The Nurse
Copyright 2016 Amy Cross
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition
Dark Season Books
First published: July 2016
“Twenty years ago, something very bad happened in this house. But it's over now. I promise.”
When Rachel moves to a new house with her mother, she immediately realizes that something isn't quite right. Although she's blind, Rachel can tell that the stories about the house's past don't add up. And slowly, she starts to worry that someone or something from that past might still be around.
Soon, Rachel learns the story of the house's previous occupant, a troubled nurse who spent every waking moment caring for a sick old man. The nurse eventually lost her mind, resulting in a series of horrific murders, but have the events of that awful time truly been left behind? Or is something stirring in the night, something that only Rachel seems to notice?
The Nurse is the story of a girl who finds herself trapped in a sinister house, and a woman who believes she's being haunted by the ghost of a long-dead child. Contains scenes of violence.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
The Nurse
Prologue
Now my hands are steady again. Now the voice has stopped.
I pick out each note with great care. I appreciate that my playing is by no means perfect, and I know I still have so much to learn, but practice makes perfect and everybody has to begin somewhere. So I take my time, while ignoring the distant sound of armed men breaking down the front door. All that matters is the calming music that brings peace and quiet to the world around me.
As I continue to play, blood starts dribbling down from my face, splattering against the piano's black and white keys.
Chapter One
Rachel - Today
“Be careful,” Mum says, holding my right arm as she guides me through the front door. “There's a step and then a mat. The stairs are right in front of you.”
I open my mouth to tell her I can manage, to tell her to stop fussing, but the truth is: I can't manage. I can't even walk into our new house without help.
I'm basically helpless.
“Steady,” she continues, gripping my arm a little tighter. “It's about two meters to the stairs and there's a lovely stained glass window, but we're going to turn left and -”
“I'm blind, Mum,” I reply, pulling my arm away from her, “not stupid.”
I hesitate for a moment, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do next. There's no way I'm going to let Mum lead me around like some kind of idiot, so I take a couple of faltering steps forward with my arms outstretched. I figure I'll somehow sense the wall if I'm about to bump into it, although a moment later I trip on a table leg and let out a faint gasp of shock. Fortunately Mum grabs me just in time, and this time I know there's no point protesting. Without her help, I'm screwed.
I hate this.
And I hate knowing it's never going to get any better.
I keep waiting for some kind of super-sense to kick in, to compensate for my blindness, but so far I'm like a goddamn moron stumbling about in the dark. At the hospital, they told me I'd learn to adapt to my new life, but I think those were just empty hopes. I'm blind now, so my life is basically over. Things aren't miraculously going to get better some day.
As Mum leads me forward, my left hand brushes against the wall. I can't help noticing that the wallpaper seems torn, with my fingertips scraping over sections of exposed brickwork.
“Is this place a goddamn dump?” I ask, as I feel a few broken wooden splinters.
“I told you, it just needs a little tender loving care.”
“There's no carpet, either. It's like some kind of bombed-out old -”
“There's a table to your left,” Mum says suddenly.
“I'm not turning to my left,” I tell her, reaching out to grab the door-frame. “I'm walking straight -”
Suddenly my hand hits the edge of a vase. I pull back, but it's too late and I hear a wobbling sound, then a bump, and finally the crash of a glass vase smashing against the floor. A moment later, cold water hits my socks.
I mutter something dark and obscene under my breath.
“It's okay,” Mum says, although I can hear the frustration in her voice. “I shouldn't have put that there anyway, I just thought it might cheer the place up a bit. Don't worry, let's just get you to the sofa, and then I can get the mess all mopped up. There are bound to be a few bumps during the first days. Accidents are only to be expected.”
“You shouldn't have to clean up after me,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “I'm not a baby!”
“A little frustration is natural,” she continues, sounding annoyingly optimistic. “You'll be okay once you get used to the place, I promise.”
She's wrong. I won't be okay. I can't see anything, and it's not as my eyes are suddenly going to heal some day. This is how I'm going to have to live the rest of my life: blind, stumbling around and knocking stuff over, and with someone guiding me everywhere I go. I'm basically one step above being a pet.
“This way,” Mum says suddenly, “just -”
“I can do it!” I shout, pulling my arm away from her grip. “Stop treating me like a goddamn -”
Sighing, I take a deep breath before shuffling forward with my arms outstretched, desperately hoping that I can find the sofa without falling over. With each step, I feel more and more as if I'm walking into a vast, empty void. Just as I dare to hope that the rest of the world has disappeared, however, I bump against another wall.
