drawing was surreal, and depicted clusters of eyeballs with bats wings, flying across a sky bearing dozens of misshapen moons above a flat landscape. This was dotted with spider-like creatures, each boasting human-like legs and faces to match. The lines were drawn with a child-like simplicity, yet with details that betrayed a skilled artist. 

The other drawings piled upon the desk depicted similar horrors, and Cassey shuddered when she saw tiny, human forms fleeing or being devoured by the monsters on Doe’s other alien landscapes.

“Doctor Bates,” Christopher said, “he said it good for Doe to be doing this. Most other patients, not allowed the sharp objects.”

Bates, the one she was here about. “So does the doctor come see this patient?” Cassey asked.

“Only on weekly rounds, on Tuesday’s and Thursday’s, though he has been asking sometimes for Doe’s pictures.” Christopher checked his wristwatch. “We go now Kay-Cee, go see patients in the dayroom.”

They left John Doe and Christopher locked the door behind him, before leading her down the corridor, then left down another towards a pair of reinforced glass doors. Cassey saw shapes moving beyond the glass, and half a dozen steps later they entered a large, well-lit room with multicolored flowers painted upon the white walls. As well as the ceiling fluorescents, illumination was provided by a wide window along the north wall, leading to a small garden dotted with wicker furniture.

The room was a hive of activity, yet it was a slow, sluggish hive of sleepy residents, pacing in their pajamas and house robes or sat grouped in white plastic chairs watching the caged television hung upon the west wall. 

A few white tables held board games. The residents sat at them made new combinations of Battleship and Scrabble; some did jigsaw puzzles. Two orderlies in white scrubs stood leant against the east wall, watching the residents with bored, slack-jawed expressions.

Observing these corralled madmen performing their mundane tasks was hypnotic, like watching the frolicking sea monkeys she’d owned as a child. Cassey blinked as Christopher raised his arm and started pointing out the patients, by name this time, not room. She feigned attention, said, “mmm,” and “yes,” where appropriate, and wished she were somewhere else.

But being somewhere else wasn’t what Cassey was being paid for, the wad of cash awaiting her if she procured the item for her client.

***

Interlude – Five Days Earlier

Miss Combs sat in the seat Cassey proffered, crossing her legs and revealing more tan pantyhose covered thigh than she desired to witness. The woman dripped style. Her skirt suit was a brightly colored, floral pattern luxury vintage, her black leather boots: designer Italian, as was her black crocodile handbag. The woman’s jet black hair was bound into a topknot style that was proving so popular with the movie stars and supermodels, her oval face bearing just a hint of makeup around dark brown eyes.

Combs made Cassey feel like an absolute scruff, her off the rack dark blue trouser suit and red pumps costing a tiny fraction of the wealth this woman displayed in her rented, white-walled, two-room office. No frills Cassey however, had something the darling of the jet set, Miss Combs, wanted, and this gave her an edge that put all intimidation of wealth aside.

“It’s good to see you again Miss Combs,” she said and Combs smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. 

“I trust, if we are having this meeting face-to-face, you have progressed somewhat?” she replied in a slightly Hispanic accented voice.

Cassey returned the smile and examined the laptop sitting on her black lacquered desk. She quickly scanned through the information her operative had acquired.

Andrew Bates, M.D., she had a photo of his head and shoulders in profile, a fifty-two-year-old man with slicked back, blonde hair and a tan. He wasn’t bad looking, and Cassey knew the man was athletic, for she had his itinerary down to every tennis date.

“One of my people searched the premises,” she said, “and there was nothing, not even in the concealed safe in the basement. And again, I have to tell you this is so illegal, we could both go to prison should anything go wrong.”

Combs nodded, pursed her lips. “I have very good lawyers at my disposal Miss Bane, and I certainly wouldn’t throw you, my best chance of acquiring the item, to the wolves.”

Cassey thought about that. They’d had this conversation already, during their first meeting. She wasn’t really afraid of being ‘thrown to the wolves,’ for her detective agency was very good at hiding paper trails. Still, Combs’s offer of expensive lawyers was appreciated.

“So where do you go from here?” Combs said after the silence became less than comfortable. 

The client looked tense now, her jaw tightened and her neck muscles strained. Cassey liked that; it prepared Combs for what was to follow.

Cassey said, “We don’t think Bates has a safety deposit box, so are working on the theory he keeps the item where he works, at The Hudson River Psychiatric Hospital.”

The item, a canister of 16mm film footage Bates had won at secret auction, outbidding Combs in the process. Cassey hadn’t asked what the footage contained. Snuff? Outtakes from The Wizard of Oz? The director’s cut of Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom? Not her problem.

