Chapter 2 : The Patient
1045 Words
Margaret sat in the observation room, her pen tapping rhythmically against the file in her lap. A single name stared up at her: Patient #213.
No surname. No history. Just a clinical photo stapled to the corner—a man in his thirties, pale with bruised eyes and an expression like he’d already seen hell and wasn't impressed.
The door creaked open.
A nurse wheeled him in—thin, restrained, silent. His wrists were cuffed to the chair, but he didn’t resist. His eyes lifted to Margaret's face, and for a moment, she swore they glowed.
“Doctor Thatcher,” he said before she even introduced herself. His voice was rough velvet—too calm for a man in restraints.
Margaret blinked. “You know me?”
He smiled, just slightly. “You’ve been here before. Many times. You just don’t remember.”
She felt her spine straighten. “Let’s start with your name.”
He leaned forward, as far as the restraints would let him. “They call me Thomas. But that’s not what they call me.”
“They?”
A slow, soft chuckle. “Gabriel and Christopher. You’ve met them, haven’t you?”
Her pen stopped tapping.
“They like you,” Thomas continued, his gaze sharpening. “Gabriel thinks you’re exquisite. Christopher wants to wear your skin like a coat. But me?” He tilted his head. “I think you’re still worth saving. Even if you're already halfway gone.”
Margaret stood abruptly. “I think that’s enough for today.”
Thomas tilted his head back and laughed—a full, raw sound that didn’t belong in any sane room.
“You don’t get it yet,” he called as she opened the door. “You’re not the doctor. You’re just the next subject.”
She slammed the door behind her, heart pounding.
From the hallway, the ticking clock struck the hour—
Thirteen times.
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“No, I can’t do this... I have to do this. I will do this.”
Margaret tried to convince herself—or maybe she just thought she did.
“Okay. I’ve done this before, and I’ll do it again. It’s my job. Don’t be stupid, Meg. Just do it.”
After what felt like an eternity of silent coaxing, Margaret finally entered the observation room.
There he was—sitting in a chair, staring into nothing.
“Thomas,”
she said softly, sitting in front of him.
He looked at her. At first, it was a dead, vacant glance—but after a few seconds, his eyes began to glow.
“Thomas, I need you to listen to me carefully, okay?”
“Yeah,”
he nodded, smiling… creepily.
“Sometimes our minds play tricks on us. They make us believe that what we’re seeing or imagining is real. But it’s not—and there’s no shame in admitting that. I know your mind feels foggy. You see people. Hear voices. You think they’re real.”
She paused.
“And they are... but only on a spiritual level. They’re not physically here. You—”
Thomas tilted his head, his smile widening just enough to show teeth.
“But they are, Doctor,” he whispered, voice low and lilting, like a child sharing a secret.
“They’re right behind you.”
Margaret’s breath caught. She didn’t look back.
“Thomas…” she kept her tone steady, professional, though her fingers curled tightly around her notepad.
“You know that’s part of the delusion. Remember what we talked about? Grounding reality. What’s in front of you, not behind.”
Thomas chuckled softly, a dry, hollow sound.
“You think I’m the one who’s delusional?” he leaned forward, eyes locked with hers.
“What if you’re the one who doesn’t know where she is?”
The room suddenly felt smaller. The observation light overhead flickered.
Margaret leaned back slightly. Just an inch. Enough to breathe.
“You’ve been through trauma, Thomas. And trauma confuses timelines. Memory. Perception.”
He leaned even closer now, close enough that she could see the pale crescent of a scar along his jawline.
“Gabriel says you’re lying.”
She froze.
“What did you say?”
His eyes glimmered.
“Gabriel says you’re not here to help. You’re here to replace.”
The silence that followed stretched like wire pulled tight.
Margaret stood abruptly, chair scraping the floor.
“That’s enough for today.”
Thomas didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just smiled that same unnatural smile.
“She likes you, Doctor Thatcher. You should be careful. When Gabriel likes someone... She doesn’t let them leave.”
Margaret didn’t respond. She turned and walked out, forcing herself not to look over her shoulder.
Not until she was back in the hallway.
Not until the door clicked shut behind her.
Only then did she whisper:
“Who the hell is Gabriel?”
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Back in her room, Margaret locked the door behind her , more out of habit than fear, or so she told herself and sat at the small desk tucked beside the window.
She pulled out the patient file labeled Thomas Wren, flipping it open with a practiced, clinical detachment. The pages were yellowed at the edges, corners dog-eared, the ink on some notes smudged by time or carelessness. Still, the contents were familiar.
Hallucinations, both auditory and visual. Delusional ideation centering around two figures: "Gabriel" and "Christopher"—names repeated over and over in his journal entries.
One note from a previous psychiatrist described Thomas’s belief that these entities "reside in the walls" and "speak through the silence." Multiple diagnoses were listed across the years—schizoaffective disorder, paranoid schizophrenia, even a brief flirtation with dissociative identity disorder. Margaret had seen cases like this before—many.
The pattern was textbook: a deeply fractured psyche struggling to impose order on internal chaos. It made sense. It was logical.
Thomas wasn’t haunted; he was ill. And the hospital wasn’t cursed; it was just old, understaffed, and half-forgotten in the folds of Iceland’s harsh terrain. She leaned back in her chair and closed the file. This was why they’d sent her. Not to chase ghosts—but to stabilize a man lost in his own mind. This she could handle.
- Writer
