"Hospice" by Mark Trenyer

Hospice

by Mark Trenyer

They brought me here to die.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. When you get to my age, the aches and pains are a constant reminder that the path ahead is far shorter than the long, winding road in the rearview mirror. Truth is, I can see the abrupt stop just ahead.

The sign out front says Sunset Hospice in neat white letters wrapped around a painted setting sun. Seeing it made me chuckle. I’ve always joked that care facilities avoid the word sunset, like pretending it isn’t coming makes a difference. This place leans into it—brutal honesty about where residents find themselves at the end of life.

It didn’t take long for me to realize something was wrong. I felt it on the first night. All my life I’ve had a gift—or maybe a curse. I can perceive things others can’t. You might think I’m senile at best, bat-shit crazy at worst. That’s all right. At this point, your belief isn’t required. The truth persists regardless.

This house is alive. Something has claimed it. It’s in the timbers, the stone, its very roots.

The nurses don’t see it. Maybe they can’t. They’re part of it now. I can sense they aren’t evil, but the house influences them. I’ve caught them pausing too long, staring at a wall. Mumbling, as if answering an unseen voice.

I can hear it too. Since boyhood, I’ve heard things others couldn’t—a skill honed during the war. I could feel where danger lay and choose my steps carefully. It saved me more than once.

The house prefers those with no visitors. I’ve seen the pattern. Old Mr. Douglas down the hall—his daughter visited daily. Gone in a week, the lucky bastard. Mrs. Keating? No family, no friends. She’s been here for months, skin pulled tight over her bones. It’s feeding on her, prolonging her suffering.

It’s doing the same to me. Pain meds come late—if at all. When I ask, the nurses blink, swear they already gave them. Meals vanish, yet they insist I’ve eaten. I get just enough to stay alive. It’s not their fault—it’s the house. They believe what they’re telling me.

As the weeks crawl by, the house has started talking to me—it knows about my abilities. It whispers in my ear. The pain is unbearable at times, yet it talks on—telling stories of those who came before. A soldier with a missing leg. A woman consumed by fever. A man coughing blood. All of them died here, in this building or the ones before it. A field hospital once, I think. And before that… something worse. Torches, screaming—a massacre. It’s not just telling me—I can see it. I can feel it too.

I hear more than the house now. I hear them—the victims—screaming still. The thing feeds on their pain, and the greater their suffering in life, the more intense it is after death.

I’ve been here for months. The house won’t let me die. Not until I’ve suffered enough to keep it fed for a good long time.

Last night, I discovered something new. Something I never imagined in all these years. I’ve always perceived—but now, near the end, I learned I can also push. I pushed back last night and felt something unexpected.

Fear. It was afraid.

***

And now, it’s tonight.

No nurse all day—no meds, no food. I am weak. Tonight is the night.

It’s here now. The air turns heavy, pressing on my chest until I can barely breathe. My bones ache from the sudden cold. Shadows spill from the corners, writhing toward me.

It digs into my mind, clawing at what’s left of my sanity. I push back, harder than before. My body aches, but I feed it what it can’t use—no fear, only good: my children’s births, my wife’s laugh, spring rain on a sunny day, the pride of bringing men home alive.

It screams—like a spoiled child who has never been told no. The room trembles. Dust drifts through the air. I dig deeper, pushing beyond sentiment. I reach for the other voices in the walls, urging them to rise and fight.

The scream changes—no longer petulant, but wounded. A cornered animal. Shadows thrash. My heart pounds, I push harder—I can’t stop.

The house shudders. The timbers moan. And then—it breaks. The cold retreats. The shadows scatter. I am left in silence.

I sink back in my bed, lungs gasping for clean air. I’ve won. I know it.

My eyes close, heavy from the fight… from a life long lived.

I begin to drift away, ready for my long, well deserved rest. And then—faintly—breathing. Not mine. It’s right beside me.