Combs raised a pencil thin eyebrow. “Oh, well that might actually make sense. Bates knew how much I wanted the item, and probably even suspected I would go to certain lengths to claim it.”

Certain lengths, like hiring someone to break and enter his condo to retrieve it, Cassey thought, and said, “This is why I wanted to see you. I think the next port of call is the hospital, and to do that, I’ll have to place an operative inside. I’m sorry to say though, that my fees will rise considerably for this additional task, and with no guarantee of an actual return. But still, knowing where the item isn’t is still something, don’t you agree?”

Combs nodded, gave her a greedy smile, and said, “Would you like cash or check?”

She just doesn’t care about money, Cassey thought, and briefly wondered what that would be like. It would lead to a lust for other people things, whatever the cost. She returned the smile and said, “Cash will be fine, thank you.”

***

This was undoubtedly the worse job she could imagine, and Cassey had done many dubious things in her past. But changing the diaper on a grown adult? That took the sloppy biscuit. The smell as she changed Two-Twelve’s was enough to make her gag, and this was the fourth time she’d done it today. Two-Twelve, or ‘The Screamer,’ as she thought of him, real name, Clinton Bentley. He was placid now, and moved when she asked him to, making changing him simpler. The white haired man gazed at the ceiling with steely gray eyes, his jaw clamped shut as he stared towards nothing. Cassey wondered if there was much of a mind left beyond that intense stare. 

She placed the folded diaper in her trolley’s biohazard chute, cleaned him up, removed the disposable sheet from under him and fitted a new diaper before sending everything left over to join the soiled one.

“Good day, Mr. Bentley,” she said, and pulled the white linen sheet up to his neck. Damn, I’m getting too used to this role, she scolded herself and went to push the trolley from his room. Cassey paused as the door slid open and a smiling, familiar face popped round. 

“Heya Cassey,” said Cynthia the Head Nurse, the expression on her brown, chubby face endearingly friendly. “Listen hun, I know this is short notice, but could you possibly work the night shift tonight?”

In Cassey’s brief experience, Cynthia always addressed people as ‘hun’ before asking them to do something they might turn down. She checked the watch on her pocket as Cynthia’s large, scarlet clad form stepped into the room. Four-thirty. Damn it’s almost time to go, but then again if I’m here at night…

Mirroring Cassey’s movements, Cynthia checked the watch hanging from the pocket on her ample left breast.

“I know it’s nearly clocking off time, but Tibor phoned in to say his wife’s gone into labor, and I can cover things so you get Tuesday off.”

Cassey’s mind was busy. If she were on the night shift, it meant the majority of the doctors would be gone for the night. She’d have access to Bates’s office. 

“Absolutely,” Cassey said with a smile and pointed towards Bentley. “This one’s been great all day, so he shouldn’t be a problem after his nighttime meds.”

Cynthia’s face split into a grin, revealing large, very white teeth. “I knew there was a reason I hired you girl! Let me lock up after you’ve gotten out.”

“Cheers,” Cassey said on her way through the door, and the Head Nurse patted her on the shoulder. Her mind was elsewhere as she wheeled the trolley to the end of the corridor, thinking back on her training in lock picking.

She was sure she could handle most locks, but not expecting this kind of opportunity so soon, she had no picks, so that was a no-brainer really. Cassey continued her rounds and took up the extra work after her shift ended, which, for a couple of hours, meant heading over to the Female Wing and administering medication.

Just after 7:00pm she received a break, and made her way towards Bates’s office, which was located near the Male Wing on the second floor of the Administration Building. Luckily, Administration had a ghost shift at night, so passing through posed no problem, and a flight of stairs later, she stood in a short, dark corridor with only two office doors. The one to her left bore a brass sign halfway down displaying the name: Inderjeet Chowdry, M.D., the right: Andrew Bates M.D. Beyond the glass panels at the tops of the doors, both rooms were in darkness.

The locks on each appeared simple, the kind with the lock set in the knob-shaped handle, and having thought of access on the way, Cassey knew she could bring a set of picks and wait for another opportunity, or try a different method. It was one she had seen in the movies, that of sliding a credit card or similar down between the tiny gap in the doorframe to trick the lock into opening. 

She looked left and right at the sets of double doors leading from the corridor, then knelt, removing a pencil torch from her pocket which she illuminated and clenched between her teeth. She used her plastic staff ID card for the task, and pushed it in slowly, gently, then with a little force, found where the lock was attached to the frame, and pushed. Nothing happened at first, then, with a bit more pressure, something gave and the door loosened a little in its frame. With a tentative hand Cassey reached for the doorknob, finding to her relief it too was loose. It fell forward easily when she pushed.

