The January Ward

I was four when I first dreamed of the other girl. She had my face, but her skin was pale like winter milk, and her hair fell past her waist like black water. In the dream, I wasn’t watching her; I was her. I felt the hospital gown scratch against my arms, the too-stiff mattress beneath me, and the smell of antiseptic that clung to everything. I knew her name was Elin, though no one had told me. I simply knew.

The first dream ended with a fire. I saw our house—a small, crooked thing on the edge of a forest—engulfed in flames. I was being carried out by a firefighter, my lungs burning, and behind me, the roof collapsed with a roar. Then I was in a hospital bed, and the machines beeped in time with my heartbeat. In real life, I woke up gasping, my own cheeks wet with tears, and I told my mother about the dream. She said it was just a nightmare, but I knew it wasn’t.

For days, I waited. In my waking life, I played with blocks and ate cereal, but part of me was always listening, always waiting for the next installment of Elin’s story. The second dream came on a Tuesday. I was in the hospital hallway, dressed in a clean white gown, but this time it wasn’t the scratchy kind. It was softer, and I held a small stuffed rabbit that I didn’t recognize. A nurse—I knew her name was Marga—held my hand. She was young, with freckles and a tight bun. The hallway was long, with lockers lining the right side, painted a dull green. The lights flickered, casting long shadows that danced like they were alive. It was late, and the only sound was the squeak of our footsteps on the linoleum.

We turned a corner, and a scream tore through the silence. It was high and raw, a sound that could only come from a child. Marga’s grip tightened, then she dropped my hand and ran toward the source, yelling, ‘It’s coming from the treatment room!’ I stood frozen, the rabbit slipping from my fingers, and watched her disappear through a door at the end of the hall. The scream stopped as if cut off, and then a deep, wet silence followed. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. I wanted to call for Marga, but my throat was closed.

Then I heard footsteps behind me. Slow, deliberate, like someone walking on gravel. I turned, and there was another girl. She was the same age as me, but her eyes were too wide, and her skin had a grayish tint. She wore a hospital gown just like mine, but it was stained with something dark. She smiled, and her teeth were yellow. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said. ‘This is the January Ward.’ I didn’t know what that meant, but I felt a cold dread seep into my bones. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

I woke up screaming. My mother rushed in, her face pale under the dim glow of my nightlight. She held me, and I sobbed about the girl with yellow teeth. My mother told me it was just a dream, that there was no January Ward, that no one could hurt me. But I knew better. The dreams continued. Every few nights, I would be back in that hallway, sometimes alone, sometimes with Marga, but always with the feeling that something was watching me. The girl with yellow teeth would appear at the end of the corridor, standing motionless, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. Soon, I started to see her in my waking life. A flash of gray skin in the corner of my eye, a whisper that sounded like my own name, but wrong.

By the time I was six, I had learned to keep quiet about Elin and the January Ward. My parents were worried, and they took me to a doctor, who said I had an overactive imagination. But the dreams grew more vivid. In the dreams, I would walk down that hallway, past the treatment room where Marga had disappeared. The door was always open now, but I never looked inside. I didn’t want to see what was there. Instead, I would go to the end of the hall, where a window overlooked a courtyard. In the courtyard, there was a single tree, bare and twisted, like a hand reaching for the sky. And under the tree, there was a little girl. She had my face, but her skin was pale like winter milk, and her hair fell past her waist like black water. It was Elin.

I would call out to her, but she never turned. She just sat against the tree, hugging her knees, rocking slightly. Sometimes she hummed a tune I didn’t recognize, but it felt familiar. I would try to open the window, but it was painted shut. I would beat on the glass, screaming for her to turn around, but she never did. And then I would wake up, my fists sore, my throat raw.