Chapter Two
Alice - Twenty years ago
I sit in complete silence, watching as his chest slowly rises and falls. His belly is getting bigger and the buttons on his pajamas are straining slightly. I should change him soon. Then again, his breaths seem much slower than before, almost as if they might stop at any moment.
Almost.
I watch as his chest slowly rises.
And then it falls.
And then nothing.
I hold my breath, just in case -
I should -
Suddenly he mutters something under his breath, but it's just a sleep murmur. He shifts slightly and lets out a couple of snorts.
/>
He's still alive.
Of course he is.
Thank God. I mean, that's what I want. I want him to be okay. Of course I do.
So I wait, in case he wakes.
The only sound now is the rustle of his pajamas as he continues to breathe. Again, my thoughts inevitably turn to the possibility that the sound could stop at any moment. He could just slip away into eternal peace, but he clings to life as if he's scared of what might come next. He's never admitted to any fear, of course. The mere suggestion would horrify him, and he'd probably have another of his loud, violent outbursts. But deep down, beneath all his brashness, I think he's terrified. That's why he's been so much angrier lately. Even worse than before.
But I have to look past the bad moments and concentrate on what's still most important. He's my father, and I'm his daughter and his nurse.
This is my duty.
“Alice,” he mumbles suddenly, and his eyes flicker open. Still bloodshot, still yellow at the edges.
“I'm here,” I reply.
“My bag,” he whispers, wincing as he tries to sit up. “It's full.”
I get to my feet. “I can -”
“You've gotta empty it,” he continues, already pulling the duvet aside to reveal the colostomy bag attached to his swollen red belly. “It stinks.”
I swallow hard. “Please -”
“You've gotta empty it!” he hisses. “What's wrong with you, are you suddenly deaf and dumb? Do you want me to sit here like this, with my own shit leaking out all over the place? It's full, you stupid...”
His voice trails off, but after a moment he mutters a few curses under his breath.
“You're no better than the idiots at the hospital,” is the only part of the little tirade that I manage to catch.
Stepping over to the bed, I reach down and pull out a box of spares. When I open the lid, however, I find that the box is empty, and I realize I forgot to bring up some fresh supplies earlier. Stupid. Why do I forget things so easily?
“What are you fussing with now?” he spits. “Get on with it!”
“I need to find a new one for you,” I tell him. “There's a fresh box downstairs.”
“What use is it down there?”
“I'll go and fetch it,” I continue, getting to my feet and stepping back. “I'll only be a -”
“You should think ahead,” he stammers, interrupting me. “What were you doing while I was asleep, anyway? Twiddling your thumbs and daydreaming? You need to plan things better, there's no point keeping a load of new bags downstairs. When was the last time I went downstairs?”
“I'm sorry, I -”
“Bloody hell, you're hopeless. You're a terrible nurse.”
Flinching slightly, I'm tempted to point out that the new bags only arrived at lunchtime, but instead I head to the door. He never likes to hear excuses. At the last moment, however, I stop and glance back at him.
“Are you sure you don't want to think again about the nurse from the healthcare center?” I ask. “They called again yesterday. They're happy to send someone each day to look after you and -”
“I don't need some stranger coming into my home,” he says firmly. “You're a nurse, aren't you? Just about, anyway. You can do it. It's not like you're needed anywhere else, so you might as well be useful here. Now get a fresh bag, this one's full!”
“Of course,” I reply, turning and heading out to the door. “I'm sorry.”
“Have you seen him today?”
I freeze.
“You have, haven't you?”
Turning, I see that for the first time in several days, Father is smiling.
“You've seen him,” he sneers. “I can tell.”
“No,” I stammer, shaking my head. “I haven't seen him. Of course not. I'll fetch another bag.”
“Liar! You've seen him!”
By the time I get to the top of the stairs, I feel physically sick, but I force myself to stay strong. I head down to the hallway, and then I stop for a moment and look at the stained glass window. The light is so beautiful, and I remember when my mother had the piece installed. It's the one thing that's left of her now, in this house that my father has spent so many years making ugly. Noticing that the vase is slightly crooked, I make sure to slide it back into its proper spot.
“Alice!” Father yells suddenly from upstairs, as he bangs his cane against the floorboards. I swear, his voice has seared its way into my mind. “Hurry! This thing stinks!”
