Despite being the magazine’s only in-house journalist on all things related to paranormal tourism—a niche subject if ever there was one—Terry had never personally experienced what people in his field called an encounter. This was not for lack of trying, either.
He had trekked through Latin America for the last six months covering purportedly haunted locations, interviewing eyewitnesses about everything from hostel ghosts to chupacabras, and even taking part in some highly questionable ‘rituals’ involving even more questionable ‘substances’ that did not make it into the final drafts of his articles. Although he’d never encountered a spirit himself, he’d developed a keen sense for the lucrative creep factor during his tenure. The cases he considered most legit often gave him a weird twisting sensation in his gut, like he’d slurped down some bad street meat. Always, always, always, their readership jumped exponentially when he covered those sites.
And this place? Oh, man. His guts were in tatters when he and his travel companion pulled up. If this worked out, he might even be able to convince his boss to send out a film crew and really do it—and his bank account—some justice.
Nestled in the cradle of a mountain slope in the Tierra Blanca district of Cartago, with rolling green hills blanketing the seemingly serene landscape, the old Sanatorio Durán had long ago given in to decades of neglect. Back in its heyday, people would come here dying of consumption with a doctor’s order to get some fresh air. And he had to admit, the air was excellent out here, so he could see the appeal. It was cooler than most of the country, more pastoral than tropical, but the bright sun beat down on Terry’s back nonetheless as he climbed out of the truck, his collar damp with sweat and his stomach in knots.
The place was in the process of being repurposed as a tourist attraction. The rotting skeletons of several large buildings sprawled across the property. The main one looked to be undergoing restoration, but the others sported broken windows, dangling boards, and a serious rust infection—exactly what his readers adored in their haunted locales.
Terry strolled up to the gate of the Sanatorio Durán, leaving Roxy in the dusty gravel parking lot with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She didn’t do the spooky places—that was Terry’s thing—and she would not be convinced to venture in, even though she was, arguably, the better photographer of the two.
“You owe me lunch after this,” Roxy shouted at his back.
He waved her off, checking his phone—two missed calls from his mom and girlfriend, a problem for later—before setting it back to airplane mode. He stepped up to a small kiosk and subtly glanced around for a restroom in case this actually was a street-meat-revenge scenario and not a physiological manifestation of some weird electromagnetic field activity, or whatever.
“Uno, por favor.” Terry held up one finger to indicate his desired number of tickets in case his Spanish really was as terrible as Roxy teased.
The girl in the booth raised an eyebrow and said in English, “One thousand five hundred colones. We take American, too. Three dollars.”
“I’m Canadian,” Terry clarified as if by compulsion, handing her two reddish-pink bills imprinted with white-tail deer.
She slid him some change. “Well, welcome to Costa Rica. And to the Sanatorio Durán. Your friend want a ticket, too?”
Terry shook his head. “Nah, she’s too scared. You ever see any fantasmas?”
She laughed, tucking her hair behind her ear and leaning forward. “Me? I don’t go in. But there are stories. The daughter of the founder is said to have died here of tuberculosis. Some say Doctor Durán himself still haunts the Casa de Médicos at the back. And of course, many sightings of nuns. The Sisters helped run the place back when it was operational. Maybe you’ll see one.” She winked.
He chuckled. “So you believe that stuff?”
“Here? Definitely. This place housed patients from 1918 until around the sixties when demand fell—medical advancements. But after that, it was converted into an orphanage, then a prison, until an eruption at Irazú forced it to close permanently. Structural damage. The volcano’s only eighteen kilometres away. Good sightseeing.”
“Yeah, we were there this morning.” Terry glanced back at Roxy, her face obscured by a cloud of smoke. Volcanoes were like crack cocaine to that woman—she was the magazine’s regular-boring-tourism specialist, but she put up with Terry’s detours. She loved nature…just not as much as she loved her cigarettes, of course.
“A history like this, you’ve got to think some of the energy lingers.” The girl flashed him a smile. “Enjoy your tour.”
Terry folded his ticket into his pocket in case he needed it, but there was no one policing the weekday trickle of entrants. It became apparent the tour would be closer to a self-guided exploration of a mostly abandoned building with no safety code. The Sanatorio Durán’s recent turn as a tourist destination was a unique pleasure for Terry—it was a valued site of architectural and historical heritage on paper, but really, people came for the ghosts. Its varied history left it with a reputation as one of Costa Rica’s most haunted locations, and ideal for Terry’s purposes. His paranormal tourism column had been struggling for a while now and Paul was on his ass about it.
