Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast.

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast.


The nightmares didn’t come as often lately, so maybe I was healing. At least I was no longer strapped to the bed—“for your own safety, dear”—and I could now roam the grounds without being shadowed by a watchful attendant. It wasn’t because they feared I would escape. I could leave anytime I wished. But, for a while at the beginning, they thought I was suicidal.

Okay. That part was true. When you are as traumatized as I was, when the terror and guilt never seem to abate, you often find yourself thinking you’d be better off dead. The thing stopping me was Lily. She would not understand. She might never forgive either.

On my daily walks, I noticed the benches scattered over the institute’s spacious lawn. They were wrought iron with enough room to seat two. They were strategically placed in shady areas so you’d have a lovely view of the lake or the stream or the rose garden and especially the blue mountains in the distance.

Nobody sat on them.

I tried it once because I needed to remove a stone from my shoe. I looked up as a woman rounded the bend in the path and approached me.

She stopped, hand to her mouth. “You don’t want to sit there, dear. Agnes wouldn’t like it.”

“Who’s Agnes?”

She pointed at the metal plaque embedded in the cement at my feet.

IN MEMORIAM
Agnes Rutherford Beale
“farewell to every fear”


Still seated, I looked up at the woman. She was older than me, a bit of gray in her hair, crinkles at the corner of her eyes. Most of the “guests”—we didn’t use the term inmate or patient here—were over forty. I was thirty-two, which was why everyone called me “dear” or “dearie.” “Agnes is dead, I take it?”

“From way before I came here,” the woman replied. “They don’t like it when you sit on their bench.”

Ah well. What could you expect? Many of the guests at The Refuge had mental issues. Without regular medication, some of them tended to be a bit ... fanciful.

“I gather you believe in ghosts.” I tried to soften my comment with a smile.

The woman sniffed. “Sit there long enough, and you’ll see.” She shook her head like I was some kind of idiot and angrily strode off.

I didn’t linger, not because I believed her but because I wanted to finish my circuit of the grounds in time for lunch.

On subsequent walks, I would stop at each bench on my route and read the plaques. They were quite similar: IN MEMORIAM, followed by a woman’s name (this was not a co-ed facility), and a homily of some sort. I had nothing better to do, so I decided I would become a ghost hunter. I would sit at each of the benches and wait patiently for a visitor from the afterlife. I would do this for at least a week, and if nothing happened, it would put the lie to the poor woman’s delusion.

I did not have long to wait. I’d brought a book with me, and was deep into a captivating story of love lost and found amid the chaos of the French Revolution when I sensed—smelled, really—a presence beside me. Lavender. I looked up but saw nothing, so I went back to the story where Celestine’s lover had just been arrested and was headed for the guillotine.

“It’s a waste of time.” The voice belonged to a woman who sounded like my high school algebra teacher.

With a start, I looked around, but of course the teacher wasn’t there. “I have nothing better to do,” I said, as if there was somebody actually seated beside me.

“You know it’s not true.”

I felt the hairs on my arms stand up, and I closed the book. “I don’t think any of this is your business.”

“Of course not.” She snorted. Actually snorted. “It doesn’t make me a liar, though.”

I crossed my arms. “What would be a better use of my time then?”

“You figure it out.”

There was an absence now, as though a real person had stood up and walked away. The only human beings I could see were two women, talking and gesturing as they passed through the rose garden.

Later, I realized that any decent ghost hunter had to produce evidence. I couldn’t see the woman who’d just spoken to me—according to the plaque, she must have been Priscilla Rose Gerhardt, “carpe diem”—but I could use my phone to record her voice. If she showed up again. But I also wondered if this was some sort of prank. Perhaps somebody had implanted a recording device in the benches, and it was activated by someone sitting down.

No. It had been a conversation, a back and forth involving the issue of me wasting time. Not to mention the scent of lavender. How could a prankster manage that? Nevertheless, a careful ghost hunter would check, which I did. Of course, if any of the attendants were to spot me on my knees with a flashlight beneath the bench, feeling around for anything that shouldn’t be there, a lot of questions would be asked, tests run, recommendations made, and I’d likely be back to confinement or, worse, under medication.

                                                                              ***

There is a flash of silver in the sky, and then I spot the plane approaching. Frank is bringing Lily back from visiting her grandparents. He circles the landing strip, dipping his wings, signaling that he sees me waving. But I have no way to tell him it’s not a welcome wave this time. I’m trying to signal him to go around. He’s too low. The plane suddenly tips forward, smashing, nose first, into the ground. I try to reach them, but my feet won’t move. Frank is yelling, “Now look what you’ve done.”

My daughter! She’s crying. I can hear her. Again, I try to move, only to tumble out of bed, hitting the floor with a loud thud.

That fucking nightmare. So, so close to what had actually happened. Except Frank did manage to level out the aircraft, and it looked like they were going to make it when one wing hit the ground, and the plane spun around, nearly flipping over, and skidded off the runway into a ditch. I saw it all.