I’m in! Cassey’s enthusiasm grew, and she checked the doors again before creeping on her hands and knees into the room. Heck, wait there. She lifted her hands from the carpet and took the vinyl gloves she’s pinched off her trolley from her trouser pocket, pulling them on before removing the flashlight from her mouth and using it to examine the doctor’s office.

It was a large, square room with a brown carpet, light brown walls, with two thin metal chairs facing a wide, wooden desk. The desk was topped with a silver metal swan neck lamp, metal filing trays and smaller objects, little, shadowy things in the darkness. Beyond the desk stood a well-stuffed, brown leather chair and beyond that, a bookcase holding a large world globe beneath a wall holding five framed diplomas. 

Tall potted plants stood in each corner of the far wall, a large bookcase to the desk’s left bearing more. Considering the room had no windows, Cassey wondered if the plants were artificial. The east wall held a plain wooden door, for storage, she guessed, or perhaps a private bathroom. 

Ensuring the coast was still clear behind her, she pulled the door almost to closing and stood, walking confidently to the desk. There was no sign of a safe, but it wasn’t like she had tools for that either, and Cassey guessed if there were one, it would be concealed behind the bookcase or one of the diplomas. 

The desk itself, apart from the trays and the lamp, held a couple of pens and a brass letter opener. She considered risking the lamp, then thinking better of it, stepped around the desk and shone her flashlight at the four drawers, two to either side. 

I’ll try the easiest places first, she thought and reached for the top drawer. It opened with a slow creaking sound, revealing prescription pads, pens, and a stapler. She closed the drawer with a sigh, and went for the one beneath it.

It opened easily, on oiled hinges, and Cassey’s face lit up with a smile.

In the bottom of a drawer otherwise empty but for a couple of rubber bands lay a disc-shaped container of dull whitish metal, dented and spotted with rust. The white, peeling sticker at its center bore the printed words, ‘Eastman Plus X,’ with an unintelligible scribble beneath, a signature perhaps.

This is it, the film. Cassey’s excitement pushed her to grab it greedily, instead, she reached for it calmly, her free hand lifting something that felt a little too light.

Dammit! She placed the flashlight between her teeth again and lifted the film canister onto the desk, removing the lid to stare at the emptiness within. Her disappointment made the flashlight sag into her lower lip.

Nope, don’t give up, it must be here, she thought, and checked the other drawers. There was no joy in those, but the other door caught her gaze and she made it the next place to search. Three quick strides took Cassey to the door, and she paused for a few moments there, hoping there wasn’t just a closet or a bathroom beyond. She opened it, and briefly closed her eyes in relief, reopening them onto a rectangular room with décor matching the office bearing a large, oval-shaped wooden table at its center surrounded by metal chairs.

The table held a box-shaped, 16mm projector. 

Cassey stepped forward quickly. A large white screen hung suspended from the wall facing the projector, and between this and the table stood a black metal wheelchair, shiny and new like it had just been taken from the plastic.

Cassey approached the table and found that unlike the wheelchair and the screen, the metallic green projector was dirty with age, with two large reels suspended from arms at either end. A large, peeling black sticker on its side, above an array of knobs, bore the words ‘Eiki Slim Line’ in silver. The reel to the right was full, and Cassey hoped, no prayed that it was the film from the canister in the office.

It has to be; there are no other film canisters around.

She’d worked a projector before, years ago on an old Elementary School project, so starting the thing didn’t take more than a few minutes of experimentation, and with the film started and her anticipation growing by the second, Cassey seated herself in the wheelchair. When she noticed the leather leg, arm and head restraints, jury-rigged with thick black tape to the chair, she pushed negative thoughts aside and watched the illuminated screen.

The movie was silent, either made that way or the speakers on the old projector were damaged, and so far depicted a dark green background bearing the words, ‘THIS FILM IS CONFIDENTIAL’ in three-dimensional script, white at the forefront with pink at the rears. Scratches and dust spots danced across the screen as a moment later, the green faded to black then reappeared with the words, ‘The UNITED STATES NAVY’ underneath which appeared, ‘IN COOPERATION WITH’.

Hmmm what is this, some kind of war propaganda movie?