Terry snapped some pictures as he walked up the long path of the front courtyard to the main collection of buildings, digging a half-crumbled antacid out of his jeans pocket and crushing it between his molars. A rusted heavy-duty truck that may once have been a 1940s Chevy sat on blocks out front. The property was fenced with barbed wire, but it wasn’t uninviting. Trees and flowers bloomed bright against the verdant landscape, and in the acres behind, plodding through the collapsed concrete of the former men’s pavilion, were dozens of relaxed brown cows chewing cud.
Terry passed an administration building that sat furthest to the left on the property, attached to a chapel with a small white cross protruding from the peak. Super creepy—old churches were always a big readership draw. He took his time framing a decent shot.
From there, the building stretched to a new cafeteria with washrooms—thank the gods—the only active and staffed location, which led to a long hall connecting to the children’s pavilion.
Stomach grumbling as it settled, Terry walked down the gold-and-maroon checkered hall in silence as cows watched him disinterestedly through the broken windows. Tiny palmprints from the children who had once lived here painted the walls in blues, reds, greens, and yellows. A smiling sun peered over the hallway door leading further into the dormitories that housed the youngest patients. He stepped inside, a chill sliding down his neck, leaving fields of goosebumps in its wake. Terry stopped to make a note of this, so he’d remember to add it to the article later for flavour.
Two stories high, the sprawling children’s and women’s pavilion buildings contained rooms upon rooms. Light cascaded in through massive windows spanning the exterior walls on each floor. Most were broken. Shattered glass littered the floor in places and in some rooms the roof had caved in. Pigeons and bats skittered in the open attics above. Utter perfection. These details would really sell the story.
At a quick patter of footsteps, Terry glanced behind him, surprised Roxy had changed her mind for once. The hall was empty. He jolted, heart kicking up a notch.
Somehow, the space behind him felt occupied. A thin tendril of adrenaline twisted through him, toes to scalp, a rare occurrence for a seasoned paranormal tourist. With a slight tremble in his fingers, he made another note, chuckling at himself.
The celadon-green walls were covered with graffiti. He noted his impressions and snapped a few more photos for his article. On one white wall, scrawled in black handwriting that stood out against the messy, juvenile tags were the words “Partirse en pedazos.”
Terry tapped his finger against his lips, doing his best to mentally translate the phrase.
Break into pieces.
He shivered. Was that even right? Regardless, it was creepy as hell. He made a note of it and shot another photo. At least the antacid had settled his stomach. In fact, now that he thought about it, he felt fine. Great, even. The air here really was something. There was a lightness to it that seemed to fill his head and his lungs, leaving him a bit daydreamy. His fingertips pressed against the cloudy panes of glass on the second-floor windows as he looked out over the breathtaking landscape, wondering what it would have been like to stand here a hundred years ago and have it literally take his breath away. Consumption. What a way to go.
“Ouch.” Terry pulled his hand back from the weathered pane, inspecting his index finger. A tiny bead of blood welled on the tip. He sucked it into his mouth, grumbling about slivers.
The place was all but empty. He’d passed only two other people in the cafeteria earlier as he snapped photos of the portraits on the walls—pictures of old pictures. He’d only noticed one security camera on the property. But still, everywhere he walked in these halls, he felt oddly watched.
A buzz in his pocket startled him and his finger popped free of his lips. Roxy had gotten impatient, most likely. Or his girlfriend was texting again. But no, that couldn’t be. His phone was on airplane mode so he didn’t chew up data while they were out today. He checked it.
Low battery.
How was that possible? It was fully charged when he left the truck. As soon as he pressed the button, the screen flashed red and died completely. “Son of a bitch,” Terry cursed under his breath.
Terry trekked back the way he’d come, figuring he’d made Roxy wait long enough as it was. The light, cloudy sensation that had filled him in the buildings dissipated the further he walked toward the gate. His stomach twisted again as the antacid wore off. He stopped by the front gate for one last picture just as his camera battery bit the bullet too. Damn.
A fit of coughing slowed him on the way back to the parking lot where Roxy’s legs hung out of the open truck door, cloud of smoke still in place as always. Gaze locked on his camera, he told her, “You’re not going to believe this. It was fully charged when we got here. Didn’t I tell you I just got this battery?”
“An hour and a half,” Roxy accused, tossing her head back. Her red hair tumbled over her shoulders.
“What? I wasn’t gone that long. Thirty minutes, tops.”