Frank died. Lily lived. I wanted to believe that I’d rescued my precious daughter, but it wasn’t true. For days, weeks, months afterwards, I’d tell myself there was nothing I could have done. Just as in my nightmare, I’d been frozen, unable to move, and the fire and rescue guys were the ones who pulled her out right before the plane caught fire.

Lucky, lucky Lily. She suffered only some bruises and a cracked rib. For reasons I could not fathom, I blamed myself. I should have been on the plane with them. Okay, survivor’s guilt. They tell me it’s quite common. But still. I had stayed behind to catch up on chores, saying the dogs needed a walk and the laundry wouldn’t do itself. I wasn’t fond of the in-laws, and Frank knew it. Still, I should have been with them.

I should have waved him off. Okay, I’d tried. But I’d always made a point of being at the airport when he was due in from one of his flights, and I’d always waved a welcome. Had he circled around, would it have made a difference? I don’t know. I, too, did not see the telephone wire that his landing gear clipped. I just thought he was coming in too low, and I’m no pilot.

I should have rescued Lily. Yes, I was in shock, but still. I was closer to her than the fire and rescue folks. I might have been able to pull them both out in time. In my dreams, anyway. Frank was taller and heavier, and I would have had to have the strength of an Amazon to free him.

I should have kissed my husband goodbye before they took off. But I’d always been superstitious about it, thinking if I kissed him, it really would be for the last time. Now, all I can think of are the times I could have been more loving and showed it, times that I will never share with Frank again.

Survivor’s guilt. PTSD. Nervous breakdown. Call it what you like. I was at The Refuge for a reason: I. Could. Not. Deal.

                                                                              ***
My fall from bed went unnoticed. Perhaps the staff thought they needn’t be so watchful since I was supposedly on the mend. I still wasn’t ready to leave. The big, bad world out there was too frightening. Except for Lily. If I stayed too long, she would forget that I was her mother. Maybe it’s what I deserved. After all, what kind of mother would just stand there while her child was in grave danger?

Yeah, yeah. I know. A mother in shock. But it’s just an excuse. There had to be something lacking in me, a lioness quality that I’d heard so much about when it comes mothers whose children are in any way threatened. I obviously didn’t have it and had a really bad feeling that it was something you couldn’t just acquire.

Back outside, I was happy to see the sun shining. Last night’s storm had left the grass sparkling with dew. My meanderings led me down a path that most of the guests avoided because it was downhill, meaning an uphill climb to return. There weren’t so many benches there because the views were obscured by a grove of oak trees, interspersed with smaller bushes. I chose it because I needed to resume the ghost hunt. It was the only way to keep from recalling last night’s nightmare.

I also wanted to see if the earlier incident with Priscilla Gerhardt’s ghost had just been my imagination going into overdrive, probably helped by whatever medications they salted the food with, or something really spooky.

By the time I saw the bench, I was thinking I should turn around and head back. I didn’t know that the grounds were this vast, and I feared I might never reach a wall or fence marking the boundary before sunset. The bench sported a scattering of leaves and twigs deposited by the storm, and I had to wipe the seat and back before I could sit down. I opened the book to where Jacques and his cellmate Gilbert are tunneling their way out of the prison. They have to reach the Seine before dawn, and yet the going is extremely arduous.

A small breeze fluttered the leaves above me, scattering raindrops onto the book’s pages. I wiped them carefully with my sleeve and then noticed the plaque beneath my feet.

IN MEMORIAM
Judy Spencer
“here she lies where she longed to be”

Whoa. A suicide?

“No.”

I looked up but couldn’t see a living soul. Then I smelled something oddly familiar. A perfume—no, lotion—from childhood. Cherry almond. Jergens. My mother always used it.“Why did you long to be here?”

“Because.”

I shrugged. Okay. Don’t talk to me. I was about to open the book, when the voice said, “Why are you here?”

I was tempted to say “because,” only it would get me nowhere. I pulled my phone out and tapped Voice Memos. “It’s a lovely day, and I like to enjoy the outside.”

“Bullshit.”

Interesting. I couldn’t imagine an adult woman using such language. But it also gave me pause. Why didn’t she believe me? “Are you Judy Spencer?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Does it bother you having me sit here?”

“What bugs me is you not answering my question.”

“Why I’m here? I told you. Believe it or not, as you wish.”

“Why are you here at The Refuge? Not this bench.”

“I’m conducting a study.”

“Yeah, right. Ghost hunting isn’t a study; it’s an escape, just like the book you’re reading.”

How did she know about my project? Could she read my mind? If so, why ask questions?“You should know that I am recording this conversation.”

She giggled. Like a teenager.

“How old are you?”

“You first. Why are you here?”

I didn’t want to tell a perfect stranger—especially one who might not be alive—that I couldn’t deal with much of anything lately. But, on the other hand, why not? Judy Spencer would be the last person to suggest further treatment or medication because she wasn’t a person any longer. I could spill my guts. “I am here because I can’t seem to get over a traumatic event that killed my husband and nearly my child. Right in front of me.”

“Where’s the kid?”

“With my mother.”

“You’re okay with it?”

