Episode 19

The scent of disinfectant was a constant companion at Saint Mark’s, a sterile blanket over the simmering unease that clung to the older wings. I’d grown accustomed to the usual spectral hum – the whispers in empty rooms, the phantom footsteps that always seemed to be just around the corner. But the floating vases were something else entirely. It started subtly, a vase of cheerful yellow carnations on the nurses’ station in the cardiology unit that seemed to be sitting a fraction of an inch higher than it should be. I’d chalked it up to a trick of the light, a tired eye playing games. Then, a few days later, the same vase, now holding a vibrant bouquet of lilies, was undeniably suspended, its base a good inch above the Formica countertop.

My heart did its familiar flutter, that nervous, anticipatory beat that had become as routine as clocking in. I glanced around. The station was deserted, the late afternoon sun casting long, lazy shadows across the linoleum. Slowly, deliberately, I reached out. My fingers brushed against the cool glass, and for a heart-stopping moment, it felt as if I was touching air. Then, with a gentle, almost imperceptible wobble, the vase settled back down with a soft clink. I snatched my hand away, my breath catching in my throat.

It wasn’t just one vase. Over the next week, it became a recurring phenomenon. A small arrangement of daisies in the surgical waiting room would hover, its delicate stems seeming to defy gravity. In the quiet solitude of the maternity ward’s family room, a squat ceramic pot overflowing with cheerful gerbera daisies would rise, a silent, floral offering to the unseen. Each time, the vases would eventually return to their resting places, as if a playful hand had lifted them for a moment, only to set them down again. There was no wind, no vibration, no logical explanation. It was as if the flowers themselves, in their vibrant, living colors, were reaching out, a silent, beautiful, and utterly unsettling gesture from a realm beyond our understanding. The nurses, too, began to notice. Whispers turned into hushed conversations, exchanged over coffee breaks and during quiet moments on the floor. "Did you see the flowers today?" they’d ask, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and wonder. The spectral wards of Saint Mark’s had found a new, delicate, and undeniably surreal way to make their presence known.