“You’re killing me, Ter. I’m starving.”
“My phone died.”
“No shit. I texted you like ninety times.” She stubbed her cigarette into her pack, glancing around. She’d gotten the side-eye more than once from environmentally conscious Ticos for ditching her butts on the ground here.
Terry rubbed at his suddenly scratchy throat. “No, I mean, it was in airplane mode and it still drained—”
“So you were ignoring my texts, nice. Get in the truck. I guess you want my charger?”
Terry climbed into the blue Chevy, over seventy years newer than its elderly forebearer rusting in the courtyard. He tried to clear the itch in the back of his throat. “Uh yeah, that’d be great.”
He plugged his phone in, his head weirdly heavy since leaving the grounds—a blood pressure drop, maybe. Not enough to eat at breakfast. He tried to shake it off but only ended up provoking a dull headache behind his eyes. His stomach grumbled, indigestion resurging with a vengeance as he buckled in.
Roxy turned to him, gaze shielded by sunglasses as she started the loud engine. “You know who else was texting you?”
At her tone, Terry’s already upset stomach wobbled a bit more. Shit. He could guess how this conversation was about to go. Terry cleared his throat again, unsuccessfully, trying to catch his breath—the walk must have taken more out of him than he’d realized—but he took too long to answer.
“That clingy girlfriend of yours,” Roxy answered herself. “The one who hates me. You want to know how I know?”
“Oh, man,” Terry mumbled, clutching his stomach. The pain was making this conversation harder to follow. “I don’t feel so…”
Roxy ignored his protest, launching into full tirade-mode, saying, “I know because she’s texting me now, since she couldn’t get a hold of you. Thinks you’re dead, or cheating—and I think the latter is worse in her mind. How does she even have my number, Ter?”
Terry hunched forward in his seat, considering putting his head between his knees. He wasn’t usually prone to motion sickness, but it was hitting him hard. “Um.”
“Yeah. Um. That’s what I thought.”
Terry leaned back against the headrest, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. “What, uh, what did you tell her?”
“That you were dead. Confirmed her fears.”
He opened one eye to glance at her. “You didn’t.”
“I’d message her back if I were you. Don’t know why she’d text me if she hates me so much. We work together; it’s not like I’m going to steal you away. Why are you even with her?”
Terry let his eyes fall closed, energy draining out of him like someone had pulled a plug inside. He suddenly couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night. It was getting to him. “Roxy, it’s—”
Roxy shifted gears. “Road we took coming in was garbage. Good thing the boss sprung for the four-wheel drive. This truck would be going back in pieces.” She set her hands on the steering wheel. “Hey, listen. Can I borrow some money?” Before Terry could say anything about not being paid back the last time, Roxy stared out the window and added, “Just, you know…things have been tight.”
Terry sighed but nodded while searching the glove compartment for some more antacids, shoving a handful in his mouth.
She lit up another cigarette and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “You’re a good friend, Ter.”
Terry coughed, exhaustion sweeping over him as the Sanatorio Durán shrank to a speck in the rearview mirror. He fell asleep against the window on the way to lunch, strange dreams weaving through his grey matter.
#
When they stopped, he woke with a start, bleary eyed and still dizzy, the morning little more than a blur and his dreams forgotten. “Are we at the soda already? Rox, I really don’t feel so good.”
Roxy looked him up and down. “No kidding. You look like hell.”
Terry stretched out his stiff muscles as they climbed out of the truck, ignoring the jibe. “I mean it. I think I might have the flu or something. It just hit me.”
“Fine, we’ll get it to go. Your phone is charged. Don’t know how all the dinging didn’t wake you.”
Terry reached for it and checked his messages. Despite Roxy’s protests earlier, there were only two from her, giving him shit for taking so long while walking through the Sanatorio Durán. Twelve were from his current girlfriend, Alicia, who didn’t “think his friend was funny” and claimed she’d be “super pissed if you died” with a variety of emoticons indicating a broad spectrum of feelings on the matter.
As Roxy waited for her order, she gave him her dead eyes as he texted Alicia back and forth while hunched over at their small table.
“You going to pass out on me?” Roxy said around a mouthful of empanada as they started walking back to the truck.
Terry pocketed his phone, shaking his heavy head. “I’ll be fine. I just need to lie down or something.”
“Your girlfriend still pissed?”
“She’s giving me shit for not returning her texts promptly, not being around, not giving her sufficient attention.” His wrist ached. He rubbed at it. Too much phone time.