The words changed again to, ‘CONVAIR A Division of GENERAL DYNAMICS CORP’ then, ‘Presents,’ before the green faded completely, replaced by a black and white scene of an airplane rolling slowly down a runway with a white-clad man walking beside it, waving it along. She knew nothing about planes, but it looked military, not civilian, and the large triangular tail fin bore the word ‘Navy,’ on its front, behind which were stripes she guessed would be red, white and blue, if the footage were in color. The background was exclusively desert terrain. More words appeared, ‘THE INVESTIGATION of the NUCLEAR TEST ANOMALY: AREA 6’ and Cassey sat up a little straighter.

Nuclear tests, in a desert? She considered this and recalled some history. Nevada, in the fifties. But what is an ‘anomaly?’

The screen turned green again, and the words, ‘PILOT JEREMY GREENLY’ centered it for a few seconds, to be replaced by a black and white photograph displaying the head and shoulders of a young man in military uniform. He had ‘US’ badges on each lapel and a badge on his cap bearing a stylized eagle holding indistinct objects in its claws. 

Cassey stared at the man’s face, and beyond all reason, recognized it. The hooked nose, lantern jaw, this was a younger version of the patient downstairs, John Doe, but this man had eyelids, thick, dark eyebrows, and was smiling in his frozen pose.

But how? Cassey blinked in confusion. Is Bates collecting human memorabilia as well as military, or is this all some coincidence? The photo disappeared and the next words added to her confusion. ‘PILOT DISAPPEARED DURING INVESTIGATION’. These remained for poignantly long seconds, followed by, ‘FOOTAGE RECOVERED FROM WRECKAGE’, before the green disappeared to be replaced by a wobbly, aerial black and white view of the runway surrounded by desert. The runway disappeared, replaced by a shaking image of sand dunes spotted with desert scrub. The shaky view lifted, and a mountainous horizon became visible below a cloudless sky. This view continued for some minutes, the desert monotonous below and the horizon coming no nearer, then from the corner of her eye, Cassey noticed a fence line. The topography changed soon after, the scrubland dissipating into desert flatter and more uniform. It continued that way, and Cassey began to question why the footage was such a prize to Bates and Combs.

Then the plane reached the lip of a vast crater, and gaining altitude, made the whole, roughly circular pockmark in the desert visible.

The shadow at the crater’s bottom appeared a little too dark, considering the film had been made during daylight hours. The plane veered left, away from the crater, and Cassey thought that might be the end of it until it circled around for another view of the crater. Her stomach lurched at the plane’s quick maneuvers as it came in low, almost touching the lip of the crater. Viewed closer, the darkness proved not to be shadows at all, but rather, a bulbous black blob, resembling an oily cloud. As the plane reached it, the blackness expanded, filling the camera’s point of view.

Cassey bit her lip. This was intriguing. She leant forward, watched the blackness for a couple of minutes, and surmised she was nearing the end of the film. 

All of a sudden the footage appeared again, depicting a vast desert plain much darker than before and in constant motion from winds rippling the sand. In places, furious dust devils haunted the waste like sentient beings. This was certainly not the desert the plane had explored minutes earlier. The horizon, mostly obscured by one massive, miles long sandstorm, boasted gigantic crags, obsidian black mountaintops interminably visible between the towering clouds.

The camera began to shake wildly, and the plane took a dizzying dive towards the desert floor.

Cassey felt a tugging in her gut, and the next second she was weightless. The following transition to insanity was instantaneous.

This can’t be happening.

Her head swam as she found herself knee deep in a desert of crimson sand. It was cold, an icy cold as the scathing wind buffeted her from every direction. In all opposition to the chill around her however, the air tasted warm, metallic and slightly sweet, a cloying chemical soup not meant for her lungs. 

This is not real, this cannot be real, she told herself, but her overwhelmed senses screamed differently.

The wind moaned with the wails of a thousand damned, and this was the truth, Cassey realized, for she crouched in a desert of crystallized blood, and the souls so wanted their substance back.

As the dizziness departed she raised her head, looked to the sky and tried to scream, but the air was too thick to allow anything but struggled gasps. The deep purple firmament brimmed with misshapen satellites, the leprous, glowing yellow moons scattered across the sky like pool balls. No, they weren’t satellites, or moons, Cassey realized, but the fossilized, fetal remains of gigantic stillborn beings, suspended in a cruel, lifeless alien sky. Up there she saw unformed faces smothered in seas of eyes, clawed hands and feet curled into fists tucked against bloated stomachs. Other embryos were far from humanoid, and more akin to half-crushed spiders gone fungal with rot. 

Cassey stood unsteadily and slowly turned, examining the blood-soaked landscape for something, anything that made sense in this world of tortured souls and unborn giants. Where the continent spanning storm ended, the other half of the visible plain terminated in black mountains almost tall enough to pierce the malformed behemoths in the sky. 

