Chapter 7 : The Nurse
The fourth floor was wrong in a different way.
No rust. No blood. No chains hanging from ceilings that shouldn't exist. The corridor stretched ahead in institutional beige, fluorescent lights humming with power that had no business working. Patient rooms lined both sides, doors closed, numbers mounted in faded brass. Everything looked almost normal—preserved, like a museum exhibit of what hospitals were supposed to be.
His Otherworld Connection recoiled.
The boundary here was thin. Not broken, not bleeding through like the basement, but stretched. Like skin over a wound that hadn't quite healed. Reality held by force of habit rather than structural integrity.
"This is different." Cybil's voice was barely above a whisper. "The blood, the—the things. They're not here."
"No."
"Why?"
He didn't have an answer that wouldn't reveal too much. In the game, certain areas of the hospital had existed in this liminal state—caught between the normal world and the Otherworld, belonging fully to neither. Lisa Garland had lived in one such space, trapped without knowing it.
The humming continued. Closer now. Coming from the room at the end of the hall.
They approached in formation—Cybil leading, weapon ready, him following with the flashlight he didn't need in this too-bright corridor. The door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling through the gap. A woman's voice, wordless melody, the kind of song nurses used to soothe frightened patients.
Cybil pushed the door open.
The room held a single bed, white sheets pristine. Medical equipment that looked decades old but freshly cleaned. A window overlooking the fog-shrouded town, grey light filtering through lace curtains that didn't belong in a hospital.
And sitting on the bed, hands folded in her lap, a woman in a nurse's uniform.
She was young—mid-twenties, maybe. Blonde hair pulled back from a face that might have been pretty if exhaustion hadn't carved shadows under her eyes. Her uniform was immaculate, white and crisp, the kind of thing that should have been impossible in this nightmare town. She looked up when they entered, and her expression shifted from blank waiting to something like hope.
"Oh." Her voice was soft, wondering. "You're real. I wasn't sure anyone else was left."
Lisa Garland.
The recognition hit him like a punch to the chest. He'd known she would be here—the game had shown him this exact scenario a hundred times—but seeing her in person was different. She was real. Alive, or something close to it. A woman who had made terrible choices under terrible circumstances and paid a price no one deserved.
In the game, Lisa discovered the truth about herself and it destroyed her. Blood pouring from her skin, realization and horror, a death that looped forever. He'd watched it happen. He'd felt guilty about it even when it was just pixels on a screen.
Now she was looking at him with tired eyes, and he knew he was going to try to save her anyway.
"I'm Harry." The name came easier now, worn into him by necessity. "Harry Mason. This is Officer Bennett. We're looking for my daughter."
"A little girl?" Lisa stood, movements careful, like someone conserving energy they couldn't afford to spend. "Black hair? Seven years old?"
His heart stopped. "You've seen her?"
"She came through here. Hours ago, maybe—time is strange in the fog." Lisa moved toward him, professional concern replacing the lost expression. "The woman in black took her. Toward the antique store on Simmons Street."
"The woman in black?"
"Older. Dark clothes. Spoke like a preacher." Lisa's face clouded. "She's been here before. With Dr. Kaufmann. They talk about rituals and vessels and—I don't understand any of it. I just want to go home."
Cybil had been scanning the room, checking corners, looking for threats. Now she focused on Lisa. "How long have you been here? In the hospital?"
"I..." Lisa's brow furrowed. "I don't know. Days? Weeks? The power comes and goes. The other nurses—they changed. I hid up here. The things downstairs don't seem to notice this floor."
Because this floor doesn't fully exist in their reality, he didn't say. Because you're caught between states, and the monsters that hunt the Otherworld can't quite see you.
"Your arm." Lisa had noticed his bandages—Cybil's field dressing, already showing spots of blood. "Let me look at that."
Her hands were gentle as she unwrapped the gauze. Warm. Alive. Everything about her screamed human, and he had to remind himself that the game had shown her bleeding from places that didn't have wounds, had shown her understanding what she was and breaking under the knowledge.
Not this time. I'm not letting that happen this time.
"These need proper stitches." Lisa clicked her tongue, examining the gashes. "I don't have the supplies here—Kaufmann took most of the medical equipment somewhere else. But I can clean them, at least."
"We don't have time—"
"You have an infection starting." Her voice was firm now, the exhausted woman giving way to the competent nurse. "Five minutes to clean and rebandage, or you lose the arm in a few days. Your choice."
He let her work. The antiseptic burned, but her touch was sure, methodical. Cybil watched from the doorway, eyes flickering between Lisa and the corridor beyond.
"The woman in black," he said, keeping his voice casual. "Did she say where she was taking my daughter? After the antique store?"
"She mentioned the lighthouse. Said something about—" Lisa paused, trying to remember. "The mark of Samael. The ritual must be completed at the mark. I don't know what that means."
He did. The lighthouse was one of Dahlia's ritual sites, a place where the boundaries between worlds grew thin enough to touch. If she was taking Cheryl there, the ritual was progressing faster than he'd hoped.
"What about Alessa?"
The name slipped out before he could stop it. Lisa's hands stilled on his arm.
"How do you know that name?"
Stupid. Careless.
"My daughter—" He scrambled for an explanation. "She talks in her sleep sometimes. Names I don't recognize. Alessa. Samael. I thought maybe they were connected."
Lisa's expression shifted, unreadable. "Alessa Gillespie. She was a patient here, years ago. Before the fire." She resumed her work, but her movements were stiffer now. "Dr. Kaufmann was very particular about her treatment. I wasn't supposed to see the files, but—I saw things. Heard things. A little girl, screaming in the basement for weeks."
"The woman in black. Is she—"
"Dahlia Gillespie. Alessa's mother." Lisa tied off the fresh bandage with more force than necessary. "She brought her daughter here. Signed the admission papers herself. Whatever happened to that girl, her mother was part of it."
The pieces clicked together. Dahlia, burning her own daughter. Alessa, surviving but shattered. The god that had been gestating in her broken body for seven years. And now Cheryl—the other half of Alessa's soul—being drawn back to complete the ritual.
"Thank you." He stood, flexing his arm. The bandage was tight, professional. "Lisa, is there—is there anywhere safe in this town? Somewhere you could go?"
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Safe? No. This floor seems to be overlooked by the—the things. I stay here. I wait. Maybe someone will figure out what's happening and fix it."
You're already dead, he didn't say. You died years ago and don't know it.
"When this is over," he said instead, "I'll come back for you."
Lisa looked at him—really looked, searching for something in his face. Whatever she found made her smile, small and sad and grateful.
"That's kind. But you should find your daughter first."
They left her there, sitting on the hospital bed, humming that wordless melody. At the stairwell, he looked back through the window. Lisa stood at the glass, watching them go. She raised one hand in a small wave.
He waved back.
The game said saving her was impossible. I'll find a way.