“I’m just saying, she’ll buy my claim that you died. You’re pale.”
Terry glanced down at his hands, noticing for the first time the redness and swelling around the joints of his knuckles and his wrists. His breath caught. “My hands…”
Roxy flicked her gaze toward his outstretched hand as he examined the unexpected red bands circling his joints. “What about them?”
“They’re all…swollen.”
She grabbed his hand, flipped it over, shrugged. “Looks fine to me.”
“They ache like hell. Guess I’ve been spending a lot of time on the computer. Plus, all the driving today.”
“You should at least eat—it’s delicious,” Roxy suggested, food particles spraying from her open mouth.
He cringed, the mere prospect of food sickening right now. They climbed back into the high truck and Terry’s joints protested every movement. He flexed his hands in his lap as they drove.
“I don’t know how you slept on that road,” Roxy said. “Think it knocked my spine back into place. Let’s call it a day. I’ll drop you at home. You got your ghost story piece, and I got my volcano—we’re set for a while.”
Terry cringed, rubbing one swollen finger along another. An allergic reaction, maybe? He had some Benadryl at home. “Paul wants the article in this week. Keeps emailing me. I’ll work on it this afternoon, I just need a nap.”
The skin around his knuckles flared a bright red.
#
When he got back to his rented AirBnB, he could barely keep his eyes open. His dog Kip met him at the door, little paws bouncing on the tile as he danced in a circle.
“Hey, buddy,” Terry said, dropping to the floor to pet the terrier, his other travel partner. Kip dashed away before hand met fur with an uncharacteristic growl. Terry blinked, swallowing away the dryness in his throat. He searched through a drawer, finding the Benadryl and popping two.
His phone buzzed—an incoming call. Kip barked from the corner of the room. Terry dug it out of his back pocket after a few fumbling attempts, fingers stiff and thick. “Alicia?”
“Now you bother to answer your phone?”
Terry’s stomach dropped. “I told you, I was working, I was—”
“I thought we had something, Terry. But you only care about yourself. I need someone who puts me first.”
He tightened his grip on the phone, his fingers throbbing along with his head. “I don’t know where this is coming from. Can we just—I don’t feel very well…”
“Of course, it’s all about you. What about me, Terry? I can’t do this anymore.”
She hung up while Terry spun in place in his rented kitchen, a whirr of dizziness loud in his ears. His chest tightened.
Terry coughed, then hacked. He rushed to the bathroom sink, coughing so hard his whole body shook.
When he pulled back, wiping his hand across his lips, blood spattered the porcelain. Terry blinked, jolted by a shot of adrenaline.
When he looked again, the sink was clean.
He stumbled out of the bathroom, glancing at his desk where his laptop flashed with email notifications from his boss. His unmade bed called to him. A couple hours of sleep, then he could patch things up with Alicia, and the world would be set right…
His phone rang again from the kitchen counter. He stumbled over, answering.
“Alicia?”
“Well, now you answer,” a woman’s voice said.
Terry frowned. “Ma?”
“Figures you hardly remember your own mother’s voice. You never return my calls. What kind of son never calls his own mother?”
He hacked into his hand, trying to cover the explosive sound. What the hell is happening today? “Ma, I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Yes, I know, dear. Work. Certainly not making me any grandbabies, that’s for sure.”
“Jeez, Ma.”
But she wouldn’t be interrupted, ranting in turns about how Susan Lang cheats at bridge, complaints about the economy, and veiled prodding to: attend church more often, come home before his mother dies which would be any day given the state of the world, and settle down with a nice girl with good childbearing hips because his mother wasn’t getting any younger. His participation in the conversation was not required beyond contributing the appropriate hmms and ahhs as he tried to stay upright and not vomit. The pulsing in his head turned to pounding.
He shifted against the counter, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “Ma, I should get going.” Silence. “It’s just, I have an article to finish. Paul’s really on my ass lately and I’m not feeling too well today.”
His mother started to cry. “Everything I’ve done for you and you can’t even talk on the phone with me. I’m all alone here, Terry. Ever since your dad left, I’ve had to do everything myself.”
Terry rubbed the back of his neck—damp with sweat. A fever? “Ma, he left when I was a baby.”
“You don’t appreciate me. Look how you treat me.”