Grey clouds hung around the peaks, and there she detected hints of movement, black dots darting like fish through algae. Cassey stood transfixed, watching the movement until she felt a subtle trembling beneath her.

Subtle at first, but soon, the crimson floor shook, the red particles bouncing in the air to join those dancing with the howling wind. Afraid for her footing, Cassey crouched and clutched her knees against the earthquake, and then, the desert exploded before her.

Flung violently to the sand, she sprawled on her back as scores of twisted legs, raw as flayed flesh and thicker than the widest tree trunks, rose from the desert floor. Cassey, seeing this through the storm of sand the being’s entrance had invoked, coughed and choked as her eyes teared up. Beyond the titan’s warped limbs, its massive torso obscured the sky. An ellipsoid of raw meat surrounded by hill-like knuckles connected to the shuddering limbs, the bottom of the torso bore an oval of yellowed flesh a hundred feet wide.

It had features she recognized.

John Doe.

A pair of bulging eyes a thousand times their usual size, with corneas like Black Holes, seemed to suck at her very being. The pupils surrounding them resembled lakes of twisting blue tendrils, bordered by glossy yellow shores fractured by blood red runnels. Both eyes disappeared into puckered flesh devoid of lids, with rift-like wrinkles at their edges. The being’s hooked nose was a mountain covered in ditches, the pores filled with glowing beads of sweat. The massive lips, pink and twisted around a gulf of a mouth, twitched, causing the flesh around it to shudder. John Doe’s mouth opened wider, revealing a blackness deeper than the Black Holes pinning her to the sand. He screamed, a high-pitched, siren wail that shook the sand and vibrated through to her very marrow. 

The monstrous form lurched forward, one gigantic eye filling her vision. The cornea expanded, dispelling the pupil to a ribbed blue ring. The Black Hole sucked Cassey from the sand, tumbling her into the darkness of John Doe’s eye. 

The dark was all consuming, her senses crying out for any stimulation apart from Doe’s continuous howl. Long seconds passed as she tumbled through nothingness, and then all of a sudden, an impact came. Cassey shuddered as she found herself returned to the wheelchair, the hospital’s fire alarm replacing Doe’s screams.

“Oh Jesus!” she exclaimed, and found her armpits and lower back slick with sweat, her hands damp in her gloves. Breathing heavily, she leaned over to grip her knees. A wave of nausea followed as she found herself holding back her gorge.

What the fuck? That couldn’t be real, could it? Cassey rubbed her face, blinked, and stared at a projector screen containing nothing but flickering light. She rose, fought back more nausea, and turned to the projector, its wheels still turning and clattering gently along with the alarm.

There were so many questions that needed answering. How had the film done that? Hypnosis through subliminal cuts? And what did any of this have to do with Jeremy Greenly, or John Doe as he was called now? The answers would have to wait. Cassey had the film and that was her only purpose in being here. With that in mind, she approached the projector to remove her prize.

Five minutes later she left Bates’s office, locking it behind her and taking the stairs down to the Administration Wing. The alarm a constant, shrill reminder that something was amiss in the hospital, she paused in indecision at the base of the stairs, clutched the film canister to her chest and wondered which way to go to escape. 

The Male Wing was her best bet, it was closer and she knew its corridors better than Admin, so she stepped through the double doors to her left. No one manned the wire mesh windowed cubicle in the little security room leading to the wards, and the lack of manpower bothered her. Cassey was even more concerned when she found the door to the ward unlocked, but she walked through determinedly and entered a familiar corridor.

The alarm was louder here, making her think, What am I supposed to do? Is this a fire drill? She heard a scream somewhere ahead, followed by breaking glass. The lights flickered. This was no fire drill. 

The door swung open behind her and a wild-eyed patient with long brown hair and a beard entered the ward, naked but for his white hospital issue dressing gown. He rushed towards her and Cassey froze to the spot. The man, at least a head taller than her, threw her against the wall, winding her in the process.

His hands pressed down on her shoulders and Cassey, dropping the canister, raised her hands to defend herself. He violently head-butted her, sending her in a swoon to the floor. Then he was gone, leaving her alone with a throbbing head and the alarm. She raised herself slowly, used the wall for support, and suffered a dizzy spell for her trouble.

