The Last Storm

The hospital room was quiet save for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the distant rumble of thunder. Agnes had been unconscious for three days, her frail body a mere whisper of the vibrant woman she had once been. I sat beside her, holding her hand, watching the sky outside darken with an approaching storm. The nurse had said it would be soon, and the air felt heavy with finality.

As the first flash of lightning split the sky, the lights flickered, and the monitor’s steady beep faltered for a moment. I squeezed my mother’s hand, feeling the chill of her skin. Then, without warning, her eyes fluttered open. They were clear, lucid, and filled with a terror I had never seen before. ‘Don’t let them take me,’ she whispered, her voice cracking. ‘Please, I’m not ready.’ I leaned closer, confused and terrified. ‘Who, Mom? Who’s taking you?’ But her gaze was fixed on the window, where the storm was now unleashing a torrent of rain.

I followed her gaze, and there, pressed against the glass, was a face. Not human, but vaguely man-shaped, with too-wide eyes and a mouth stretched into a silent scream. It seemed to be made of the darkness itself, swirling and shifting with the storm clouds. I blinked, and it was gone. My mother’s grip tightened, her nails digging into my palm. ‘He’s come for me at last,’ she said. ‘I tried to run, but he always finds me.’ I tried to soothe her, telling her it was just the medicine, the fever, the stress. But even as I said it, the air in the room grew cold, and a whisper threaded through the thunder: ‘Agnes, I’ve been waiting.’

The doors at the end of the hallway slammed shut with a resounding bang, and the lights went out completely. In the darkness, I could hear my mother’s ragged breathing, and the sound of something else, a wet, dragging noise, coming closer. I fumbled for the emergency light, but when it came on, the room was empty. The bed was made, the machines silent, and my mother was gone. The window was open, rain blowing in, and on the floor a trail of wet footprints led to the door, which stood ajar, revealing the pitch-black corridor beyond.

I stumbled out into the hall, calling for help. The nurses’ station was deserted, the monitors on the wall a jumble of static. That’s when I saw the footprints again, vanishing into the stairwell. I followed them, my heart pounding, descending into the basement where the morgue was located. The door was ajar, and I pushed it open, bracing myself. Inside, the cold air hit me, and there, on the steel table, lay my mother. But she wasn’t alone. The thing I had seen in the window was leaning over her, its face now fully formed, gaunt and grey, with eyes like dead coals. It looked up at me and smiled. ‘She belongs to me,’ it said, its voice like scraping stones. ‘She always did.’

I ran, screaming, up the stairs, through the empty corridors, until I burst out into the storm. The rain was a deluge, and the parking lot was a sea of black. Behind me, the hospital loomed, its windows glowing with a sickly yellow light. I didn’t stop until I reached my car, and just as I got in, I saw her face pressed against a window on the third floor, her hands splayed against the glass, her mouth forming words I couldn’t hear. But I could read her lips: ‘He’s not done with you either.’

The next morning, the police found my mother’s body in her room, exactly as I had left her the night before. The cause of death was listed as cancer. But the nurse who had been on duty was found dead in the stairwell, her neck broken, a look of pure terror on her face. They said it was a fall, but I knew better. And as I walked out of the hospital into the gray morning, I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and a familiar whisper in my ear: ‘I’m always here.’