The Children's Ward

THE
CHILDREN’S WARD 

by Patricia Wallace 

Cemetery Dance Publications 

Baltimore MD 

2013 

Copyright © 2013 by Patricia Wallace

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cemetery Dance Publications

132-B Industry Lane, Unit #7

Forest Hill, MD 21050

http://www.cemeterydance.com

First Digital Edition

ISBN-13: 978-1-58767-445-7

Cover Artwork Copyright
©
2013 by Desert Isle Design

Digital Design by DH Digital Editions

For Drew

Prologue

Spring Valley, California August, 1938

Maggie Connelly hesitated, listening in the dark and wishing, not for the first time, that they’d string lights along the way to Building D. It was an absolute dark, chilling in spite of the warm breeze that blew in off the desert, and she pulled her sweater around her.

Ahead, partially obscured by the tall thick bushes which were clustered among the hospital buildings in an attempt to disguise the sterility of the compound, was Building D. She stood still on the gravel pathway and listened to the faint sound of wind chimes, lifting and tilting her head to catch the delicate tones.

Odd, she thought, that the patients in the psychiatric building would hang up wind chimes, and odder still that she could hear them from this distance. She glanced back over her shoulder at the main hospital building, tempted to go back and wait until one of the other nursing students could accompany her to the locked ward, but it was time for the ten o’clock medications and she knew it might be a good half hour before any of them would be free.

It was always this way; a vague feeling of unease which increased in intensity until she felt near hysteria. There was no need to feel that way, she told herself, but somehow it closed in on her, a suffocating breathlessness she only just controlled.

Still, all she had to do was sit at the desk— as she had so many other nights— while the nurse went inside the ward and gave the night medications. It was
why
she had to be there that troubled her…in case…

She didn’t like to think about it. Resolutely, she resumed walking toward Building D.

The evening nurse was not at the desk, Maggie saw, letting the exterior door close and lock behind her. The small desk lamp cast a circle of pale yellow light in the room.

Maggie edged back, leaning against the door, her eyes searching. The door to the small restroom was open, the light off. There was no place for concealment. The nurse had either left the building or she was in the ward with the patients.

The rules had been explained to Maggie very clearly: never go in the locked ward alone and leave the desk unattended. Something was very wrong.

She took a breath and moved silently to the desk, picking up the phone and tapping the switch-hook to signal the hospital operator. The line rang. She kept her eyes on the phone and willed someone to answer.

“Operator.”

“Send the guards to Building D,” she said, twisting the phone cord around her finger. “Quickly…” her voice caught, “I need help.”

“Building D,” the voice echoed.

“Hurry.” She placed the phone in the cradle. Averting her eyes from the small observation window which looked into the ward, she began to search the desk drawers for the master key; it took two keys to get out of the building and she only had one. The desk drawers made an inordinate amount of noise as she inched them open.

“Come on,” she whispered, “be here.”

It was not. From outside she could hear the wind rustling and the sound of the wind chimes. And laughter…coming from the ward.

She raised her eyes.

The face was pressed against the observation window, mouth open and eyes wide. A mass of frizzled hair framed the skeletal features which were streaked with dirt, like war paint, only this was…glistening.

Maggie moved toward the exterior door as the face watched and the ward door began to rattle furiously. The laughter stopped and the face contorted, teeth bared and eyes narrowing. The window began to fog and a hand wiped at it, leaving dark streaks on the glass.

Maggie watched as the face regarded its hand, sniffing at it and then licking the fingers, almost delicately, of what she now could see was blood.

“Oh God.”

It began to lick at the window, the tongue searching while the eyes held hers. When the glass was clean it brought the left hand up and the tongue flicked, licking blood off a ring of keys.

Maggie began to walk toward the window.

“You’re all right, Maggie, you’re safe,” a voice soothed and she felt the sting of a needle in her upper arm. Cool fingers brushed her forehead and her eyes fluttered reluctantly open. The room was lit by a single lamp…the ward!

She sat upright, gasping.

Hands grasped her shoulders and eased her back down on the bed. “Rest now.” Patting her hand. “Let the medication take effect.”

She could feel the medication taking hold, as if by suggestion, and she fought it.

“What happened?” Her voice was raspy and her throat ached.

“Don’t worry about it now, it’s over.”

She recognized Nurse Riordan’s voice but her vision was blurred and she could not clearly see her supervisor’s face.

“What happened to the ward nurse?” she insisted.

Silence.

Maggie could feel herself going under, her strength ebbing under the warm haze of medication.

“Please.”

“She’s dead…like the others.” Riordan sounded out of breath. “They’re all dead, but the one who did it.”

“But…why?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know…the man is crazy.” Riordan moved out of Maggie’s sight, toward the door. “It’s best that you not think of it, Maggie. It was a terrible thing to happen, but dwelling on it won’t come to any good.”

The light went out.

“They should have known not to put those people out there…so far from the main building.” Riordan’s voice sounded far away. “Being isolated like that can’t be good for a weak mind.”

The door closed and Maggie was alone. She could hear, just faintly, the sound of the wind-chimes.

December, 1984

MONDAY

One

Abigail Ballard stood looking into the brightly painted room. It did not look like a hospital ward, or at least, none that she’d ever been in, and she’d been in quite a few. The far wall was covered with shelves and stacked with books, games and puzzles, and the scaled-down furnishings only vaguely resembled the utilitarian beds and tables that the other hospitals used.

She felt the pressure of the admitting nurse’s hand on her back.

“Go in and make yourself at home,” the nurse said.

Abigail hesitated.