Deep breaths, Cassey, deep breaths. She remained unmoving and continued this mantra, keeping her eyes closed until the giddiness ended. Oh my god, I’m in hell. This thought was punctuated by a low, drawn out wail nearby. It came from the door to Two-Eleven and was followed by—

Cassey flinched as the sounds of dozens, maybe hundreds of flapping birds issued from beyond the door. The sound was immense, impossible. ‘Two-Eleven can make some noise too – thinks birds fly around in his room,’ Christopher had said. 

She took a few hesitant steps towards the door. It must be a hallucination, from the head-butt, she told herself. 

Without her keys, she couldn’t unlock it, but perhaps it was open? Her hand brushed the handle but that was it, Cassey refused to see what madness lay beyond. Instead she turned, composed herself, and retrieved the canister, walking down the corridor only to pause seconds later as she reached Two-Thirteen. It stood ajar, and Cassey crept towards the gap with trepidation.

The room beyond was trashed, the desk and table upturned, the bedding tossed to the floor and the drawings from the walls gone except for thumtacked remnants, the paper ripped to shreds and scattered across the floor like confetti. At the center of the room sat John Doe, hunched over as he scribbled away upon the back of one the ruined scraps.

Cassey’s face fell as she saw he’d been injured, for blood dripped steadily from his forehead. Logic told her to leave him. Instinct told her to stay and help.

“Hey John? It’s me, nurse Cassey.” She spoke gently, stepped slowly across the crunching paper. John paid her no attention, just continued with his drawing. She knelt beside him, placed the film on the floor, and touched his shoulder with care, not wanting to surprise the man. 

At her touch, and to Cassey’s surprise, John Doe stopped drawing and raised his head. Seeing the laceration on his forehead had sent blood down the right side of his face, Cassey looked around for something to clean him with and quench the flow. A nearby pillowcase stripped from its pillow sufficed, and removing her sweaty gloves, she dabbed his face before pressing the bunched up fabric to his forehead.

“John, I need to get you out of here, to safety. You’re gonna have to help me and do what I say.”

He met her gaze and she thought she sensed some recognition there. With one hand still pressing the pillowcase against him, Cassey found another pillow, removed its cover, and turned it into a makeshift bag for the film canister. She tucked this under her armpit, held Doe’s arm, and slowly raised herself. To her relief, Doe followed suit, and she gently escorted him from the room.

The coast proving clear, she led him down the corridor but paused at the intersection. Dayroom to the left, to the right, stairs, straight through the doors ahead of us, another male ward and I’m sure there’s an exit. She thought about her options, looked to the darkness of the Dayroom and wondered if going there might be the best option. The sight of a dark shape moving beyond the glass doors made her cringe, and then the door opened, a familiar face appearing within the open gap.

“Kay-Cee, Kay-Cee!” It was Christopher. He beckoned her with an urgent wave as he continued, “We hide here, safe place for staff. Come on!”

No further encouragement was needed, and she steered Doe towards the Dayroom and Christopher’s panicked, sweat-sheened face.

“Come on!” he repeated as Cassey reached the door. She guided Doe into darkness accompanied by the sound of Christopher’s fumbling hands locking the door closed.

“There are some of us in here, waiting till it calms down,” Christopher said in a less panicked tone.

“What’s happened? I heard the alarm and was attacked on the way here.” 

“Many dangerous patients escape. I think someone let them out,” Christopher said, then announced to the room’s shadows, “The man with Kay-Cee is John Doe, good patient, no trouble.”

Cassey heard quiet whispers, and saw a few furtive movements within the room. She shivered, feeling suddenly very vulnerable. Then illumination appeared in the form of a flashlight, shining across her and Doe.

“Hey Cassey,” said the one holding the torch. It was Benny, one of the day orderlies, a slim, balding Hispanic man she had spoken to a couple of times.

“Put that thing out,” said a sharp female voice to Benny’s right. Cassey recognized the voice, and then the rimless glasses and pinned back black hair of Doctor Kinsolving, one of the Male Wing’s psychiatrists.

“She needs to find her way around doesn’t she?” Benny said in defiance, “and the patient, Doe, he looks injured.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Kinsolving said, and standing, moved towards Cassey and Doe. In the near dark, the psychiatrist looked spectral in her white lab coat, the light from Benny’s torch making a silhouette of her as she paused between Cassey and John. She illuminated a small pencil torch and tutted as she examined him.

Kinsolving turned to Cassey. “Are you injured?”

“Just a bump to the head. It aches a bit that’s all.” 

The doctor nodded. “Okay. There’s a kit over here. I’ll fix him up. Come on John.”