The last dream I had about Elin was when I was twelve. I was in the hallway again, but this time, the lockers were rusted, the paint peeling. The lights were hanging by wires, casting a sickly yellow glow. The treatment room door was closed, but I could hear sounds from behind it: scraping, like nails on a chalkboard, and a low, rhythmic thumping. I walked to the window, and the courtyard was overgrown, dead grass up to the tree. But the tree was still there, and Elin was still under it, but now she was looking at me. Her eyes were black, like empty sockets, and her mouth was open in a silent scream. She waved, slowly, as if in slow motion, and then she mouthed, ‘Come join me.’

I woke up and never slept again without dreaming. Or rather, I never dreamed of Elin again, but I started to see her in reflections. I would look in the mirror, and for a split second, I would see her face instead of mine. My hair would appear longer, my skin paler. My parents noticed I was talking to myself, but I was really talking to her. She told me things, things I couldn’t understand, but I felt them in my bones. She told me about the fire, about how she had lost her family, and about the January Ward, where they had taken her because no one believed she had seen the fire first. But the fire was not an accident, she whispered. There was a man, a gray man, who had started it, and he had taken her here, to the ward, to keep her quiet.

I started to fear the gray man. In my waking life, I would see a silhouette at the edge of my vision, always in the periphery. My parents said I was seeing things, but I could feel his breath on my neck. In my dreams, I would wander the hospital, searching for him, but I only found rooms that smelled of mildew and old blood. And then, one night, I found him. He was standing in the hallway, right where Marga had left me. He was tall, with a long gray coat, and his face was a smear of darkness. He held a pair of rusted scissors, and he was humming that same tune Elin had hummed. He walked toward me, and I tried to run, but my feet were stuck to the floor. He came closer, and he placed a hand on my shoulder. His touch was cold, and it felt like he was pulling me into the floor. He said, ‘You’re supposed to be dead.’

I woke up screaming, and this time, the screaming didn’t stop. My parents rushed me to the hospital, but I was beyond help. I spent years in and out of psychiatric wards, but I never told them about Elin or the January Ward. I was afraid they would send me back there. And now, as I write this, I am thirty-five years old, and I have been living with Elin in my head for decades. She is not a separate entity anymore; she is me. And I have learned to accept her, to merge with her. But last night, for the first time, I dreamed of the January Ward again. And this time, I was the one under the tree. I was the one who was pale and gray-skinned, and I was the one waving to a little girl at the window. And that little girl had my face, but her skin was pink and healthy, and she had short hair, and she was crying. I knew her name was Laura, and she was just a child. She didn’t know that the ward was real, that the gray man was real, and that I was coming for her. I woke up with a smile. The cycle continues.

Now, I have a daughter. She is four years old, and she has my eyes. Last night, she woke up screaming, and when I went to her room, she told me about a dream she had. She said she was in a hospital, and there was a little girl who looked like her, but with long hair and pale skin. She said the girl had a message for me. She said the girl told her to tell me that the January Ward is ready. And that the gray man is coming back. I held my daughter, and I rocked her back to sleep, but I didn’t sleep a wink. I just sat there, staring at the wall, thinking about Elin and about my daughter. And I knew that soon, I would have to go back. Not in a dream, but for real. I would have to find the January Ward, and I would have to face the gray man, and I would have to save Elin, even if it meant losing myself. But first, I have to make sure my daughter never dreams again.

I have bought a vial of sleeping pills, and I have crushed them into her milk. I know it’s wrong, but it’s the only way. I can’t let the dreams take her. I can’t let her become the next Elin. And as I watch her sleep, her chest rising and falling gently, I wonder if this is how Elin’s mother felt. I wonder if she tried to protect her too, and failed. But I won’t fail. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my daughter safe, even if it means sending her away, even if it means never seeing her again. The January Ward is not a place for the living; it’s a place for the forgotten. And I will make sure my daughter is never forgotten. But as I sit here, I can’t help but hear a faint humming from the hallway. It’s that same tune, coming from my own mouth. And I realize that the cycle has already begun. I am Elin. I am the tree. I am the girl in the window. And I am the one who will carry the ward into my daughter’s dreams, whether she wants it or not.