Episode 26

I was coming back from my meal break at Saint Mark’s, the over head lights humming their usual, monotonous tune down the long, sterile corridor. My mind was still half on the lukewarm mashed potatoes and the surprisingly decent chicken, the other half already drifting towards the tasks awaiting me. That’s when it happened. Out of nowhere, an empty wheelchair, one of those standard-issue, clunky models, slammed into the back of my legs with surprising force. I yelped, stumbling forward, my hands flying out to catch myself against the cool, painted wall.

I spun around, ready to offer a flustered apology, to see who had been so careless. But the corridor behind me was utterly, unnervingly empty. No one. Not a soul. It was as if the chair had sprung to life on its own, a rogue piece of medical equipment with a mischievous, or perhaps malevolent, intent. Before I could even process the impossibility of it, the wheelchair, with a slow, deliberate creak of its wheels, began to roll. Not just a gentle coasting, but a determined, steady movement, as if it had a destination in mind, and that destination was following me.

My heart began to pound a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This wasn’t just a bump; this felt like a deliberate act. The chair gained a little momentum, its wheels whispering a sinister song on the linoleum floor as it continued its pursuit. I started to walk, faster now, my eyes darting between the empty hallway ahead and the persistent, rolling phantom behind me. It kept pace, a silent, metallic shadow determined to keep me company. I could feel a prickle of unease crawl up my spine, the familiar chill of something unseen and unexplained.