Is everyone losing their minds? She could be a lot some days, but his mom wasn’t usually like this. In fact, Alicia hadn’t sounded like herself, either. Terry wiped an aching hand down his face, the red bands circling his joints not at all diminished by the Benadryl. This was too much. He had nothing left to give anyone today. Placatingly, to minimize the shrillness of her voice through the phone as it pierced the soft parts of his aching brain, he said, “I’m sorry, Ma, I have to go—”
His mother sniffled. “Let me tell you—”
Terry put the microphone on mute, set it back on the counter, and threw up into the sink next to him as his mother continued unabated.
He slid down the cupboard and this time when he coughed into his hand, the blood spatter didn’t disappear. Kip curled up in a ball across the kitchen and growled low in his throat.
When his mother finally hung up, Terry managed to fumble the phone back into his grip and call Roxy. “Something’s wrong.”
“Yeah, no shit. Your psycho girlfriend just texted me, calling me a homewrecker. She’s a whacko, Ter.”
Terry stared at the speckles of wet blood on his palm. “No—she’s…we broke up. It doesn’t—Rox, I need help.”
A long-suffering sigh. “In so many ways.”
A herd of stray cats stormed across the metal roof of his top-floor apartment, a daily occurrence, but this time the clatter was as loud as a missile attack in his skull, drowning out all other noise. His head throbbed and the sunlight in the room seemed to throb with it. None of this made sense. Something was seriously wrong, and this wasn’t just some flu. “Damn it, I’m serious.”
The line was quiet for a long moment. “Uh, okay. What do you need?”
He knew when it started. It was crazy to think…but what if going to the Sanatorio Durán had…done something to him? Terry remembered the eerie creep-factor feeling he’d had in his gut in the parking lot, but when he’d been on the grounds, he’d felt fine. It was only once he’d left the place again that it started.
The refrigerator in front of him split into two, doubling across his vision, and on its stainless-steel surface a flurry of small, colourful handprints appeared before his eyes. He blinked, but they didn’t go away. His heart hammered behind his ribcage.
“Rox—the Sanatorio Durán,” he managed. “After…after we went there today…there’s something wrong with me. I‑I think I’m sick. I’m coughing—”
Roxy’s laugh carried across the line and hit him like a punch to the gut. “Wow, can you say psychosomatic? Take it up with your shrink, dude.”
Terry closed his eyes, bile working back up his raw throat. “Rox, please. I need you to come over.”
Another sigh, barely perceptible over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. “All right. But you better be dying. I was mid-throwdown in Call of Duty.”
The light and sound and the very air touching his skin coalesced suddenly into a single, overpowering sensation, shorting out his brain. Terry collapsed on the kitchen floor, consciousness ebbing from his grasp.
Weight pressed down on him, crushing his chest and sucking the air from his lungs.
Vivid images assaulted him in a rush. Hands grabbed at him from all directions. A woman leaned over his form, dark robe pooling on the title as she knelt, begging, “Come back, please, you belong here, you mustn’t leave, you’re not well…” Her pale face hovered closer, closer…
Terry passed out.
“Hey, idiot,” a voice reached him through the darkness. “When I told you to get some rest, I meant in a bed. What the hell?” Roxy helped him up from the floor. Kip sat beside her. “You know I wasn’t serious about the dying thing?”
The tobacco smell from her clothes clogged in his throat and sent him into a coughing fit.
“I‑I need…a doctor,” he managed.
Terry grabbed the kitchen counter for balance, dizziness still swirling his vision, but at least the pounding in his head had lessened. Flickers of remembered images rose to his consciousness in a confusing jumble. And beneath it all, a single clear directive like a beacon guiding his thoughts: he had to return to the Sanatorio Durán.
#
Was it possible to contract tuberculosis from an abandoned sanatorium that hadn’t housed TB patients for more than half a century? No. The hospital gave him a clear bill of health. He did not have TB or anything beyond a migraine and possibly a panic attack. When he made the rookie mistake of blabbering about his theory of catching something at the Sanatorio Durán, they wouldn’t even keep him for observation. He left with a psych referral and some Tylenol, which was insulting, but the Tylenol did seem to be working. His head wasn’t aching and his stomach was calm, though his joints were still red and stiff. All he could think about was the Sanatorio Durán, and as long as he was focused on that, his physical symptoms seemed to lessen. There was something there. Something that called to him. He needed to return.
For the second time that day, he stood next to Roxy in a parking lot as she puffed on a cigarette. The sun was setting in a spray of red and orange across the sky. She said nothing for an entire cigarette. After lighting the next, she said, “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately.” It slapped like an accusation.
His head still felt fuzzy—cottony and thick in an indescribable way. “I’m not crazy.”
