The Halloween Collection (6 page)

Sara McCaffe, gowned in her surgical greens,
stood outside the observation window of OR 12. An aseptic smell
permeated the entire surgical suite. A short distance away, two
surgical residents were busy scrubbing their hands, getting ready
for the morning’s first case. Feeling anxious, Sara reached for her
right eye in an attempt to mask the irritating twitch that had
suddenly become evident. Screw Halloween. Just her bad luck—her
first case in surgery fell on the devil’s day.

“Morning, Sara. You nervous?”

Sara turned toward the friendly voice.
Recognizing Julie Charmaine, a fellow third year student, she
smiled ruefully. “Got my case coming up, and for some reason, I
don’t feel real confident.”

She was telling the truth, too. From the
time her alarm went off at 5:00 a.m., Sara had felt a strange
premonition about today.

Julie eased her pretty figure beside her.
“Hey, don’t worry. From what I hear, they don’t let us third years
even near a suture, much less a scalpel. We just gotta watch and
act interested. Besides I’m going into psychiatry, not surgery.
What room you in?”

Sara glanced back, somewhat puzzled. “OR 12,
here.”

Julie thought for a second. “That’s odd. My
case is supposed to be here. See, there are the two residents
scrubbing in.” Julie pointed to the near scrub sink.

Sara didn’t answer. Damn, she should have
brought her schedule with her, she cursed quietly.

“Who told you OR 12?” Julie asked, tying her
surgical mask in place.

“Some nurse on the evening shift.”

“Hm. There’s one other OR on the other side
of that surgical supply room.”

“Julie, you ready?” A loud voice boomed from
the scrub sink.

Julie turned to Sara. “See ya later. Oh, and
good luck. Don’t let the goblins bite you.”

“Not funny.” Sara watched Julie leave. “What
is this bullshit,” she muttered under her breath. Her first day on
the toughest rotation of med school and already a screw-up. Happy
fucking Halloween.

Checking her watch, Sara decided against
rushing back to scheduling administration. She’d definitely be late
then. Shrugging her shoulders in frustration, she walked toward the
next operating room. With each step, however, she noted an
increasing awareness to all her senses. She could hear each breath
clearly. She was conscious of each beat of her heart. She even felt
the muscles of her legs tense.

Just past the open door of the surgical
supply room, Sara slowed. Nearing the next observation window, she
came to a halt. A one and a three glared at her from above the
door.

Without holding back, Sara stepped up and
peered into the gray interior of OR 13.

* * *

Expecting to see an empty operating room,
Sara experienced an immediate feeling of relief at the scene on the
other side of the glass. She watched as two individuals in green
scrubs arranged several trays of instruments on the metallic table
next to the far wall. Although they were facing away from her, Sara
thought they looked like scrub nurses getting things ready prior to
the patient’s arrival. Green surgical sheets were draped across the
OR table. Off to the side stood the anesthesia cart. Even the OR
lights were on. So they still use this damn room, she thought,
somewhat vexed that she’d allowed herself to be disturbed by the
scheduling confusion.

“Let’s do it,” Sara mumbled. Walking to the
scrub sink, she reached for a mask at the nearby dispenser. After
tying it in place, she began scrubbing—five minutes each hand.
Hearing the OR door open, she looked up just in time to see three
more figures dressed in green enter the room, the last one carrying
an oxygen tank and something orange. Straining her neck, Sara
caught glimpses of them through the window as they moved pieces of
medical equipment in an animated fashion. She looked for some of
the other surgery residents, but the rest of the surgery area was
oddly deserted.

With her sterile hands held out in front of
her, Sara walked to the OR door. Placing her back against the hard
surface, she pushed her way in so as not to contaminate them. Once
inside, she turned and faced the operating room table.

At the sight of the empty surgery sheets,
her pulse quickened. Wondering where the patient was, Sara groaned
beneath her mask when the same irritating twitch she’d felt earlier
returned. This time, though, she was helpless to massage it without
dirtying her hands again. The two individuals by the surgical trays
stood motionless, their backs to Sara. The doctors faced each other
by the OR table, as if locked in an emotionless trance. Neither
moved.

Sara took a deep breath, and then another.
Suddenly the air seemed so stifling. Her temples began to throb,
only making her twitch worse. Breaking out in a cold sweat, she
felt her legs shake. Damn, she wanted to scream, “What’s
happening?” but her voice strangled in her constricted throat. An
instant later, the now familiar decaying odor penetrated her mask.
Gasping, Sara froze in fright. Afraid to look, she slowly turned in
the direction of the anesthesia cart.