“No. Yes. For now, anyway.”

“You’re hiding.”

“Hardly. They visit me once a week. I can leave anytime I wish.”

“But you don’t.”

“I will, dammit. I just need a little more time.”

“For what? More stupid romances where the star-crossed lovers finally reunite and live happily ever after? Sheesh. What a fucking waste.”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough to know a bullshitter when one is sitting on my bench.”

“Okay, smarty-pants. Why am I here?”

“Because you, like a lot of the inmates here, are a fucking coward. You’re afraid you’ll neglect your kid like you think you did when the plane crashed. You’d rather hide out in The Refuge than do what it takes to learn from your so-called mistakes and try to do a better job of being Lily’s mother. That’s all anybody can do, you know? Just try. Before it’s too late.”

I was so stunned, I was speechless. How did she know about the crash? About my real feelings? About the name of my child? And what the hell did she mean by “before it’s too late”?

Judy was obviously reading my mind. “What I meant is your child is already growing up, thinking, where’s Mommy? Why doesn’t she come back and take care of me? Pretty soon, she’s going to forget you. Or she might already be thinking you don’t like her. Maybe you blame her for Daddy’s death. Or she may even decide she doesn’t like you because you abandoned—”

“Enough!” I jumped to my feet. “I have not abandoned my child.”

The breeze fluttered the tree leaves, and the scent of Jergens lotion dissipated. Apparently, having said her piece, Judy Spencer had gone back to wherever ghosts go when they’re finished scaring the bejeesus out of you.

                                                                              ***

Back in my room, I lay on the bed, trying to convince myself that I hadn’t just had a long and painful conversation with a fucking ghost. Hallucinating. Hearing voices. Actually responding. This place was making me crazy. It seemed I was not merely a person trying to get over PTSD, but a delusional madwoman who was hearing voices in my--

Oh. Right. I reached for the phone. I had proof, which would be reassuring, to say the least. I tapped voice memos. “It’s a lovely day, and I like to enjoy the outside.” Okay. Me talking. There was a slight pause, and then I heard, “Are you Judy Spencer?”

Oh, God. I really was going crazy. I kept tapping away, but the only voice I heard was my own, and boy, did I sound nuts, talking to the wind.

There was another bothersome thing: I knew Judy was right. I was a fucking coward. I was afraid to face my own daughter for fear that I might fail her again. I was indeed hiding here at The Refuge. What an apt name. Also ironic. Here I was, indulging in escapist literature, while failing to escape my own guilt and fears. I was letting Jacques and Gilbert and Celestine do the heavy lifting when they weren’t going to save me from myself. All I needed to do was try to be the best mother I could be, to offer Lily all my love, inadequate though it probably was. And do it now. Not tomorrow or next week.

As I called my mother, made arrangements to check out, and packed my suitcase, I could almost hear Judy Spencer saying, “Suck it up, girl.”

Down in the lobby, the executive director, Dr. Wilhelmina Lumberton, handed me the discharge form to sign, saying, “I wish you well, dear. We’ll always have a place for you if you decide you need to return.”

“Thank you.” I turned to go and then turned back. “One last thing: Those benches. The plaques are intriguing. Do you know the stories behind them?”

“Some. They were all guests who happened to die while they were staying here.”

“Judy Spencer. I thought she was a suicide, considering what I read on the plaque.”

“Ah. Yes. Poor thing. She was only twenty-six. She didn’t kill herself, though. She had ovarian cancer and came here because she’d reached the point where there was nothing to do but yield to the inevitable.” Dr. Lumberton sighed. “We’re not hospice, you know. But Judy was one of our employees. She liked working here. She wanted to die here. So ... Such a tragedy.”

“And so young. How did her family take it?”

Dr. Lumberton smiled. “Hard. They picked the words on the plaque.”

I felt my eyes prick with tears. “May she rest in peace.”

“I’m sure she is.”
​
I wasn’t sure at all. There would be other guests in the future, people like me who, despite being warned off, would sit on those benches. They say that ghosts are dead people who still have business here on Earth. If Judy Spencer had once worked here, she might indeed still have business to take care of. Priscilla Rose Gerhardt was a “guest,” and she also had nudged me out of my comfort zone. I didn’t know if The Refuge administrators were aware of it, but clearly the benches were here for a reason. You only had to be bold enough to sit on them.


                                                                       💀💀💀

Caroline Taylor is a novelist and short-story writer who grew up in the mountain west and traveled widely, including a brief stint in the Foreign Service. A former editor of Humanities magazine, she is the author of nine mysteries, one short-story collection, and a nonfiction book. All of them are available on her website at www.carolinestories.com. Two of her novels won the Firebird Book award, and a third was a finalist for the Freddie Award. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime. Visit her at https://facebook.com./CarolineTaylorAuthor/.

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.


You love coming to ancient places like this. It's what you're getting your doctorate in, after all. Catholic Monasticism. Contemplation, solitude. You love the silences that come along with mystic prayers and time spent reading. You're more than excited to go to a nunnery on a small island off the coast of Ireland, like the ones you read about as a little girl.