“Didn’t say that. Just…people have panic attacks, is all. It happens. Not like it’s some character defect, dude. We all have our shit.” She punched him in the arm—lightly, though, like maybe she actually was worried. “Migraines are a deathlike circle of hell. No wonder you looked like dog barf. Why don’t we swing by and get Kip, then crash at my place and play some COD? I’ll even unthaw some dinner.”
He looked down at his open hands. They trembled. His fingers were swollen to the point he could barely bend them. “I was coughing up blood.”
“I didn’t see any blood. Not on you, not in your apartment.” Another puff. “I get the coughing up blood thing for TB, but you realize the scattershot symptoms you described to the doctors had basically nothing to do with tuberculosis? Like, not even close.”
Terry attempted to ball his hands into fists, not getting far until his aching knuckles burned. “So it’s something else. An old place like that, it’s full of contaminants.”
“It was a migraine. Classic.”
“Coughing up blood is not a classic migraine symptom. And look at my knuckles!”
She threw her hands up. “There was no blood, Ter. And your fingers look fine. Listen, you’re tired and stressed. That’s all it is.”
Terry shook his head, flexing his tender hands. “No. No, you’re wrong. I saw something today.”
“At the Sanatorio Durán?”
“No, on my kitchen floor.” He kicked at the tire of the truck. Even his shoes felt too tight on his feet. “When I was passed out.”
Suck. Puff. “Okay.”
Terry squinted into the dusk. He pulled at his shirt collar, massaging his neck. “It’s hard to explain.”
“No judgment here. Just tell me.”
“I‑I think it was a woman’s face. In…in a nun’s habit.” He glanced at Roxy. She examined the cherry of her cigarette. “She was screaming,” he continued, “or trying to—like her mouth was open, but nothing was coming out.” His thick fingers touched his own lips absently, the image still stark in his mind. “No one could hear her. And there were all these…these hands, pulling at her. Only, they were pulling at me, and I was her. I guess.” He exhaled. “Tearing me to pieces.” He tried to breathe in, failed. Terry ran his hands down his face. “You think I’m nuts.”
“I’ve always known you were nuts,” she said, smirking. “So, you had a weird migraine dream during your floor nap.” She flicked the ash off the tip of her cigarette. “Have you been drinking a lot lately?”
Terry straightened. His shoulders pulsed at the movement. “No. Of course not.”
Roxy raised a hand. “Just a question. Well, what do you want to do then? I’m not leaving you alone tonight, so my place or yours?”
Terry’d had migraines before. He’d had panic attacks. This was different. That place had its hooks in him. It had drained his electronics and it was draining him, even now. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw that face, and she called to him, beckoning him to return. He couldn’t say exactly why, but he knew, he absolutely knew he had to do as she asked. “I want to go back to Sanatorio Durán.”
Roxy frowned. “You don’t mean now?”
Resolve settled in his bones like heavy concrete, and his thoughts were a little clearer. He had to go back. He had to. He wasn’t well. The Sanatorio Durán was the only place that would make him better. “Yeah. Now. Tonight. I need to figure this out.”
“Dude, it’s closed.”
The certainty that filled his chest fuelled him, straightened his spine, made the world less hazy. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll sneak in. They won’t have security, I’m sure of it. If they do, we’ll leave.”
Roxy flopped her hands down. “It’s like an hour drive from San Jose. We’re in huge trouble if we get caught. Well, if you get caught. I’m not screwing around in some creepy old buildings in the middle of the night.”
If he went back, he’d feel better again. He could breathe again, in that clear, cool air. “That’s fine. But I need to do this.”
“Why don’t we go tomorrow during the day, legally. A few hours won’t matter, and you need the rest. Let those Tylenol Extra Strength kick in.”
Something moved in the shadows behind the truck. The starchy swoosh of a robe brushing over the asphalt grated distinctly in Terry’s ears. A chill sank into his body. “No. It needs to be tonight.”
Roxy sighed, but Terry knew he had her. She stubbed out her cigarette and they were back in the truck.
#
As the road changed from the smooth pavement of the city to the gravel and potholes of the country, Terry’s joints ached with every bump. He tried to flex the stiffness out of his muscles, but it didn’t help. The entire ride, he sensed eyes watching him from the back seat. Whenever he turned to check, it was empty. But she was with him. He knew this with greater certainty than he’d ever known anything. She was guiding him home.