Vivid yellow sunflowers were painted along a second wall and paper butterflies were suspended from the ceiling. The only windows faced east and sunlight flooded the room.

The nurse gave her a more insistent push, catching her off guard, and she took her first step into the children’s ward.

“You’re the very first patient,” the nurse said, moving past her and into the room. “The pediatrics nurse should be here any minute now.” She placed Abigail’s small suitcase on the bed nearest the windows. “But you won’t be alone for long.”

Abigail was rooted to the floor.

“I don’t mind being alone,” Abigail said, but her voice was a whisper which did not carry as far as the butterflies.

“Let’s get you settled,” the nurse said, fingering the clasps on Abigail’s suitcase.

“It’s locked,” Abigail said. The key was on a thin silver chain around her neck. She knew about nurses and personal property.

“Well.” A determined smile. “You’re old enough to unpack your own things, I suppose.”

“I think I’d like to rest,” Abigail answered, crossing to the bed and moving the suitcase out of the way. She climbed up on the bed, shoes and all, then calmly stared at the nurse.

A tiny twitch at one corner of her mouth. “You haven’t had your blood work yet,” the nurse warned.

“Dr. Fuller said he’d draw my blood so I wouldn’t get a bruise on my arm.”

Their eyes held, neither willing to look away first.

“How old are you, anyway?” the nurse asked after a minute had passed.

“Eight and a half.” Her point made, Abigail looked away, dismissing the nurse. She was tired, really.

“I’ll send your parents over when they arrive.”

“I don’t have parents,” Abigail said, closing her eyes. “I have a grandmother.” She turned on her side, facing the window, and felt the sun on her skin. California was nice, she decided, beginning to drowse, such warm winters.

The nurse turned to leave, pausing at the door to look back at the child. Small for her age, but sturdy despite her illness. Long brown hair in neat braids and serious brown eyes. A very ordinary little girl.

The pediatrics nurse had arrived and was in the nursing station, assembling the mass of paperwork that would soon be Abigail Ballard’s chart, and as she passed on her way back to the main building, she smiled sympathetically.

She would not, for any amount of money, want to be that little girl’s nurse.

Abigail listened intently, her eyes closed but visualizing the admitting nurse’s retreat. She sensed that the nurse hadn’t liked her but that was something she was used to; a lot of people didn’t like her.

“You’re a very trying child,” her grandmother told her, and Abigail knew it was true.

It didn’t matter, though. Not anymore.

They wouldn’t tell her what was wrong with her, what caused the blinding headaches and the dizziness and the queasy stomach, but she had overheard them talking. Something was growing inside her head.

Abigail had guessed that she was going to die.

Two

“I don’t have anything contagious, you know,” Russell Delano said, looking at the building now in sight in front of them.

“What? I’m sorry, dear, what did you say?” The volunteer was having a time of it, trying to maneuver the wheelchair and balance a suitcase on the runners.

“You can’t catch what’s wrong with me…why are they putting us all the way out here?”

“What? I…what?” The volunteer leaned forward, momentarily slowing the wheelchair. She smiled, encouraging him to continue.

“We’re so far from the rest of the hospital,” he said, turning his head to look back at the main building.

The volunteer clucked and nodded her head. “Nice and peaceful.”

“Too peaceful.” He watched glumly as they approached the building.

“Here’s your patient,” the volunteer chirped as they came through the door.

“You must be Russell,” the pediatrics nurse said.

“I must be,” he agreed, looking around the tiny nursing station. The area was, at the most, ten feet by ten feet, with a bathroom off to one side. A video monitor was mounted in a corner of the desk and he could see the ward on the black and white screen.

He looked back at the nurse. “Are you sure I’m in the right place?” He gestured at the screen. “This looks like an isolation ward.”

The nurse smiled and got up, steering the wheelchair through the double doors and into the ward.

“Abigail,” she said, “this is Russell.”

“How long have you been here?” Russell asked after the nurse had gone back to the desk, closing the doors behind her.

Abigail shrugged, watching as Russell rolled figure eights in his wheelchair. She had ridden in her share of wheelchairs but it had never occurred to her that they could be used for play.

When she didn’t answer, Russell turned to look at her.

“What’ve you got?”

“Something’s growing in my brain.”

“They gonna operate?”

She shook her head slowly.

“Me neither,” Russell said, wheeling his chair over to the windows and looking out. He reached to grasp the windowsill to pull himself flush with the glass but let go suddenly.

“Hey, I got a shock.” He touched the window frame tentatively.

Abigail slid off the bed and came up beside him. Without hesitation, she placed the palm of her hand against the ledge. A tingle, barely perceptible. “It’s just a vibration,” she announced.

“I know,” Russell said, “it just surprised me.” But he withdrew his hand. “Hey, look: someone hung up wind chimes.”

Abigail followed his gaze. The chimes were obviously old, the metal dull and tarnished, and strung with twine which appeared to be on the verge of disintegration. Tucked under the eave of the building, away from the wind, they were more for decoration than for use, Abigail decided.

Russell pushed against the wall with one hand, propelling the wheelchair slowly backward. He flexed and rubbed the fingers of his right hand.

“I wonder why anyone would hang wind chimes in a hospital.”

Abigail regarded him solemnly. “Does your hand hurt?”

“It’s a little numb,” he admitted, “like when you bump your funny bone.”

“Funny bone?”

“You know, when you bump your elbow and your little finger gets numb.”

“I’ve never heard it called a funny bone,” Abigail said. “There’s nothing funny about it.”

Russell smiled. “You can’t take everything someone says literally.”

Abigail could feel the beginnings of a headache forming behind her right eye. “People shouldn’t say things they don’t really mean. I never do.”