As the car pulls alongside the nunnery, you get out and are greeted by two Sisters.

"Hello, Sisters," you smile. "I'm Alyssa, with the university."

"Yes, of course, of course," says one of the Sisters. "Let's take your bags up to your room. I'm Sister Monica."

You smile again. You can't wait for the spiritual journey ahead of you. 

The cab driver shoots you a grin as he stares at you like a piece of meat as you take your bags out.

"You single, miss?" he asks.

"Not interested," you say.

"Shame," he laughs. 

You dismiss it, smile, and nod.
                                                                           ***

You sit in silence with the nuns eating dinner. Chicken with rice. Simple. You like the slow pace around here. 

A sister comes in with a shovel and bucket.

"Doing some gardening?" you ask.

She looks at you for a few seconds, smiles, and says, "Ah, yes. Just a bit of touchups around the island. Always needed."

You offer your hand, "I'm Alyssa."

"Sister James," the Sister shakes it back.

                                                                           ***

You wake up in the middle of the night to a faint monotone sound. It's coming from the sea. 

As you open the blinds, you hear scuffling in the room next to you. You stare out and see the moon's reflection on the sea again. Same monotone sound. 

In the distance, you think you hear screams - but they're too short and abrupt. You're not used to nature. You grew up in London and are used to busyness, noise. In the stillness and quiet, you are not sure what's normal and natural and what's not. Come to think of it, you're not sure if you can remember a single still moment in your life.

You look just below you and notice the cemetery. It gives you chills, as if you shouldn't be seeing it. You close the blinds and try to sleep again.

                                                                           ***

You dream of your first night in an orphanage. It was also Catholic.

After watching your parents get shot in the street, all the fear and dread and shock hit you at once. You lie in bed and pray to God to take care of you because no one else seemingly will.

You're sixteen years old and you begin to notice men staring at you constantly. You wear loose clothing but it doesn't stop them. You don't ever feel safe. 

                                                                           ***

In the morning, Sister James walks back in with a shovel and dirt on her cassock. 

"Mornin' Alyssa!" she says cheerfully.

"More work in the garden?" you ask.

"Aye, 'tis a beautiful mornin' for it." 

"I would love to see you go through your daily routines and see what new things I notice."

"Aye, aye. The Lord's certainly grateful you're out here."

                                                                           ***

You turn on the voice recorder during the mass. 

The priest makes eye contact with you, smiles, and keeps chanting in Latin. 

You do the usual crosses and Catholic aerobics. 

Sister Monica comes into the sanctuary. One passes you a note and sits down.

You open it up and read it.
Isaiah 34:2-3:

"He will totally destroy them, he will give them over to slaughter. Their slain will be thrown out, their dead bodies will stink; the mountains will be soaked with their blood."

                                                                           ***

You try to remain objective as a researcher, not attached. You pretend there isn't any emotional value to the note that was passed to you hours ago. Yet, as you sit at dinner you can't help but notice that there is a tensity in the air.

"When was this convent established?" you ask.

"Mid-1500s," Sister James says. "Yes, 'twas a safe house for women on the run and all."

"The maids did good in helping them get here," Sister Monica nods.

"The maids?" you ask.

Silence.

"The maids, you know… they helped them cross the sea. All kinds of help. They were a group of women who made sure we were protected."

"Oh," you say. "Interesting."

In the distance, there is a scream. 

You put down your fork and ask, "Did you hear that?"

"Aye," Sister James nods. "It's the wind is all. Nothin' to worry 'bout here."

"We hear that all the time," Sister Monica cuts into her steak.

You shake your head. This place is weird. In two days, you will leave and all be well. That's what you have to focus on. 

"We did some readin' on you," Sister Monica smiles.

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"Grew up in an orphanage, dear," Sister James says. "I worked there. I remember you."

You try to fight back tears. The brief time at that orphanage felt like hell.

"Wanted to protect you, you know?" Sister James sips her tea. "Always prayed you would come our way. I'm an orphan too, you see"

"That's very nice," you force a smile. "I'm not interested in talking about it."

"You didn't feel led here?" Sister Monica asked.

You open your mouth to speak, and then remember the dream the night before.

"In a way," you say eventually.

                                                                           ***

You try to sleep that night but can't. The orphanage dream seems to be waiting to happen again. 

 The monotone noises in the distance continue.

Cursing out loud, you get up and put on your clothes. You have to figure out what's going on out there. At least it will distract you from the dread of the potential nightmare. 
You slowly sneak out of your room and tiptoe out into the dark hallway. 

                                                                           ***

The chilly night air smells salty, and you wish you’d worn your coat outside.

You hear the monotone noise again.

Walking towards it, you stumble over something and fall.

You get back up and look down.

The cab driver from two days ago is sprawled on the lawn, mouth open, blood dripping from his eyes. 

They look like the eyes of your parents the night they were killed in front of you. 
You scream.