They circled the Sanatorio Durán once when they arrived but didn’t see anyone onsite. If Terry had any luck at all, the caretaker would still be having dinner with his family. Some cows shifted in the field as the headlights passed over them. When they parked in the lot again, they waited fifteen minutes with the truck running but still no one came around to confront them. Roxy turned the truck off and reached into the glove compartment, pulling out a flashlight.
“No setting your phone to airplane mode this time. Keep it on and I’ll text or call if we have an issue with security. If I need to move the truck, I’ll meet you up on that road under the tallest tree by the bend.” She pointed. “The headlights will be off, so pay attention. Don’t get trampled by any cows, don’t nick yourself on the barbed wire, and don’t be falling down any stairs or off the damn building, because I’m not coming in there to save you.”
“You sound like you’ve done this sort of thing before.”
“Misspent youth. I’ll give you one hour to do whatever you need to get your head sorted.”
“Before what?”
She gripped the steering wheel. “Haven’t decided yet.”
Terry nodded, swallowing. “Thanks, Rox.”
The glow of her cigarette lit the cabin of the truck. Terry climbed out, boots crunching on gravel. The air was clean and cool, coating his aching lungs like a balm. He’d been right to come here. He belonged here.
Above him, a shock of stars littered the night sky like a billion of Roxy’s lit cigarettes.
He held the flashlight close but off. His fully charged phone was tucked into his back pocket. The stars were so bright, he didn’t need the illumination, but he stuck to the shadows as he crept onto the property, avoiding the security camera, and slipped inside. His joints were still red and swollen but a wave of peace filled him, the heaviness in his head lifting, higher and higher, so light his mind was weightless. This was right. This was good. This was what he needed.
He flicked on the flashlight, bringing the graffitied walls back to life.
Terry’s fingers tingled. At first he put it down to adrenaline, the thrill of trespassing in this place at night, but the tingling didn’t stop. As he walked through the sprawling, empty building, the sensation spread up his arms. His toes and legs tingled. His cheeks and lips went numb.
He pulled at his tight shirt collar, swallowing, as his footsteps echoed against the concrete walls, lending the hollow, eerie impression of a million steps continuing behind him.
Terry walked through the cafeteria, the beam of his flashlight landing on the photos on the walls. Old black-and-white pictures of Doctor Durán himself, of school children smiling in a classroom, of nuns standing with children. The Sisters—Hermanas. Some of their names were listed, while others were unidentified.
He stopped cold, light circling one now familiar face. A nun, unaccounted for by the subtitle below the picture. The woman in his vision. It was her. She was here.
Terry stumbled back, knocking into a table. She smiled a black-and-white smile in her nun habit, her hands clasped in front of a grinning child. She would save him, he knew. She was his only hope. He wasn’t well, and this was where he belonged.
Despite his conviction, a tiny sliver of his brain wanted to question this assertion. In some ways, it didn’t make sense to come back here. Maybe it could even be dangerous. His logical self asked him if he’d seen this photo earlier and this woman’s face simply stuck in his subconscious, emerging in his stress-induced nightmare today. No way to be sure. He shuffled out of the cafeteria, looking over his shoulder and taking several deep breaths. He flexed his hand, swishing the flashlight back and forth, trying to get the feeling back.
Terry walked through the children’s hall, past the painted handprints. There were more now than he remembered in the daytime. He could have sworn the echoes of children’s laughter followed behind him.
I’m losing it, he thought, the psych referral in his pocket heavy.
Maybe he shouldn’t be here? No, no, that was ridiculous. This was where he belonged. He wasn’t well. The dissenting voice in Terry’s brain choked and gasped, as if submerged under water, until it silenced.
He found himself on a set of creaking wooden stairs, then at the top of them. His phone buzzed. Had it been an hour already? Impossible. Ten minutes at most. He checked it, noticing a missed text from Roz. “Time’s up, where are you?” The battery flashed red and died as soon as he saw it.
Terry faced a white wall flecked with green paint and covered in graffiti, uncertain how he’d found it. “Partirse en pedazos,” the wall told him. Break into pieces. It wasn’t just a sentence, it was a demand. It was a cure. His flashlight beam trembled around the words, then extinguished.
Fingers touched the back of his neck in the dark.
He gasped, dropping the flashlight with a clunk. The sharp blade of true fear finally cut through the fog that held his thoughts in its vice-like grip.
Terry backed out of the room, breathing hard, glancing around for an exit. He should have entered a hallway, but when he turned, he was in a dorm bathroom.
