Chapter 6

Alice went into her office at the start of another shift: same shit, different day. The avalanche of paperwork had bred overnight. Where was the time needed to see the patients? The sterile air with a note of disinfectant felt heavier today. It dragged her mood down a dark alley. Another sleepless night left her temples pounding and her limbs weak. The hospital was a pressure cooker with no release valve—too many patients, too few resources. She was so tired that a dull ache spread through her body like cement. She felt brittle. Somebody had stretched her substance too thinly over her frame. After no sleep, her bloodstream was a richly-ground blend of caffeine and spite. She rarely harboured unkind thoughts about others and preferred to see the good in people. This was so unlike her.

She went to her desk, and the last of her composure slipped.

The book was there.

It lay on her desk as though it had every right to exist in her space. Its dark leather cover was worn, the hide of a slain beast. It looked inert, dead. But Alice felt the book’s force before she registered what it was. It looked as though it had always belonged, dark and malevolent against the pale desk. Its presence made the room colder. A faint vibration came from it, a rhythm that resonated in her core, only discernible at a subconscious level. She froze with nausea rising from her stomach to her throat.

What the hell?

She hadn’t seen the damn thing since the trouble with Ann. Had she? She remembered returning it to the library and putting it on the highest shelf, out of reach. Yet here it was, as though she’d put it on her desk.

The logical part of her mind screamed for an explanation. Somebody must have brought it, or perhaps a patient left it on her desk.

But she kept her office locked. Who would go out of their way to dig up that awful book?

She circled the desk as though she was studying a wild animal that might lash out if she moved too fast. The cover looked darker than she remembered but the leather glistened in the light. It looked—damp, but there was no sign of moisture. It had a disturbing texture, like a lizard, dead and turning to jerky under a baking sun.

Her first instinct was to hurl it into the nearest bin or she could march it down to the incinerator and watch it burn. Her stomach lurched at the thought of touching it again, but the idea of leaving it there was worse.

Do it! End this.

She reached out, her hand trembling as it hovered over the book. But as her fingers brushed the cover, a shock ran up her arm, freezing her in place. It wasn’t a painful sensation but it made her snatch her hand back. The sturdy leather cover had some stability, but Alice felt something writhing underneath it.

Her breath came fast. She reached out. The second touch was worse. The book was pulling her in—into what?—its texture altered, disturbingly pliant now, like flesh. A shudder tore through her, and she yanked it off the desk. Something with all those pages should have heft. But it was light, as though it was hollow.

Alice held it away from her body as she crossed the room, she didn’t want it touching anything more than it had to. The urge to get rid of it kept her moving. She strode down the corridor that stretched farther than it ever had. It felt endless, the walls curving inward, conspiring to keep her lost. The familiar signs blurred, and her footsteps sounded distant in her fugue. She thought it was her imagination, but she’d been walking for five minutes down the familiar corridor: X-ray. Radiology. Oncology. Paediatrics, the sign for A&E—Follow the yellow arrows. She was going to the incinerator in the basement by the path labs but couldn’t seem to find her way.

 She rounded a corner and was outside the library door in the Annexe. She’d been in the main hospital building. Hadn’t she? Was she as mad as her patients?

Alice opened the door with her shoulder, without using her occupied hand. Inside, the library smelled of dust and forgotten things and the air was still. The overhead lights cast yellow light over the soldiers in rank on the shelves. But the overhead fluorescence didn’t reach the corners, where shadows pooled and thickened, craving her.

She went to the back corner, where she’d originally put the book, and hesitated. She felt funny. The book belonged to her. She bought it and didn’t have to share it if she didn’t want to. What the hell? The shelf was an appropriate resting place, but it felt wrong. She needed to put the book in her bag and take it home. No. She shook the feeling of ownership and forced the blasted thing into a space on the top shelf. As she pushed it into the slot, the air around her shifted. It was denser and colder. The shadows were its henchmen. She shuddered and brushed her hands against her trousers to get rid of its presence.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that it watched her, its unseen eyes heavy on her back. She stopped by the door and looked again. The book was a shadowy shape, obscured by the others. It was claiming space.