                                                                           ***

The other nuns put a coat around you as you try to sip tea.
"We have to call the police," you say.
"We shall do no such thing," Sister James shakes her head.
"Why?"
"It would ruin the sanctity and pact of our island."
"What?"
"There's a spiritual world in the sea, Alyssa. They keep us safe here in our convent. That cab driver must've been up to no good for him to get killed like that."
You pause, "So… when you said maids earlier…"
"Mermaids," Sister Monica interrupted.
"You expect me to believe that?" 
"We don't expect you to believe much. We're just Catholics over here recognizin' what we're seein'. We don't understand 'em, but they keep us safe and that's what matters."
"Safe from who?"
"You know who. The world. Cruel men. People who are up to no good. There's a whole spiritual world under the water. Nobody talks about it. Ghosts and demons and mermaids and the like. They don't like the way things are up here, so they take care of us."
"You don’t have to worry about it," Sister James puts her hand on you. "In the mornin', we'll do a prayer and I'll show you around."
You can't believe this is happening. You won't believe it's happening.
Try to get some distance, you tell yourself. It's best to lay low until you get out. These nuns could be plotting to kill you too if you act up. Nope, best get out in one piece. The boat won't visit until tomorrow. Just keep it all inside. 
"When you were in the orphanage," Sister James smiles, "didn't you wish that there was someone there to protect you? Well, we have that here. You don't have to worry about a thing."
You bite your tongue and nod your head. 

                                                                           ***

When the sun rises, Sister James wakes you up and grabs your hand. You sleepily walk outside with a robe on. You see the driver laying in the grass again. His skin is gray, the blood has now dried on his face. You turn your face away.
"It's not your parents, love," Sister James grabs your hand. "Look and see. This is good."
Sister James guides your hand to the cab driver's forehead. It's cold, clammy. 

You see him - no, you are him - last night. 

He walks up to the shore after seeing a woman lying on the beach. He senses concern but there is that deep, dark thought inside you - a thought you've never had before. Violent, brief fantasies.

He smiles as he walks up to the girl, asks her if she's okay.
The woman stares back at him, he notices her eyes are glowing and her hair is covering her breasts. He looks down at her lower body and sees glimmering scales and two fins.
Suddenly she doesn't seem so entrancing.
She laughs at him and opens her mouth. Her eyes, my God, her eyes. He feels his soul being sucked out from his mouth and eyes. Struggling to scream he runs back up the hill towards the nunnery.
Yes, the nuns can help. Yes, yes, yes, ye-
He falls to the ground and watches the stars in the sky dim more and more. 
The worst thing, like one of the unspeakable things he almost did to the creature on the beach, runs in front of his memory. He knows his soul somehow will be trapped with her forever. There's nothing he can do. He made his choice. 
He accepts hell.

                                                                           ***

You back away screaming.
Sister James holds you while you weep.
The world isn't like this. It can't be this cruel.
"The souls of the wicked that come here stay in that ocean," says Sister James. "Those truly bound for there never leave. The maids keep us safe, don't you understand? The maids are there to protect us. The filthy degenrates that kileld your parents? They would be there. You've got to accept this is the way it is."
You let out another sob.

                                                                           ***

You watch Sister James and Sister Monica dump the cab driver's body into a hole in the ground. They sprinkle holy water on him, say a few prayers. They then start shoveling dirt onto his body.
You are handed a shovel.
"We got to watch for one 'nother," Sister James pleads. "This is a rough world, miss."
You grab the shovel and start throwing dirt onto the cab driver's body, unable to forget either his death or the worst things he did. 
With every flashback to the cab driver's misdeeds, you find yourself disgusted at how satisfied you suddenly feel that he's no longer in the world.

                                                                           ***

A few hours later, at dinner, soup is served. 
You stare at it.
In the distance, more screams are heard. You bite your trembling lip.
You didn't even believe in hell before this. Now you have to believe in what you saw. There's no other sane explanation. 
"More bread, Alyssa?" Sister Monica hands her a basket.
You nod your head as more screams echo throughout the island and valley. 