Sara stared in shock at the sight before
her. The same tall emaciated figure she’d encountered in the
basement two floors below now stood by the oxygen tank. His
partially melted pumpkin sat at his feet.

Only this morning—
he wore no mask
!

Sara suddenly felt queasy as she tried in
vain to keep from looking at his face, or what was left of it. The
horrendous hypertrophic burn scars of mounded skin made his
features humanly unrecognizable. Charred teeth jutted grotesquely
from a gaping wound where his mouth should have been. Two irregular
holes piercing an ill-angled scar were all that remained of a nose.
And those eyes! Sara gulped hard. God, those eyes—those mean
unblinking eyes.
They had no lids
! Horrified, she stepped back toward
the operating room exit.

“Who…are…you?” she stammered. The stench
thickened.

Still the ghastly figure did not move. He
remained silent, wearing only a hideous sneer on his inhuman
face.

A subtle movement caught Sara’s attention.
Her eyes darted to his hand. Within seconds, she heard a hissing
noise, like the sound of a tea kettle beginning to boil. She stared
in abject terror and disbelief.
The hissing was coming from the single tank of
oxygen
! It increased in intensity as the horribly contorted
fingers twisted their grip.

With sweat stinging her eyes, Sara rushed
for the OR door.

“Help me… Damn… Help me!” she screamed as
the palms of her hands immediately blistered from the burning
surface of the metal door. Panicking, she tried again. The door
still would not budge. Terrified, Sara spun away, clasping her
seared hands together in a hopeless attempt to lessen the pain. The
putrid odor thickened more, choking the air from her lungs.

No longer able to hold it back, Sara doubled
up, heaving into her mask. The acidic fluid stung her throat as she
ripped the surgical covering from her face. Gagging, she coughed
again in an effort to clear her lungs.

Suddenly a new terror touched her senses.
Sara’s head shot up at the strange shuffling sound.

“Oh, God, no,” she grieved, as she felt the
blood drain from her face. She looked on in horror as the other
four lifeless forms turned and confronted her. All wore the hideous
facial scarring of long past burns. None spoke as they moved
robotically in her direction. Panic-stricken, Sara flung all her
weight against the operating room exit door. It didn’t budge. She
tried again and failed, only this time a sharp pain stabbed her
chest. Gasping for air, she swung around.

“Help me! Goddammit, someone please help
me!” she screamed, smothering in the foul stench. Sinking to her
knees, Sara began to weep. “Oh no, please, no, not me. I want to be
a surgeon.”

Looking up in desperation, her eyes glimpsed
the intercom speaker. In one futile attempt, Sara lunged for it,
flipping the button to the ON position.

“Help! Help! Stat to OR 13. Please, anybody,
stat to OR 13, STAT!” Sensing an inanimate touch on her shoulder,
Sara bolted around.

She cried out as the gnarled fingers dug
into her flesh. Sinking to her wobbling knees, she began to sob
uncontrollably.

As the grotesquely silent forms pulled her
toward the operating table, her resistance drained. She caught
glimpses of the deformed pumpkin, its toothless grin, and then the
flames. The foul smell of singed hair intensified her panic. She
screamed repeatedly while her flailing body was forcefully
restrained under the steamy OR lights. The smell of burning human
flesh climaxed rapidly into excruciating pain. She had time for one
last bloodcurdling scream of undefined terror before the acute
onslaught of convulsive agony blasted Sara McCaffe into abysmal
darkness.

* * *

“Okay, that’s the last treatment. Quick, get
me a tongue blade. She’s having a seizure.”

“Yes ma’am, Dr. Charmaine.” The thin nurse
rushed to the crash cart.

“Oh, and Bess,” the concerned doctor added.
“Tell them I’ll be down to the clinic in a minute. We’re almost
through here.”

The experienced psychiatrist displayed
confidence in supporting the woman’s airway. Her familiarity with
post-electroshock seizures told her she’d be out of it in thirty
seconds.

“Sara. Sara.” Dr. Charmaine spoke calmly
into the patient’s face as she peeled away the electrodes from her
temples. The woman gagged once and then coughed several times
before resuming her regular breathing pattern.

