The Rusted Lullaby

At six years old, I was convinced I would die on the gurney rolling me through the sterile tunnels of St. Aldwyn’s Memorial. The hospital was a maze of pale green walls and flickering fluorescent lights, and the air tasted of antiseptic and old copper. My mother walked beside me, her hand a damp, trembling weight on my shoulder, but her face was a blur of fake smiles and worried eyes. I remember the operating theater: a gray, windowless room dominated by a massive, insect-like light fixture that stared down like a cold, unblinking eye. The masked figures around me were not people but mannequins in green scrubs, their eyes the only human things visible above the surgical linen. A nurse with a soft voice told me to count backward from one hundred. I got to ninety-three before the black rubber mask pressed down, and the sweet, cloying smell of the anesthetic filled my nose, making my stomach revolt.

I woke in a narrow bed in a dark room, the only light coming from a dim bulb in a metal shade that hummed a low, sad note. The soreness in my throat was a raw, jagged fire, and I could barely swallow my own spit. I saw I was in a small room with a single window, but the glass was dark, and beyond it there was only a brick wall. A thin, white curtain hung from a track on the ceiling, half-drawn around my bed, and behind it I could see the suggestion of a chair and a table. I was alone. I tried to call for my mother, but my voice was a hoarse croak, and it hurt so much I began to cry. The tears were hot and they made my throat throb even more.

That’s when I noticed the singing. It came from the other side of the curtain, soft and low, like a lullaby. The melody was unfamiliar, a series of descending notes that made me think of a music box winding down. A woman’s voice, hushed and smooth, hummed the tune. It was comforting, and I stopped crying to listen. The singing stopped abruptly, and I heard the rustle of cloth, and the sound of footsteps on linoleum. I decided it was a nurse, but when the curtain moved, no one appeared. I waited, but the singing didn’t return. I must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing I knew, the room was darker, and the humming was back, a little louder, and there was a scraping sound, like a piece of metal being dragged across a floor.

I sat up, my heart pounding, and pulled back the curtain. The room was empty. The chair and table were still there, but the table had a large, rusted metal object on it. It looked like an old-fashioned key, the kind you’d use for a grandfather clock, but it was at least a foot long, and its teeth were twisted and sharp. I remember thinking, ‘That’s not a key.’ Then I saw the blood. There was a small, dark pool on the floor beneath the table, and a trail of dried, brownish stains leading to the door, which was slightly ajar. The singing started again, this time from the hallway beyond the door. It was a little louder, and it had words now, but they were in a language I didn’t recognize. The voice was still womanly, but there was a wet, sticky quality to it, as if it was singing through a mouthful of thick liquid.

I was terrified, but I was also a child, and the instinct to find my mother overrode everything. I slid out of bed, my bare feet cold on the linoleum, and crept to the door. I pushed it open a crack and peered out. The hallway was dimly lit by a few bulbs in wire cages, and I could see the doors of other rooms, all closed. The singing was coming from the far end, where a single naked bulb flickered over a doorway. I shuffled toward it, my throat screaming, my legs shaking. As I got closer, I could see the room beyond was small and windowless, filled with shelves of bottles and jars. A figure stood with its back to me, wearing a white dress, like a nurse’s uniform, but the dress was stained a dark brown at the hem. The figure was rocking back and forth, humming that same lullaby, and in its hands, it held a pair of scissors, the long, sharp kind used for cutting stitches. I watched in horror as the figure lifted the scissors to its own mouth and snipped a piece of its lip, then dropped the scrap of flesh into a jar on the shelf. I must have made a sound, because the figure stiffened and began to turn.

I ran. I ran back down the hallway, past the door of my room, and kept going, looking for an exit. I found a stairwell and tumbled down it, my legs too short for the steps, my head spinning. I heard the singing behind me, growing closer, and then a wet, slapping sound, like bare feet on concrete. I burst through a door at the bottom and found myself in a basement corridor, filled with pipes and old equipment. The singing stopped. The silence was worse. I hid behind a large, rusted boiler, pressing myself against the cold metal, trying to hold my breath. I could see a pair of bare feet, white and cracked, walking past me. I didn’t look up. I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to a hundred, just like I had on the operating table.

When I opened my eyes, the feet were gone. I crept out from behind the boiler and saw a door marked ‘EXIT’ in red letters. I ran to it and pushed through into a loading dock, and then into the cold, fresh night air. I was outside, and there was a parking lot, and a car with my mother’s face in the window, and I screamed for her. She ran to me, crying, and hugged me, and I sobbed into her coat. She asked what had happened, and I told her about the key, the blood, the scissors, the singing. She shushed me and said, ‘It was just a dream, sweetheart, the anesthesia’s still in you.’ But I knew it wasn’t a dream, because I could still feel the soreness in my throat, and I saw her glance back at the hospital entrance with a strange, haunted look.

We never spoke of it again. But to this day, I cannot help but shudder when someone hums a lullaby. And I can still remember that strange, descending melody, and the image of that white-dressed figure, lips dripping, turning to face me with a smile that had no lips at all. I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I had stayed. And sometimes, late at night, when I can’t sleep, I think I hear that same lullaby drifting from the hallway of my own home. But when I go to check, there’s nothing there. Just the sound of my own heart, beating a little too fast, and the memory of that rusted key, lying in a pool of blood, waiting to be used.