The Nurse
Authors: Amy Cross
Copyright 2016 Amy Cross
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition
Dark Season Books
First published: July 2016
“Twenty years ago, something very bad happened in this house. But it's over now. I promise.”
When Rachel moves to a new house with her mother, she immediately realizes that something isn't quite right. Although she's blind, Rachel can tell that the stories about the house's past don't add up. And slowly, she starts to worry that someone or something from that past might still be around.
Soon, Rachel learns the story of the house's previous occupant, a troubled nurse who spent every waking moment caring for a sick old man. The nurse eventually lost her mind, resulting in a series of horrific murders, but have the events of that awful time truly been left behind? Or is something stirring in the night, something that only Rachel seems to notice?
The Nurse is the story of a girl who finds herself trapped in a sinister house, and a woman who believes she's being haunted by the ghost of a long-dead child. Contains scenes of violence.
Now my hands are steady again. Now the voice has stopped.
I pick out each note with great care. I appreciate that my playing is by no means perfect, and I know I still have so much to learn, but practice makes perfect and everybody has to begin somewhere. So I take my time, while ignoring the distant sound of armed men breaking down the front door. All that matters is the calming music that brings peace and quiet to the world around me.
As I continue to play, blood starts dribbling down from my face, splattering against the piano's black and white keys.
Rachel - Today
“Be careful,” Mum says, holding my right arm as she guides me through the front door. “There's a step and then a mat. The stairs are right in front of you.”
I open my mouth to tell her I can manage, to tell her to stop fussing, but the truth is: I
can't
manage. I can't even walk into our new house without help.
I'm basically helpless.
“Steady,” she continues, gripping my arm a little tighter. “It's about two meters to the stairs and there's a lovely stained glass window, but we're going to turn left and -”
“I'm blind, Mum,” I reply, pulling my arm away from her, “not stupid.”
I hesitate for a moment, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do next. There's no way I'm going to let Mum lead me around like some kind of idiot, so I take a couple of faltering steps forward with my arms outstretched. I figure I'll somehow sense the wall if I'm about to bump into it, although a moment later I trip on a table leg and let out a faint gasp of shock. Fortunately Mum grabs me just in time, and this time I know there's no point protesting. Without her help, I'm screwed.
I hate this.
And I hate knowing it's never going to get any better.
I keep waiting for some kind of super-sense to kick in, to compensate for my blindness, but so far I'm like a goddamn moron stumbling about in the dark. At the hospital, they told me I'd learn to adapt to my new life, but I think those were just empty hopes. I'm blind now, so my life is basically over. Things aren't miraculously going to get better some day.
As Mum leads me forward, my left hand brushes against the wall. I can't help noticing that the wallpaper seems torn, with my fingertips scraping over sections of exposed brickwork.
“Is this place a goddamn dump?” I ask, as I feel a few broken wooden splinters.
“I told you, it just needs a little tender loving care.”
“There's no carpet, either. It's like some kind of bombed-out old -”
“There's a table to your left,” Mum says suddenly.
“I'm not turning to my left,” I tell her, reaching out to grab the door-frame. “I'm walking straight -”
Suddenly my hand hits the edge of a vase. I pull back, but it's too late and I hear a wobbling sound, then a bump, and finally the crash of a glass vase smashing against the floor. A moment later, cold water hits my socks.
I mutter something dark and obscene under my breath.
“It's okay,” Mum says, although I can hear the frustration in her voice. “I shouldn't have put that there anyway, I just thought it might cheer the place up a bit. Don't worry, let's just get you to the sofa, and then I can get the mess all mopped up. There are bound to be a few bumps during the first days. Accidents are only to be expected.”
“You shouldn't have to clean up after me,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “I'm not a baby!”
“A little frustration is natural,” she continues, sounding annoyingly optimistic. “You'll be okay once you get used to the place, I promise.”
She's wrong. I won't be okay. I can't see anything, and it's not as my eyes are suddenly going to heal some day. This is how I'm going to have to live the rest of my life: blind, stumbling around and knocking stuff over, and with someone guiding me everywhere I go. I'm basically one step above being a pet.
“This way,” Mum says suddenly, “just -”
“I can do it!” I shout, pulling my arm away from her grip. “Stop treating me like a goddamn -”
Sighing, I take a deep breath before shuffling forward with my arms outstretched, desperately hoping that I can find the sofa without falling over. With each step, I feel more and more as if I'm walking into a vast, empty void. Just as I dare to hope that the rest of the world has disappeared, however, I bump against another wall.