The feeling of being watched didn’t leave her, even in the brightly lit corridor. She ran back to her office and flipped her laptop open waiting for her breathing to settle. But her thoughts refused to resolve.

The book had left something behind—and no matter how hard she tried to focus, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d abandoned something cherished.

The week spiralled into something worse. On Tuesday, the first incident occurred.

Alice was doing her rounds when an explosive crack rang from one of the day rooms. The sound of something shattering cut through the noise of the ward—there was the clatter of a meal tray, somebody breaking down, screaming, and the anguish of prolonged wailing. She heard footsteps running into one of the bedrooms and more following.

She ran, her shoes loud on the polished floor. There was some frantic shouting, punctuated by bursts of uneven breath. ‘Eddie.’ She recognised the voice before she got to his bedroom.

Inside, chaos had taken over, holding everything organised to ransom.

Eddie, a wiry man in his late thirties, paced. He was agitated and his wild energy made him dangerous. Dark hair stuck to his damp forehead, and his hospital-issue sweatshirt was stained with paint from his latest creation. Eddie was an artist. But his tears soaked the earth with despair. He could lift the world in his hands and improve it with his brush but his talent came at a terrible cost. He bore the burden of humanity’s suffering—and the weight crushed him.

His room was a purge of spattered colour—blotches of red, chaotic strokes of black, and jagged streaks of yellow leapt off the walls. His latest self-portrait stared back at him with accusing eyes.

And Eddie was sad, even sadder than Adele. His depression was so great that it sent shockwaves around the world and caused, war and famine, earthquakes and cyclones. In his reality, that was his unshakable truth. When a child died before its time, it was Eddie’s fault. A person of colour perished in a hate crime, and Eddie’s profound sadness had caused it. He had to be protected from the news, and when David Bowie, his all-time hero, died, Eddie was sedated for a time and kept in a bed where he couldn’t hurt himself. His art didn’t express pain—it caused it. Every brushstroke and splash of colour sent ripples of despair into the world. In his mind, his creations were a blessing and a curse. Eddie created cancer and hatred. Suicide was the only preventative for the devastation he caused and he’d tried it many times. Eddie was a failure.

He muttered under his breath and clipped the words flowing too fast to make sense. ‘I can’t take it. He sees what I’ve done. He wants to use my curse.’

He’d levelled out recently, the drugs kept him dribbling but manageable. Today he was like the Eddie of old. As Alice ran into his bedroom, he pushed past her and the staff who were already there trying to reason with him. Eddie was seconds away from summoning the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. She had to reach him before he broke completely.

He ran to the day room where other patients were relaxing. Throwing people out of his way, he screamed his pain at them. Other patients saw him burst in and knew how his sadness could harm them. They pressed against the walls, inching towards the door and possible escape, before Eddie could unleash a tide of angry geese on them. When Eddie weeps, the skies darkened with hordes of them honking and biting. A stream of power outages would plague the world. When Eddie sighed, power grids faltered. Toasters stopped mid-pop and cities stumbled through sudden darkness, lit only by the glow of confused cell phone owners. Alice steadied herself, knowing Eddie would blame himself for whatever had triggered him. 

Within seconds, a chair lay on its side—one leg snapped off and the seat was broken. It had shattered against the wall with splinters flying like shrapnel; as the jagged remnants of his sanity had blown his mind. The jagged pieces were a physical manifestation of Eddie’s power. She had to reach him before he broke completely.

Eddie’s sobs stilled, but the tension didn’t ease. It clung to the room, and everything in it, heavy, like pressure before a thunderstorm.

‘Eddie,’ Alice said, keeping her tone calm. She held her hands open in the accepted gesture of de-escalation. ‘Let’s talk. Whatever it is, it’s not your fault. Tell me what happened.’

Katherine Black Amazon Page. 17 books to choose from: all on KU.

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