The Disappearance of Samantha Mourey

SEVEN

I had peered through the windows many times, so I knew what the inside looked like, but being in there was different. Panic began to subside as I took in my surroundings. It was somehow beautiful. Broken and spidered windowpanes made the light dance through in odd patterns, jumping and moving around everything in the room, making dust the filled the air sparkle as it touched it. The room was massive – it looked like an old theater. A stage curved across the front part of the room with old dusty curtains pulled open on the other side. The rest of the room was wide open space, outlined with bookshelves still filled with cabinets covered in filth. The walls were covered in graffiti in most spots, some beautiful, some just words and names. Several wheelchairs were lined up against one wall beside two huge doors with glass panes. The speckled white floors glittered in the sunlight that was coming through the giant windowpanes.

It was as if being transported to a different time, different place. I walked to the first bookshelf, running my hands along the titles. Most older books covered in dust with titles I didn't recognize. Old bibles. Notebooks. I pulled one out, shaking it against the wall to knock off the dust before flipping it open when another book catches my eye. Where the Sidewalk Ends, by Shel Silverstein. I kept this book under my bed as a kid... reading and re-reading whenever I couldn't sleep... I opened up to the first dog eared page and read.

Forgotten Language.
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,

Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,

Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,,

And shared a conversation with the housefly in my bed.

Once I heard and answered all the questions of the crickets,

And joined the crying of each falling dying flake of snow.

Once I spoke the language of the flowers...

How did it go?

How did it go?

A feeling I couldn't identify swept through me as I read the words. A chill that made me look around the room again as I flipped through the other pages quickly before getting ready to replace it in the bookshelf when something caught my eye. Blue ink spots dot several pages and I recognize them as a child trying to get her pen to work late at night, pushing the tip into the pages. It couldn't be, no way. Pulling back the last page slowly, I see the name written in marker and almost ineligible, if it weren't for the fact that I wrote it. Samantha Mourey. Turning the book upside down and right side up, trying to find an explanation for why this book was here... Trying to remember if I was here before. Trying to think of a logical explanation. Maybe my mom donated it to the hos.... No... It was closed before I was even born. It made no sense.

I clutched the book tightly and continued further into the next room, guarded but curious as I scanned the surroundings with each step. A pull to see what was next kept my feet moving slowly and another told me to turn around and go home.

My foot snagged on something in the doorway, and I tripped down two steps that led into a new area of the hospital. It was darker and the only light was from the sunlight of the rooms before it. I steadied myself, waiting for my eyes to adjust and when they did I immediately felt sick. It did not have the odd beauty the theater room had. It had a feeling of death. The bumpy stucco walls and ceiling gave off the appearance of disease contained within them. The floor was filled with remnants of decay, chipped paint, rust, old spilled never cleaned and permanently stained, pieces of old furniture lined the corners and sides of the wall. The feeling that I might vomit rose into my throat. A hard thumping sound scared me and I realized it was within my chest. Flashes of passing out from earlier today returned and the thought of the same happening here was suddenly terrifying. I held tight to the railing on the two steps that led me into this room, steadying myself as I turned to leave, and for the second time in one day, everything went black.