                                                                           ***
​
You grab your bags and put them on the boat.
"Alyssa?" Sister James asks.
"Yes?" you say.
"You're always welcome back here," Sister James smiles. "Just don't judge us for what's kept us safe for centuries, missy. 'Member, they watch everything. They know."
You feel your heart drop.
Sister James hugs you, kisses you on the cheek.
"The way of things, I'm 'fraid," says Sister James. "'Truth be told I'm 'fraid that's the way it'll be 'til the good Lord comes back. Nothin' much we can do, you see."
You nod your head slowly and say, "I won't tell anyone."
"I know you won't," Sister James pats your arm. "If the world ever becomes too scary for you, know you have a place here waitin' for you."
You force a smile. You want to get off this island as fast as you can. 
The ferry captain grabs your bags.
"Gotta go," you say quickly.
"I know you do," says Sister James. "Did you get what you wanted out of this?"
You shake your head, startled by your own honesty.
"Ah," Sister James chuckles. "Well, blessings on your journey as you try to find it out there."
She turns around and walks away.
You get on the ferry and let out quiet sobs of relief.
"You okay, miss?" asks the captain.
"Yes," you say. "Just get me out of here."
The ferry starts, and you see the island become smaller and smaller in the distance.
You hear the monotone noise again, this time above the sound of the engine. 
You walk to the edge of the ferry and look down.
The water is clear as the souls of hundreds of thousands of dead are visible all at once, their mouths open and eyes terrified. The maids are torturing them, keeping them in chains. You see the cab driver. He makes one honest look at you, eyes asking you to help.
Your eyes drift to the right and you see the people who killed your parents also being tortured. It brings a sense of calm to your soul. Then something snaps you out of it - you gasp, turn around, and close your eyes.
After a few seconds, you peer over again and see nothing but blue green water.
You sit on the deck and look at the clouds in the sky briefly.
Nothing will ever be the same for you again.
But then you do some thinking. 
Is it better to try to readjust to the world after what you've experienced and seen? Is it honestly the worst thing to have guaranteed safety? Is an ancient system of justice really worse than what you have in London? London is where your parents were killed. London is where you feel all alone. London is where nowhere feels safe. 
You don't want to imagine trying to readjust. You don't want to think about how you'll be haunted for the rest of your days after what you've seen. The doctorate, the fake friends, the future you once dreamed doesn't make sense any more.
The harm done to you over the years by people who got away with it… what would happen if that hurt never happened to you again? You realize there is a greater possibility of happiness on the island than there is on the mainland. At least there, you will never get hurt. You will never have to take a risk again. There, you're not an orphan. There, you don't have to explain to friends and potential lovers why there's no one to take them home to.
You can sleep soundly at night knowing some… thing is watching over you. For the last fifteen years of your life, you couldn't say that you felt any sense of comfort in the night. But you could if you lived at the nunnery.
Can't say the same about London. Not by a long shot.
You get up and see the nunnery in the distance. 
"No," you whisper. 
You walk to the ferry captain, slip him the rest of the money from your purse, and ask him to take you back.


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Nathan Perrin is an Anabaptist pastor in Chicagoland. He holds an MA in Quaker Studies, and is a doctoral student studying Christian Community Development at Northern Seminary. His doctorate work centers on creating a writing program for nonprofits and churches to use to help under-resourced communities process trauma. He is the author of the forthcoming novella Memories of Green Rivers, which will be released by Running Wild Press in 2025. His work has been published in the Dillydoun Review, Bangalore Review, Collateral Journal, Esoterica Magazine, etc. He is also a screenwriter for an unannounced indie comedy series. For more information, visit www.nathanperrinwriter.com

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast


When I say I am becoming invisible, they laugh and reply, But I can see you. You’re right here.

My therapist nods like a bobblehead and brings out the sing-song voice that sets my teeth on edge. And what makes you feel invisible, Zora?

I get it. When they look at me, they see a small-boned, frizzy-haired girl with freckles dusting her nose and eyes set too deep, too far apart. Straight out of Psych 101, they think: the unremarkable often feel ignored. Have I tried pole dancing to boost my confidence? Reciting positive reaffirmations in the mirror? Dating more?

But my last date looked right through me when I greeted him. Would have walked right through me, too, if I hadn’t jumped out of the way. He veered for the bar and struck up a conversation with the bartender. I caught the words stood up and hard being a straight man these days before deciding I’d dodged a bullet.

Or, if the bullet, too, had gone straight through me, at least I hadn’t felt it.

                                                                      ***
The first strange incident happened a month ago at work.

Working at the Toronto General Hospital means washing your hands ten, twenty, fifty times a day. I can’t count the number of times I’ve scolded grieving wives and parents for going straight from the crapper to the door. You can open hospital doors with your foot these days, not that anyone ever does. No, people wrap their piss-stained fingers around the door handle and continue with their lives feeling good about themselves.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I said to an old lady wearing a knitted skirt. Scolding old people feels worst, but it comes with the job. Nurses deal with all the crap – literal and figurative – that doctors don’t want to handle.

Now, this woman did notice me. She turned back, frowning, and ran her hands under the faucet as if they were butterfly wings too delicate to thoroughly wet. Still not a great washing technique, but she’d tried, so I held my tongue. While she ripped paper from the automatic dispenser, I moved to the sink to follow my own advice. The first faucet – the one Grandma had used – didn’t work, so I tried the second. The third. Fourth.

I looked up then. I’m not sure why – maybe I wanted to share an exasperated glance with myself – but I caught my reflection flickering. Only for a moment, like the wink of sunlight on glass, but in that brief moment, I had disappeared.

Finally, my eyes moved beyond my now-steady reflection to the old lady’s behind me. She didn’t seem shocked or surprised. In fact, she was watching me with tight lips curling, as if she enjoyed seeing me fail my own test. Right: I had piss-stained fingers to resolve. I moved my hands fast, then slowly, but not a single faucet worked. Sweat pooled beneath my scrubs.

Muttering curses, I dug through my purse for my champagne-scented sanitizer. I spilled some onto my pants, but the paper towel dispenser wouldn’t cooperate, either. The old lady left the bathroom shaking her head and muttering, “Sacre bleu, quelles manières horribles…”

                                                                      ***

I’ve never seen my reflection flicker again, but maybe that was when I started fading. Maybe that little old lady had cursed me for calling her out on poor hygiene. 