“Dr. Charmaine?” Bess asked, returning to
the table.

“Yes, nurse?”

“What was all that gibberish she was
muttering between treatments? Something about Halloween.”

The psychiatrist shrugged. “At times, Sara
locks herself in her own world where no one else is allowed to
enter. I really can’t explain—except that when she’s trapped in
this private place she goes, it must be incredibly painful for
her.” Then turning, she adjusted Sara’s head position. “Sara, look
at me. Open your eyes.”

“Dr. Charmaine. Dr. Charmaine. Is that you?”
the woman moaned.

“Yes, Sara. I’m here.”

“Dr. Charmaine…Is it over?”

“Is what over?”

“Halloween?”

“Today is not Halloween, Sara. Now relax and
take some deep breaths.” She watched closely as her patient drew in
several good breaths. “There you go. Excellent.”

“Dr. Charmaine?” Her voice sounded
strained.

“I’m listening, Sara.”

She paused, taking in one more breath. “I
had the most horrible dream. There was a fire. But…I can’t remember
any more of it. Just that it was on Halloween.”

“Events like Halloween can trigger bad
dreams, Sara.” After checking her pulse, Dr. Charmaine pulled the
green sheets back over her. “Warm enough?”

“I’m fine.” Sara closed her eyes. “You know
what, though, Dr. Charmaine?”

“No, what?”

“I decided on what I want to be when I get
better.”

“And what’s that?”

“A surgeon, a real-life surgeon.”

Dr. Charmaine looked on, shaking her head
sadly. Her patient always said the same thing—every year for the
last ten years. And what had she said in the past about the
dream—she couldn’t recall. But she never failed to bring up
Halloween.

“That’s nice, Sara,” she finally answered.
“Very ambitious of you.” Then turning to Bess, “You can untie her
hands now.”

Waiting for Bess to get started, Dr.
Charmaine again focused her attention on the disordered mind before
her. “Sara,” she spoke calmly. “We’re going to loosen your
restraints. You can go to sleep and we’ll be up to check on you
later. Understand?”

“Okay, Doctor,” she replied, seemingly
oblivious to the tremor over her right temple.

“Dr. Charmaine,” Bess said. “Come over here,
please. Look at this.”

The concern in the nurse’s voice brought the
psychiatrist over. After examining the woman’s hands, she looked
up, a puzzled expression forming on her face.

“That’s strange. I’ve never seen anything
like this before.” Dr. Charmaine gently touched the palms of her
patient’s hands. “Look at these blisters, Bess. It appears as if
she’s been…
burned
.”

“How’d she ever do that, Doctor?”

“I have no idea. We’ll have to get those
cleaned up and dressed.” Then studying the blistered palms once
more, she muttered, “Strange, really strange. Oh, Bess?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Please tell the cleaning staff they can
come in and prepare the room for the next case.”

“Sure, Dr. Charmaine.” Bess turned to leave
but stopped briefly, glancing once more at the girl. “You know,
it’s such a shame.”

Agreeing tacitly, the psychiatrist wheeled
the stretcher-bound patient toward the double exit doors. On cue,
they swung open. Pausing for a moment, she looked into the pained
expression of Sara McCaffe. Dr. Julie Charmaine frowned. As if it
was only yesterday, she could still vividly recall the disturbed
looks on the security guards’ faces as they carried her former
classmate, screaming, kicking, and gouging, from that empty
operating room. What was it that made Sara’s mind snap so
completely ten years ago? Not so dissimilar to all the
others—seemed every medical school class since she’d graduated had
lost a student to lunacy. Scary weird, and on Halloween, too.

And poor Sara. She still desired to be a
surgeon. Dr. Charmaine gently moved a strand of hair off her
patient’s forehead. The closest she’ll ever get to a scalpel is a
plastic butter knife.

Pushing the stretcher through the doors, Dr.
Charmaine headed for the elevators, passing right through the tall
masked orderly waiting outside.

Behind her, the orderly watched doctor and
patient only briefly, before turning away and entering the room.
With scarred twisted hands, he collected the spent electrodes.
Leering, he tossed them inside the melted pumpkin. Then hobbling
out the exit, he purposely made his way to the last operating room,
down past the surgical supply area. Methodically, he stared through
unblinking eyes at every aspect of the vacant room—the surgery
table, the anesthesia cart, the oxygen tank. A disfigured sneer
formed behind the faded surgical mask.