The Red Floor

My name is Elara, and I’ve seen things I shouldn’t have since I was a toddler. The first time I told my mother about the man in the corner of my room, she laughed it off as a childish dream. But after weeks of me describing the same man, with his hat pulled low and the smell of wet earth, she started to believe. She’d sit with me, holding my hand under the dim glow of the nightlight, and listen to my frantic whispers about the woman who cried in the walls and the boy who played with a ball that wasn’t there. If it weren’t for her, I’m sure I would have unraveled completely.

At eleven, my life changed when I slipped in the kitchen and my foot landed in a pot of boiling water. The pain was blinding, and the burns were severe, third degree across my entire sole and up my ankle. I spent over two months in St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, a sprawling brick building that smelled of antiseptic and stale air. My days were a blur of bandage changes and physical therapy to stretch the tightening skin. But the hospital also had a small schoolroom, a repurposed storage closet with a single window that looked out onto a brick wall. A retired teacher, Mrs. Abernathy, would come in for two hours each morning to keep me on track with my studies.

The schoolroom was down the hall from the physiotherapy gym, a route I limped along several times a week. On one such trip, I met Angela. She was sitting on a bench outside the PT doors, her knee bouncing with nervous energy. She was there for her brother, Liam, who was recovering from a complicated heart surgery. Angela was a year older than me, with a mop of auburn curls and a laugh that could fill a room. We became fast friends, sharing snacks from the vending machine and complaining about the hospital food.

A few days later, I met Meghan. I was heading to the schoolroom when I noticed a girl my age, maybe a year older, standing by the elevator. She was bald, and she leaned on an IV pole that had been wrapped in bright yellow tape. She wore a thin robe over her pajamas, and she was staring at the floor with an intensity that made me stop. ‘It’s the red tiles,’ she said without looking up. ‘There’s a pattern. If you step on the cracks, something bad happens.’ I looked down. The hospital floor was white with red specks, but I saw no cracks. But her voice was so solemn that I believed her. That was Meghan.

Meghan had leukemia. She was in and out of the hospital for treatments, and when she was in, we would hang out in the schoolroom, her joining me while Mrs. Abernathy tried to teach us fractions. She was older, twelve, and she had a way of talking that made me feel like a little kid. She told me about her brother, who had died two years ago, and how she’d seen him in her dreams, telling her it was okay to be scared. It was then that I told her my secret. I could see them. The dead people. I expected her to laugh, but she just nodded, a knowing look in her eyes. ‘So you’re like me,’ she said. ‘My grandma said I had the sight, but I only see him in my sleep.’

It was Meghan who first saw him in the hospital. We were in the schoolroom, practicing our multiplication tables, when she froze. ‘Elara, who is that man standing by the window?’ she whispered, pointing to the corner where the sunlight never reached. I followed her gaze. A tall man in a black suit stood there, his face obscured by a fedora. He didn’t move, just stood, watching. I felt the familiar cold prickle of dread that accompanied these visits. ‘He’s been following me,’ I said, my voice trembling. ‘I’ve seen him in my room, at my house, even here.’ Meghan paled. ‘He’s not like the others, is he?’ I shook my head. ‘He doesn’t want to talk. He just stares.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The man in the fedora was at the foot of my bed, his presence a heavy weight in the room. I did what I always did when I was scared: I called for my mother in my mind, replaying her soothing voice. But nothing helped. The man raised a hand, and in it was a red tile, glistening like it was wet. He held it out to me, and I felt a scream building in my throat. Just as I was about to lose control, Meghan appeared in the doorway, her IV pole trailing behind her. She shouted, ‘Get out of here!’ and the man vanished. I burst into tears. Meghan sat on the edge of my bed, and for the first time, she looked scared. ‘That wasn’t a ghost, Elara. That was something else.’

Over the next weeks, the man appeared more often, not just to me, but to Meghan, and even to Angela, who one day cried in the hallway, saying she saw a shadow with a hat. The hospital staff chalked it up to stress and fear. But we knew. The three of us started to talk, sharing our sightings and our theories. Meghan became the leader, her determination fierce despite her weakening body. She said that the man fed on fear, and that we needed to face him, to understand why he was here. She found old records in the hospital library, a dusty room we weren’t supposed to enter. She discovered that the hospital had been built on the site of an old orphanage that had burned down in the 1920s. Many children died in the fire, and one of them, a boy named Emil, had been known for wearing a black hat and collecting red glass beads. He was said to have been a cruel child who tormented the others.

Meghan believed the man was an entity, not a ghost, that had attached itself to the pain of the hospital, feeding on the sick and the dying. And it was getting stronger. ‘We have to get it to leave,’ she said one afternoon, her voice hoarse from a dry cough. ‘But how?’ I asked. Angela, who had been quiet, spoke up. ‘Maybe we can give it something. Something it wants.’ Meghan shook her head. ‘No, it wants to take. To consume. We need to break its connection to this place.’ We were just kids, but we were desperate. We decided to confront it, to challenge it in a way that would force it away. Meghan said it had to be done in a place it was weakest, maybe the schoolroom, where we had spent so many hours laughing and learning.

That night, after the hospital was quiet, we snuck into the schoolroom. Meghan was weak, leaning heavily on her IV pole. Angela held a small flashlight, its beam cutting through the darkness. I drew symbols on the floor with a piece of chalk I’d taken from the board, copied from a book Meghan had found. We were trying to create a circle of protection, but I had no idea if it would work. As we worked, the temperature dropped. A smell of smoke filled the room, and I heard the faint crackle of flames. ‘He’s here,’ Meghan whispered. The man with the fedora materialized in the corner, his face a void of shadow. He reached into his coat and pulled out a red, glowing tile. He tossed it at our feet. It landed with a wet slap, and immediately the floor beneath it began to crack and smoke, the red spreading like blood.

We panicked. Angela screamed, and the light went out. In the darkness, I felt a cold hand touch my shoulder. It was Meghan. ‘Elara, don’t run. Remember what I said. They feed on fear.’ I forced myself to look at the man. But instead of the man, I saw Meghan’s face, pale and gaunt, her eyes sunken. She was holding the red tile, which now glowed with a soft light. ‘It’s not the man, Elara,’ she said, her voice echoing strangely. ‘It’s me. I’m dying. And I’ve been holding onto you to keep from being afraid.’ I wept. ‘No, Meghan, you’re not going to die.’ But she just smiled. ‘It’s okay. I’ve seen my brother. He’s waiting for me. But before I go, I need to send this thing away.’ She brought the tile to her chest. ‘I’ll take it with me.’

Meghan closed her eyes, and the tile merged with her body, glowing beneath her skin. The man in the fedora screamed, a sound that tore through us, and then he dissolved into wisps of smoke that were sucked into the tile, now dark and cold. Meghan fell to the floor. Angela and I rushed to her, but she was already gone. We called for help, but it was too late. The doctors said her heart just gave out.

The hospital said it was a tragic loss, but I knew the truth. Meghan gave her life to banish that malevolent entity, to save us. And from that day on, I never saw the man with the fedora again. But I still see the dead. They come to me, seeking comfort, trying to pass on. I help them, because Meghan taught me that sometimes the greatest act of love is to let go. And whenever I think of her, I remember the red tile, glowing in her hands, a beacon that banished the darkness.