The stalls were in shambles, the white ceramic cracked. The black-and-white tiles of the floor were thick with grime and the wall-length trough sink along the back wall was stripped bare. A mirror stretched above it, in tact. As Terry inched toward it, his mouth dry and hands quaking, certainty chilled him that earlier in the day a tall block of broken windows had stood in the mirror’s place.
A thrill shivered in his veins with the possibility this was one of the paranormal events he’d spent a career writing about and never experienced—a true encounter. Hundreds of articles, and one unspoken truth—he just didn’t believe in ghosts. But the fear twisting in his guts now, liquifying his bowels, wrapping like a noose around his throat and stealing his breath, that was real.
A sound echoed through the small space—both familiar and out of place. His mother’s voice. “I’m so lonely, son. Why don’t you ever call? Listen to me…”
Terry glanced around the empty room, his breaths gasping and shallow.
Paul’s disembodied voice interrupted, demanding, “I have deadlines, too. You think no one’s breathing down my neck? I’ve got a magazine to run…”
And Roxy, “I just need a little more money, Ter, you understand…”
Alicia shouted from the walls, from his mind, “What about me? You never pay attention to me…”
Terry stared at his own pale face in the mirror. He touched his neck. A red ring circled his collarbone, and higher, just under his clenched jaw. His trembling hand reflected back at him, his knuckles and joints ringed in red, swollen tissue. Only now, the skin was flaky, itchy.
He rubbed at his wrist, heart pounding in a quick patter. The tender flesh sloughed off into the sink with a splat and Terry’s mouth dropped open, eyes wide as he stared at the missing skin.
“I just need a piece of you…” Alicia’s voice whined.
Terry gasped, holding his hand up. The white of his wrist bone peeked through the red flesh of his raw, pulsing muscles. Blood dripped down his arm.
“We all need a piece,” said another voice. “Just a piece.”
His index finger snapped off in a burst of pain, tumbling into the sink. His thumb and middle finger followed before he processed the shock.
Terry opened his mouth to scream and erupted into a fit of coughing, a fine spray of blood coating the mirror’s smooth surface, and there, standing behind him, the nun’s mouth was open wide, a silent cry trapped in her throat.
Terry stumbled away from the mirror, falling to the floor as his ankle snapped in two. He screamed, but no sound came out.
Other voices flowed around them, now in Spanish, all pleading…
“I need water, Sister.”
“Please, help me, it hurts.”
“More!”
“Help us!”
Terry scrambled backward with one hand and the other clutched helplessly to his chest, leaving his foot behind. His shoulder cracked and he hit the grimy floor hard, head lolling as he watched his left arm roll under a stall. A small hand reached out and snatched it away.
The dim illumination of a cellphone flashlight spilled into the hallway beyond the doorframe. Rox’s distant voice called to him, “Ter? Are you up here? This isn’t funny. I’ll leave you here if you don’t answer me, you jerk. I’m serious.”
Terry strained toward her with his one remaining arm. His mouth opened, gaping as he tried to call her name, reaching with his bloodied hand. No sound escaped his tight throat. The light extinguished.
The weight of dozens of clutching hands landed on his body in the darkness—pulling, tugging, gripping. Sharp pain exploded through his joints, overwhelming his nerve endings as shock slid its cool fingers into his chest, slowing his racing heart.
“Goddamn it, I just charged this…” Rox muttered in the hall, her footsteps moving away.
Blood pooled beneath him, sucked into the thirsty grout of the tiles. The Sanatorio Durán had gotten a taste earlier at the window, and now it wanted more, it wanted everything. The spreading pool stopped only when it met the hem of a black robe. The building sighed around him, a cool breeze of long-sought satiation. Soft hands grasped his head. Trembling, Terry stared into the darkness of the nun’s eyes above him.
“Just one more piece,” the voices whispered.
Taija Morgan (she/her) is a horror, thriller, and suspense author with short stories and non-fiction articles published in various anthologies and magazines, including the Prairie Gothic anthology (2020) and Prairie Witch anthology (2022) from Prairie Soul Press, Tales to Terrify’s horror podcast (2022), Penitent’s Gold (The Seventh Terrace, 2022), and many others. She has degrees in psychology and sociology that contribute realism and insight to her dark, twisted fiction. Taija was the editor of Crime Writers of Canada’s 40th Anniversary anthology Cold Canadian Crime (2022). She is represented by Oli Munson with A.M. Heath. Find her at www.TaijaMorgan.com or www.linktr.ee/TaijaMorgan.