Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Room 15
The morning sun did not bring relief; it merely illuminated the gray, exhausted reality of the hospice.
By 8:00 a.m., the hallway was once again filled with the clinical hum of the day shift. Doctors in white coats walked with clipboards, volunteers wheeled trays of orange juice and dry toast, and the soft, rhythmic squeak of the cleaning cart signaled the start of the daily routine.
But in Room 9, the tension was thick enough to choke on.
Laura sat by her mother's bed, holding Evelyn’s cold, thin hand. Evelyn had not opened her eyes since dawn. Her breathing was a slow, rattling gasp, her skin pale and waxy.
Noah sat in his usual chair by the window, his crayons spread out on his lap, but he hadn't touched them. His eyes were fixed on the door, his small body tense, as if he were a soldier guarding a perimeter.
"Laura?"
The door opened, and Dr. Samuel Price stepped into the room. He was a kind, silver-haired man who had managed Willow Creek for fifteen years, a man whose gentle demeanor had comforted hundreds of grieving families.
"Samuel," Laura said, her voice cracking as she stood up. "How is she?"
Dr. Price checked Evelyn’s pulse, his expression soft and solemn. "She is very peaceful, Laura. Her body is letting go. We are keeping her comfortable with the medication, but I don't believe she will survive the night. You should stay close."
Laura swallowed the lump in her throat, nodding silently.
"There is something else," Dr. Price said, lowering his voice as he looked at Noah, then back at Laura. "Miriam told me about the incident last night. And about the key found in Room 15."
"Did security find him?" Laura asked, her heart rising.
"Not yet," Dr. Price sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "But we did some checking this morning. Arthur Pendelton—the patient who passed away in Room 15 on Monday—was a collector of high-end vintage watches. His family reported to us this morning that three of his most valuable pieces, which he had kept in his personal wardrobe drawer, were missing when they went to collect his belongings."
Laura gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "A thief. He’s targeting the patients."
"We believe so," Dr. Price nodded, his face turning hard and professional. "A hospice is an easy target. Families are distracted by their grief, doors are left unlocked, and patients are often too weak or confused to realize what is happening. We’ve contacted the local police department. They are sending an investigator this afternoon."
"But what about tonight?" Laura asked, her eyes darting to her mother’s silver ring. "If my mother passes tonight, he’ll know. He watches the rooms, Samuel. Noah said he only comes when it's quiet. He’s waiting for her to die so he can take her ring before we even realize she’s gone."
"We’ve increased the security presence," Dr. Price assured her. "Arthur will be stationed on this floor starting at 6:00 p.m. And I’ve instructed the staff to keep all vacant rooms locked at all times."
He placed a comforting hand on Laura’s shoulder. "Your mother is safe, Laura. I promise you."
But as Dr. Price left the room, Noah looked up from his crayons.
"He doesn't care about the guard, Mom," Noah said, his voice flat and certain. "The guard sits at the desk and drinks coffee. The green man uses the stairs. He knows the building better than the guard does."
Laura walked over to her son, kneeling in front of him. "Noah, if you see him again... if you see him even look at this room, I want you to run straight to the desk. Do you understand?"
"No," Noah said, shaking his head. "If I run to the desk, he’ll go into the room before the nurse can get here. He’s too fast."
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He looked at the small, brass bell hanging in its wooden frame in the hallway outside their door.
"The bell is the only thing he’s afraid of," Noah said. "Because when the bell rings, everyone has to stop."