Cassey released John and the pair walked left. Looking around, she saw people shapes sitting at tables, their faces nebulous. Behind them, the painted wall flowers stood out starkly against the white, ghostly in the shadows formed by Benny’s wavering torch. The garden beyond the window, rather that being an outlet for freedom, made her feel trapped. It was so dark out there. How high are the walls beyond? And—

“Kay-Cee.”

She stifled a gasp as Christopher’s hand touched her shoulder.

“Go sit,” he continued, “nothing to do now but wait for police to come.”

“Yeah, okay,” Cassey replied, her heart still pounding from the surprise. She headed right towards the east wall to join someone sitting on the floor.

Safety in numbers, human company, both seemed like good ideas after what she had been through. Was still going through, Cassey corrected herself, and she greeted the man sitting in shadow.

“Hi,” she said, seeing a large form dressed in a white orderly’s uniform.

“Great time to pick the night shift, huh?” he replied.

Cassey smirked and sat down beside him. “Damned straight. I took this on at the last minute.” She made herself comfortable, turned and looked at her companion, seeing short, spiky hair that was probably red under better illumination, heavy features swathed in shadow.

“Still,” the shadowy face said, “at least it gave you the opportunity to snoop.”

“What?” Cassey exclaimed a little too loudly. She looked away from the orderly and saw heads turn her way.

“Quiet,” he said, his voice low, menacing. “I’m here because we have a mutual client. I guess she wants that film desperately, and I guess that’s what you have in that sack beside you.”

Her hand fell atop the pillowcase protectively.

“It’s mine now, little lady. When this lockdown lifts and the police arrive to collect the escaped nuts, I’m out of here and off to earn my pay check.”

Combs, the bitch. Didn’t think I was up to the job so she hired this guy too? 

“Listen buddy and listen close,” she said, her anger swelling. “You’ll get this film over my dead body.” And that bitch Combs is in for hell when I see her.

“That can be arranged,” her companion said, and something cold pressed against her side, poking her in the ribs. The gun barrel remained there briefly, then he pulled it away. “I let the most dangerous nuts out for this diversion. Don’t think I won’t go to extremes to get my money.”

Cassey believed him. This guy was as crazy as those he’d freed. She looked around the room, slowly, silently pleading for help with her eyes, hoping that someone might do something, anything to save her.

Christopher stood at the doors, peering through the glass and no doubt searching for more lost staff or dangerous, wandering patients.

“So what’s it to be?” the man said.

To Christopher’s right stood a table filled with muttering staff members. She saw the orange glow of a cigarette there, the No-Smoking policy obviously ignored during the anarchy.

“You don’t want to keep me waiting,” he added, and Cassey felt the gun against her ribs again.

Past a second table, near the wall to the right, stood John Doe and Kinsolving. His face illuminated by the doctor’s flashlight, Doe now had a large bandage above his right eye. Kinsolving was removing the last of the blood from his face and neck with a wet wipe.

The mysterious man faced her, staring at something above her head.

“Okay then, the hard way it is.”

Cassey heard a gun hammer cock.

“Jeremy Greenly,” she whispered, still staring at Doe’s face, and his strange, yellow eyes found hers.

Jeremy Greenly smiled and a gentle, encouraging expression formed across his face.

“Goodbye Cassey,” said her companion.

“Hello Jeremy,” Cassey replied, and something exploded from Greenly’s mouth. 

A stream of liquid blackness, it turned solid as it hit the man beside Cassey. She felt the vibration as it impaled the wall, accompanied by a liquid sounding crunch that saw the gun sagging from her ribs.

Kinsolving, backing away from Greenly, issued a scream that was joined by others as he levitated from the carpet. 

Cassey turned to her erstwhile assassin and saw a caved-in face impaled by an obsidian, alien member. If she hadn’t been shocked by Greenly’s actions already, she might have added a scream to the chorus around her. She pawed the floor and found the gun, still attached to a rapidly cooling hand. A sound similar to a ripe melon being smashed sent her eyes back to Greenly. 

What had been Greenly, what was now a hovering, bloated red ball with flaccid arms and legs dangling from its surface. The shadows didn’t conceal the horror enough. His clothing had fallen from him, as had his epidermis, split off and dangling against the floor. The red flesh that remained, crisscrossed with purple veins, pulsed with hideous life. Greenly’s head, still connected to the corpse behind her, bobbed lifelessly atop the ball. Cassey pushed herself against the wall, watching screaming staff flee to the garden windows and the door. 

She saw Christopher go down as people barreled over him, and then, hearing a noise like an amplified snake’s hiss, returned to the monstrous torso. The source? Over a dozen, vertically gaping mouths had opened up there. Breathing in unison, each brimmed with large, needle-like teeth. A further transformation followed, Greenly’s spindly legs dropping off and thick steaming purple tubes slopping to the floor in their place.

