I actively entered the indie horror scene approximately two years ago. Since that time, I have done several beta and ARC reads for several different authors. I have also started editing. I have a certificate from Udemy and am nearly finished with a certificate from Poynter/Aces. When I’m not devouring words, I am a labor and delivery nurse.
LABOR AND DELIVERY
by
Heather Larson
As I trudged into work with my double-fisted coffees, I gave exhausted nods to co-workers as I passed. We all looked the same – sleep-deprived and buzzing on generous amounts of caffeine.
We gathered our things after briefing and headed to the floor. Mumbled conversation about what sleep we did or didn’t get, the damn dog barking woke me up, or the husband didn’t have supper ready again filtered through the group. We set about the routine of receiving reports from the day shift and set about our tasks.
Labor and delivery bustled 24/7. Babies don’t just come during the day, and today was no exception. The floor was nearly full, and we had overflow from postpartum besides. It was looking to be a hell of a shift.
The hours flew by. We finally had a chance to sit down around 3 a.m. When we finally checked in with each other, Sandra was missing.
“Who’s last seen her?” I asked. She was in charge of the postpartum patients that night, which typically meant hours spent trying to help babies eat and convincing moms to sleep.
“Last I saw her she went into 347. She said the baby in there wouldn’t stop crying, thought she would help the mom get some rest,” Allie answered. “She said she didn’t think there was a patient in there, but she said that baby just wouldn’t stop.”
A collection gasp went round the group.
“What?” Allie asked. “You all look like a goose walked on your graves.”
“You’re not far off,” Carol said. “You’re still new, you don’t know the stories.”
“What are you getting at?” Allie said, a hint of curiosity and a hint of caution in her voice.
“That room has a history, little miss,” Carol said. “It’s rumored to house the ghost of a mother and babe that didn’t leave this place alive. We don’t put patients in that room, there have been too many complaints of happenings in there.”
Allie looked at the group, assessing if they were messing with her or not. Ghosts? She didn’t believe in ghosts. Ghosts were for horror flicks and books. But when she looked around the group, they were all nodding in agreement, fear on their faces.
“How long ago did you see her go into the room?” I asked.
“I’m not really sure, the night has gone so fast,” Allie meekly answered.
Allie was certain they were messing with her. This was some noobie hazing, right?
“Nobody goes down there alone. Allie, you and Paige come with me,” Carol said. We need to find her before it’s too late.”
“What do you mean by ‘too late,’” asked Allie?
“Let’s just find her first, we’ll fill you in after,” Carol said, grim determination on her face. She was set to find Sandra.
I didn’t want to go. I knew the stories, I had heard the crying, felt the cold breezes, heard the creak of bassinet wheels that weren’t there. It didn’t make me feel any better I had friends with. We were no match if the ghost became aggressive. It had happened before, and I didn’t want it to be toward me.
The three of us marched down the hall; Carol was on a mission to get this sorted. She wasn’t going to lose a nurse on her shift, no matter what could create that loss. Allie and I were less determined, mostly cowering behind Carol, using her as a shield.
We reached 347 and heard it – the baby was still crying. Carol opened the door with care, handling it like it was a bomb ready to explode. When the door was open enough for Carol to see in, she sucked in a sharp breath and wavered on her feet.
Sandra was cooing to a baby. She appeared to be in a trance. We couldn’t believe what was happening. There wasn’t a patient in that room, but Sandra had a baby in her arms and was shushing it to calm it. When Carol inhaled that breath, the room went completely black and the crying stopped.
Sandra snapped out of her stupor. We knew by the panic in her voice. Carol called out to her, to let her know we were here and she wasn’t alone. Carol found her badge flashlight and used it to guide Sandra to us and out of the room. As soon as she crossed the threshold, the lights in the room came back on. There was nobody in there.
When we got back to the desk, Carol told everybody the story.
Seventy-five years ago, a mother had delivered a stillborn infant. After the delivery, she bled to death. Since that time there have been multiple complaints of crying coming from the room. Sometimes the crying is reported to be of an inconsolable infant; sometimes it is said to be of a weeping mother. Several nurses have been found to be rocking the infant, stating the mother would only mumble when the nurse attempted to wake her. Patients in that room always complained of a constant, cold draft and an unsettled feeling of dread. Carol had seen the mother and infant herself, many years ago. When she went into the room, the mother had lashed out at her, causing her to fall and break her wrist. She had vowed to never again enter that room. But she couldn’t leave Sandra to a worse fate.
That was ten years ago. Tonight I was in charge of the overflow patients. And I heard an infant crying inconsolably in 347. Curiosity got the better of me. I gently pushed open the door and went into the dim room. . .