Alice - Twenty years ago
I sit in complete silence, watching as his chest slowly rises and falls. His belly is getting bigger and the buttons on his pajamas are straining slightly. I should change him soon. Then again, his breaths seem much slower than before, almost as if they might stop at any moment.
Almost.
I watch as his chest slowly rises.
And then it falls.
And then nothing.
I hold my breath, just in case -
I should -
Suddenly he mutters something under his breath, but it's just a sleep murmur. He shifts slightly and lets out a couple of snorts.
He's still alive.
Of course he is.
Thank God. I mean, that's what I want. I want him to be okay. Of course I do.
So I wait, in case he wakes.
The only sound now is the rustle of his pajamas as he continues to breathe. Again, my thoughts inevitably turn to the possibility that the sound could stop at any moment. He could just slip away into eternal peace, but he clings to life as if he's scared of what might come next. He's never admitted to any fear, of course. The mere suggestion would horrify him, and he'd probably have another of his loud, violent outbursts. But deep down, beneath all his brashness, I think he's terrified. That's why he's been so much angrier lately. Even worse than before.
But I have to look past the bad moments and concentrate on what's still most important. He's my father, and I'm his daughter and his nurse.
This is my duty.
“Alice,” he mumbles suddenly, and his eyes flicker open. Still bloodshot, still yellow at the edges.
“I'm here,” I reply.
“My bag,” he whispers, wincing as he tries to sit up. “It's full.”
I get to my feet. “I can -”
“You've gotta empty it,” he continues, already pulling the duvet aside to reveal the colostomy bag attached to his swollen red belly. “It stinks.”
I swallow hard. “Please -”
“You've gotta empty it!” he hisses. “What's wrong with you, are you suddenly deaf and dumb? Do you want me to sit here like this, with my own shit leaking out all over the place? It's full, you stupid...”
His voice trails off, but after a moment he mutters a few curses under his breath.
“You're no better than the idiots at the hospital,” is the only part of the little tirade that I manage to catch.
Stepping over to the bed, I reach down and pull out a box of spares. When I open the lid, however, I find that the box is empty, and I realize I forgot to bring up some fresh supplies earlier.
Stupid
. Why do I forget things so easily?
“What are you fussing with now?” he spits. “Get on with it!”
“I need to find a new one for you,” I tell him. “There's a fresh box downstairs.”
“What use is it down there?”
“I'll go and fetch it,” I continue, getting to my feet and stepping back. “I'll only be a -”
“You should think ahead,” he stammers, interrupting me. “What were you doing while I was asleep, anyway? Twiddling your thumbs and daydreaming? You need to plan things better, there's no point keeping a load of new bags downstairs. When was the last time I went downstairs?”
“I'm sorry, I -”
“Bloody hell, you're hopeless. You're a terrible nurse.”
Flinching slightly, I'm tempted to point out that the new bags only arrived at lunchtime, but instead I head to the door. He never likes to hear excuses. At the last moment, however, I stop and glance back at him.
“Are you sure you don't want to think again about the nurse from the healthcare center?” I ask. “They called again yesterday. They're happy to send someone each day to look after you and -”
“I don't need some stranger coming into my home,” he says firmly. “You're a nurse, aren't you? Just about, anyway. You can do it. It's not like you're needed anywhere else, so you might as well be useful here. Now get a fresh bag, this one's full!”
“Of course,” I reply, turning and heading out to the door. “I'm sorry.”
“Have you seen him today?”
I freeze.
“You have, haven't you?”
Turning, I see that for the first time in several days, Father is smiling.
“You've seen him,” he sneers. “I can tell.”
“No,” I stammer, shaking my head. “I haven't seen him. Of course not. I'll fetch another bag.”
“Liar! You've seen him!”
By the time I get to the top of the stairs, I feel physically sick, but I force myself to stay strong. I head down to the hallway, and then I stop for a moment and look at the stained glass window. The light is so beautiful, and I remember when my mother had the piece installed. It's the one thing that's left of her now, in this house that my father has spent so many years making ugly. Noticing that the vase is slightly crooked, I make sure to slide it back into its proper spot.
“Alice!” Father yells suddenly from upstairs, as he bangs his cane against the floorboards. I swear, his voice has seared its way into my mind. “Hurry! This thing stinks!”