At first, I didn’t think much of it. Easy not to notice you’re fading when you come from a long line of Sicilian Italians; you can hardly get in a word anyway. I rent a one-bedroom in Scarborough, but my parents and grandmother live in Barrie, so every other weekend I’d return to a) report what I’d been eating, b) confirm that yes, I was still single, and no, my priority at the TGH was not snagging a young doctor, and c) help with whichever crazy projects my family had dreamt up that week. Most recently, Dad had decided to build a fence. Only stupid Canadians consulted instructional YouTube videos, so I had to do it myself while he hammered posts at roughly seventy-degree angles from the ground.

“Listen to me, Zora. I know how you think. I used to be just like you.”

“Have you even measured the peri –?”

“You need to start a family. Your best years are already behind you. Desmond has a son about your age – a little dull, but maybe you’ll like him.”

You have to understand that Dad never means these comments as insults – which drives me even crazier. The road to hell is paved with good intentions or however that saying goes. “You’re not doing it right,” I snapped. “The video says the posts need to be every six to eight feet –”

“Look at your Ma and me. Huh? Where would we be without each other?”

At which point Ma stuck her head out the window and shouted, “Che uomo inutile! Does that look like a fence to you, Nonnina?”

And Nonnina was happy to take it from there.

I don’t have siblings. My only cousin lives in Germany. Often, I wished I was more invisible to my family. If they didn’t want to hear me, why did they have to see everything I did, to judge the way I had chosen to live my life? Why couldn’t they just fully ignore me?

Nonnina would say I am paying for a sin against God – that by wishing this, I’ve incurred His wrath. Or perhaps she would shush me and wrap me in her arms, and I would sit in her lap like a child as she braids my hair with ribbons and tells me tales of old Sicily. I can no longer know. I have passed out of existence while my grandmother – my family – remains solid and unmovable as stone.

                                                                      ***
If this is my fault, I must have racked up the bad karma. The thought eats at me in my lowest moments. Do I deserve this? I’ve never been religious, but if there is a god out there, I’d like to see an inventory of my sins. Maybe that very thought is one of the sins that landed me here.

But there’s something else, a deeper sin, if you would call it that, that sits hollow in my gut even in those moments when I ascend above self pity – something I regret for the act itself, not because it might have led me to invisibility. Let me tell you about a recent patient of mine. 

His name is Mr. Jankowski, and he pretends he doesn’t speak English so that the nurses call his grandchildren to translate. He’s constantly in and out for palpitations and high BP. Typical stuff. Wife died a year ago, which I think catalyzed his need for attention.

“Ignore him,” says Grandkid Jankowski. “Tell him you’ll give him more meds and send him home.”

What a bitch, I thought the first time Mr. Jankowski came in. I skipped lunch to play Scrabble with him, though he kept pretending not to know any words except cat, bat, and the like, so the game was rather unsuccessful. 

She exaggerates, I thought the third time Mr. Jankowski came in. I spoke with Dr. Nussbaum to switch him from Norvasc to Metoprolol and start him on Lorazepam for anxiety.

He is a little irritating, I thought the seventh time Mr. Jankowski came in (BP 180/80). His English got miraculously better every time I saw him and every time Grandkid Jankowski refused to pick up her phone. I started suspecting he came in just to see me. To talk to someone.

“You’re neglecting your other patients,” Dr. Nussbaum told me. “There are people here who actually need your attention.”

So I began ignoring Mr. Jankowski. Cut him off when he went on his I-gave-up-a-scholarship-to-the-University-of-Warsaw-for-my-kids tirade and refused to return his smiles in the halls. Something inside me broke, then, seeing the effect that had on him. His face melted like candlewax.

He hasn’t returned to the ER since. I don’t know what happened to him, but I think about him every time I am stared through and my shouts – for attention, validation, a little bit of affection and human contact – go unheard.

                                                                      ***
I became invisible on an exponential curve: slowly, then so fast I could barely process what was happening. At first, it was only technology refusing to respond to me, which seemed inconvenient but not overly odd. Technology’s always screwing up, right?

Soon, though, I had to say something five times before getting a response – not just with family, but at work. Patients didn’t notice me taking their vital signs until I squeezed the pressure cuff around their arms. I signed in for my shifts and spent countless hours at the TGH only to have the other nurses swear they hadn’t seen me all day. I grew tempted to see if I could actually move through people, so I tried it one day. Instead of swerving in the hall to avoid a collision like I normally did (men never moved first, but lately, not even children had been giving me the right of way), I held my ground. Banged head-on into a visiting cardiologist. He dropped his clipboard, papers swirling slow-motion into the air, his glasses askew and the stethoscope around his neck hanging like a crooked tie. Poor man looked absolutely befuddled. He muttered a quick apology, but I could tell that I hadn’t left an impression on him. As he bent to pick up his papers, he muttered, “Must have been mopped. Damned janitors didn’t leave a sign.”