Chapter Three
Rachel - Today
“So how come we can afford an entire house?” I ask as I sit on the sofa, listening to the sound of Mum in the kitchen. “What's wrong with the place? Who lived here before us?”
I wait, but it sounds as if she's busy going through all the drawers. Either that, or she's mad at me for knocking over the vase, and for generally being an all-round bitch since we got home.
“Mum?”
I hear her coming through.
“How can we afford this place?” I ask.
“Let me worry about that.”
“But we're poor.”
“We're not poor!” she stammers. “Rachel, why would you say that?”
“Fine, we're lower working class, or whatever. Does that make you happier? We still can't afford a normal house, so what gives? Who lived in this place before us? Norman Bates?”
“Oh, I'm not entirely sure.”
“But how can we -”
“It's a little rundown, I admit,” she continues, as I hear her setting something on a table in front of me. She's being evasive, as usual. “The neighborhood is supposed to be on the up, though. There's money being spent to tidy it and make everything better, and I think there's even -”
I hear a brief buzzing sound.
“Message?” I ask.
“It's nothing.”
I listen to a series of clicks as she unlocks her phone and taps the screen. I'm starting to recognize that little series of noises.
“Work again?” I ask finally.
“Rachel, it's nothing, really.”
“When do they want you?”
“Rachel -”
“No-one else ever gets in touch with you,” I continue, although I immediately realize that I might sound a little harsh. I mean, it's true, my mother has no friends and no family, and even cold-callers tend to give her a wide berth, but I guess I could phrase these things a little more politely. “That came out wrong,” I add, “but... When do they want you to take another shift?”
“I'll tell them I can't do it tonight.”
“Why?”
“Rachel -”
“I'll be fine, you know.”
“There's no way I'm leaving you alone here on our first night in the new house.”
“Why not? It's not like I can get up to any mischief.”
“Still... It just wouldn't be right.”
I hear her tapping at the screen for a moment longer, and then there's a gentle bump as she sets the phone down. It'll buzz again in a minute or two. Guaranteed.
“You struggled to pay the rent on our last flat,” I continue, “and now suddenly you can afford to move us to a house? Come on, Mum, I'm not an idiot. What gives? They must be desperate if they're renting it out to us.”
“It's a little shabby, I admit. But we'll paint the walls!”
“It's not, like, an old drug den, is it?”
“Of course not!”
“A whorehouse?”
“Rachel...”
“Describe it to me.”
She pauses. “It... could... use some fresh paint.”
“So the walls are peeling?”
“There might be some damp problems.”
“There's mold everywhere?”
“It has a certain history.”
“Something bad happened here?”
I wait for a reply, but her silence speaks volumes.
“Mum?” I continue, my interest suddenly piqued. “What happened in this house?”
“Nothing, Rachel, please -”
Before she can finish, her phone buzzes again.
“Just take the shift,” I mutter, leaning back against the sofa cushions.
“I can't. It's our first night here, and I -”
“Take the goddamn shift,” I continue, trying but failing to hide my frustration. “I'll be fine! Now just tell me what happened in this house, and why it's so cheap to rent. Did someone get murdered here, something like that?”
“Rachel -”
“Oh my God,” I say with a faint smile, “I'm right, aren't I? Someone was murdered! Did it happen right here in the living room?”
“It's more complicated than that...”
“Who died? And how?”
“I really don't -”
“Please,” I continue, interrupting her again, “you have to tell me! Was someone horribly slaughtered and then carved up? Are there blood-stains still all over the floor and ceiling? Was it a serial killer, or a crime of passion, or -”
“No!” she says firmly. “Of course not! There are no blood-stains anywhere!”
“So the place was cleaned.”
“It's a perfectly lovely house, Rachel! We should be grateful!”
“And who should we grateful to?” I ask. “Who's the landlord?”
“Please, just leave it be,” she mutters. “Now isn't the time to be obsessing over the tiniest details.”
She sounds annoyed, perhaps a little exasperated. I know I should ease off and give her a break, but I just want her to let me know the basic information. I can figure the rest out by myself, but I need to know where I should start my search.
“I'm going to get set up in the kitchen,” she says suddenly, and I hear her heading out of the room. “Are you hungry? I'm hungry.”
“Mum, just tell me!” I call after her. “Mum, what happened here? What's wrong with this house?”
I wait.
No reply.
“Mum? Who died here? And how? Was it completely awful and bloody? Please say it was something awful and bloody!”
Chapter Four