Cassey gagged, then shrieked as black streams poured from the thing’s mouths, spearing some of those still in the room. Christopher’s shaking, wailing form was pulled into the air like a manikin, his torso skewered by one of Greenly’s tongues. She wondered if she would be next.

Not if I can help it. She retrieved the pillowcase and raised herself up, using the wall for support.

“There are better ways to die, Christopher,” Cassey said, and aimed the gun. The first shot went awry, impacting the wall behind him. The second hit his chest, making his head sag and his body fall limp. The discharge made her ears ring, but at least it drowned out the screams. She turned the gun on Greenly’s bloated form, and thought better of wasting a bullet on the horror. 

The black tongue dropped Christopher and turned in her direction, the purple things also questing towards her across the floor. The doors to the corridor were wide open in the wake of those that had escaped.

Can I reach it in time? Only one way to find out.

Cassey ran.

***

Epilogue

‘The Hudson River Psychiatric Hospital Incident,’ had gained plenty of coverage on the Internet, the local newspapers, and even some of the national ones. Cassey had discreetly hired a cutting service for the latter, and she’d had some of her operatives record news reports, all of which she’d read and watched over the past week and a half since she escaped the asylum.

Her most recent web search, before her on her desk laptop, added nothing new to what she’d been reading and seeing.

Hudson River Psychiatric Hospital: Police probe 18 deaths.

Legal action over Hudson River Psychiatric Hospital deaths.

Medical Director resigns over Hudson River Psychiatric Hospital deaths.

And so on, and so on. None of the reports mentioned Cassandra Walker, and this made her wonder if there had been some kind of cover up. Her real surname was Bane, because of course she’d used a fake one, and fake documents, when she’d applied for the job. If there wasn’t a cover up, then perhaps some kind of miracle had occurred to keep her out of the media. Whatever, her name wasn’t listed as one of the casualties, and neither was John Doe’s.

Covering up the existence of a man who had mysteriously dropped out of a sixty-year-old film was probably as easy as doing it for a fake staff member. She might have suspected Bates of being behind it, except he was one of the eighteen fatalities. According to media reports, the man had returned to Hudson River and been murdered by one of the escaped patients. Perhaps he’d come back for his film?

Her head ached when she tried thinking about what the film meant. Hence, Cassey had stopped thinking about it. But the monster Greenly had become... Where is it now? Is that thing’s existence another cover up? It was something else best not dwelled upon.

A knock on her office door made her raise her head from the screen. She said, “Come in,” watched the handle turn, and the beautiful, ever-glamorous Miss Combs stepped into the room, today wearing a pastel yellow, square patterned dress, with white frills at collar and cuffs. 

Probably Louis Vuitton, she thought. Comb’s legs were bare beneath the knee length dress, her shoes a pair of metallic-blue pumps, the color of blowflies. The handbag was her usual, black crocodile. She wore dark sunglasses today, store bought, generic types. Perhaps she had purchased them on a whim on the way here? Perhaps she wore them to hide her guilt.

Combs smiled as she approached the desk, that same old, butter wouldn’t melt look that infuriated Cassey after what she had experienced. She hadn’t mentioned anything about Combs’s other hireling at the hospital in their earlier phone call, wasn’t going to either. She just wanted to end this, and carry on with her life.

“Please, take a seat,” Cassey returned the smile.

Combs sat, crossed her legs, and placed her handbag in her lap.

“I assume the bank transfer was successful?” she asked. “I so wanted to give you something extra once I heard about all the trouble at Hudson River.”

I’m sure you did, Cassey thought. “It’s much appreciated, and regardless, it was nothing I couldn’t really handle.” That was a lie, and the extra fifty grand cash? She’d sent twenty of it to Christopher’s family. Her one good deed for the decade.

“Anyway,” she continued, “here it is Miss Combs, your Holy Grail.” Cassey reached down and lifted an aluminum briefcase from behind the desk. She placed it between them, and Combs, gripping hold of it greedily, pulled it to her side of the desk.

“Have you… have you watched it yet?” Combs asked hesitantly.

“No,” Cassey lied, “and I was wondering, what is all the fuss about concerning this one old movie?”

Combs pursed her lips, appeared deep in thought for a few seconds, then said, “It concerns my grandfather, and the last time he was seen alive.”

Cassey’s jaw dropped.

Miss Combs grinned, revealing perfect, white teeth. It was a predator’s smile.