It was another week before I thought to reframe my invisibility as invis-ability. Hokey, I know, but how else was I supposed to get through this? Here was my chance to learn all the stuff nurses weren’t supposed to know. 

So on a busy Wednesday afternoon, I loitered in the reception room listening to two neurosurgeons gossiping, hoping to overhear something about a promotion or raise. Turns out neurosurgeons’ gossip is just as dull as the receptionists’. Dr. Naussbaum had a crush on Jenny (who didn’t?), the OR was in for a remodel, and Dr. Muller was expecting. Big deal. I was turning to leave – standing right in the open doorway, I still hadn’t been noticed – when I heard my name. 

“What about that loud Italian nurse? Zora something?”

Loud? I chewed the inside of my cheek and flipped him off, but, of course, he didn’t react.

“Haven’t seen her in weeks. She on rotation?”

“No idea. Have Mindy check her work records.”

And that was it. No one said my name again in the following weeks, and then it disappeared from the sign-in sheet as if I’d never been.

                                                                      ***

Today, I haunt the hospital: a true ghost. 

I’ve stopped seeing my therapist; it wasn’t helping, and eventually even she stopped seeing me. I can make myself noticed if I shove people like I did with that cardiologist, but they squint and stare as if they can’t quite piece me into a whole. When I called Ma last week, all she heard was static.

Have I considered becoming a thief, you ask? A master assassin? All plausible employment options. Maybe one day I’ll pursue them, but for now, I can’t bring myself to leave the TGH.

Not yet. There are people here who still need my attention.

An old woman sits in a wheelchair on the seventh floor, forgotten with her hospital gown backwards and half open. She doesn’t seem alarmed when I kneel and start buttoning it for her. It’s clear she needs a bath, so I wheel her to her room and start prattling on about the latest season of Vikings. Her milky eyes roam the ceiling while I talk. I know she doesn’t see me there, but for the first time in months, I don’t care. Dirty water sluices off her, and eventually she cracks a relieved smile.

All of it evidence that I still exist. There’s no way to know if I’ll lose my ability to act on the physical world, but I try not to think about that. One step at a time. For now, I take comfort in the methodical, circular motions of sponge on paper-wrinkled skin.

When the nurse finally arrives, he finds the woman clean and settled into bed for the night. “Vikings,” she says when he takes out the menu and asks what she wants for dinner. “It’s not just that everyone’s hot. There’s a great plot too.”

                                                                      ***
I might no longer be seen, but on some level, in some plane, I am heard. While this knowledge doesn’t help with the loneliness, it gives me purpose. I became a nurse because I wanted to make a difference, but nursing is more than a degree and the title my family is so proud of. Now, for the first time in my life, I understand what my job truly entails.

When I visit my parents in Barrie, I see that they have forgotten me. Nonnina still hums my name in a sing-song way, then gazes into the distance and whispers quale poesia? wondering whether she’s heard it before in a poem. In the kitchen, Ma stirs a pot of soup, pauses, tastes, and says, “Something’s missing.” We both know she is not talking about the soup.

I go to the backyard to stand beside my father and whisper. The fence will be crooked. Take out the posts and start again. It’s alright to admit that you were wrong.

“Nothin’ for it. Gotta take out the damn posts,” he mutters. 

Ma sticks her head out the window and hollers that she hasn’t asked him to un-make a goddamn fence. What kind of a man can’t even build a fence? Silently, invisibly, I make my way back inside to her. Try positive reinforcement. Let’s be honest, Ma: you’re no Nonnina in the kitchen, yet he’s never had anything but praise for your work. 

Her face softens; I can see beads of sweat at her temples and fog on her glasses from staring down into the soup. She looks out the window again, stirring contemplatively. She does not go out to him, but she doesn’t shout again either. With Ma, you have to take the small wins. 

I keep to my regular schedule. Work, home, family visits. It takes me two weeks of rifling through computers and files at the TGH to find Mr. Jankowski’s contact information. Now, I sit in my living room with a glass of pinot – stolen from the LCBO, since I figured I deserve something good from all this – and dial Grandkid Jankowski.

“Hello?”

“Call your grandfather.”

“Uh… hello?”

“He gave up a lot for you and your mom, you know. Could have gone to the University of Warsaw on a full scholarship. Did he tell you that? Don’t be a bitch and call him.”

“Damned scammers,” is all I hear before she hangs up. I do this for two more days until she blocks my number. Then I start calling from the hospital.
​
I have no way of learning what’s become of Mr. Jankowski. But Ma smiles at my father now, and the fence stands straight and tall in the backyard. 


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"Raluca Balasa holds an MFA in Creative Writing: Fiction from the University of Nevada, Reno. Her short work has appeared in venues such as Andromeda Spaceways Magazine, Aurealis, and Grimdark Magazine, as well as on Apex Magazine’s blog. Raluca works as an English professor in the Toronto area. Her debut science fiction novel, Blood State, was released in 2020 from Renaissance Press. She can be found at https://ralucabalasa.wixsite.com/website 
Twitter: @rabalasa