[Untitled Gothic story] - Revision 1.

*** Thanks to all those people who gave me feedback on my first scene. I have edited and prepared a second draft, as well as adding the next scene. Please take the time to read and provide feedback. Cheers!***

The beeping of the monitor grew faster and more erratic as Dr. Richard Graves yanked the syringe from the IV line and leaned forward in the darkness to kill the volume, fearful that the noise might rouse another soul in the slumbering hospital. They would discover this one’s departure soon enough, and Graves had less than two minutes to complete his important work. He drew a deep breath of the sterile, recirculated air, adjusted the latex gloves on his hands, and began.

Deft fingers lifted the eyelids to uncover the moist orbs beneath; the brown eyes convulsing as the dying nervous system sent panicked signals across the oxygen depleted brain. His this frame rising to stand over the body, Graves looked deep into the twitching eyes, trying to peer beyond the mirror of the iris and the pupil, seeking something deeper; the spark of life that only the eyes contained.

As the body died, Graves sought to look into the patient’s soul.

Suddenly the eyes focused, staring in confusion at the curious face hovering above; a shiver of dread anticipation ran up the doctor’s spine. The patient was conscious! He could watch the last struggles of a dying soul as it realised its fate and the mind struggled to rationalise its ultimate end.

Realising that the moment was almost upon him, Graves shook himself away from the spectacle of the patient’s death throes, and reached for the small plastic tubes of saline solution in his pocket. As he tore off the small wing-nut valve, Graves began to chant in a low, mumbling voice; small cries escaped his lips as drops fell first on the left eye, then on the right, and a low moan as the remaining contents of the soft plastic tube were emptied onto the patients forehead and chest.

The line on the monitor’s screen flattened and lay still as the twitching stopped and the muscles in Graves’ arms and chest tensed in anticipation. He leaned forward excitedly to see if the incantation had worked, if the eyes still contained that spark of life, if it had in fact been trapped by his incantation. For nearly a full ten seconds he stared in hope.

Nothing. The dead mans glassy eyes stared off into space, no sign of life remaining. Graves cursed angrily to himself – another failure! Again he had been too slow, and yet another person lay dead before him as a result of his incompetence. Not one success in twenty-three attempts, not one success since the original. Graves yanked a dog-eared ring-bound note-book from the bag at his feet and furiously began scribbling down details, observations of the patient, his medical chart, age, weight, hair colour, eye colour, dietary allowances. He was beginning to copy down details of the room when his watch alarm began to beep; without pause he slammed the book shut, stuffing it back into his bag and collecting up any evidence of his activities. Graves jumped as a window pane rattled violently, the glass shaken by a rising wind, and for a moment he was struck by the image of the departed soul being carried away on currents of air. The thought disturbed him, and the doctor briefly bowed his head and prayed for forgiveness and a speedy journey to heaven, though whether he prayed for himself or his victims he was not entirely sure.

Heavy footsteps came echoing down the darkened corridors as nurses and orderlies responded to the delayed signal form the patient’s heart monitor. Graves stepped quickly out of the room and around the corner, dropping his bag out of sight before running back through the door, arriving at the patient’s bedside to begin frantically checking for a pulse. A nurse arrived and they began administering CPR and another wheeled the defibrillator cart into the room and unhooked the pads. With a feeling of exhaustion coming over him, Graves stood back to allow access, and as the nurses tried to revive the patient he took several silent steps back out of the room, collected his bag and disappeared into the shadows.

Climbing the stairs one by one, Graves eventually reached the residential floors at the top of the hospitals northern tower. As he entered the silence of his small bed-chamber the burning red lights of his alarm clock told him that it was just a few minutes before 2 am. Beyond his window the lights of the city shone brightly, occasional headlights gliding down the nearby motorway, oblivious to the time.

Standing at his window ledge, the doctor looked out across the sleeping city that lay before him. He could see the rooftops of buildings, sprawling eastwards to the glistening black waters of the harbour, and his imagination counted all of the sleeping souls that lay beneath those roofs. How many of them would depart this world before sunrise? And how many of them might possess that missing element that would let his experiments progress to the next level?

In the darkened, cramped room, the shadows grew longer like dark fingers reaching out from another world beyond the veil of death. As Graves turned away form his window the sight of the shadows stunned him and he imagined the faces of his victims staring at him from within the darkness. Frozen, the doctor heard the voices escaping from the shadowy corners; their silent screams were deafening as twenty-three mouths gaped open in deathly rigour to release their anguish.

The doctor’s gaunt hands clamped over his ears, eyes squeezed shut, fighting back terrified tears of guilt and grief, but still the images filled his eyes and the screams assaulted his ears until the ethereal screams shook his bones and Graves collapsed to his knees. Outside, the wind raged and the violent rattle of the windows rose to accompany the screams of the dead. Graves screamed back in anger and frustration and staggered to his feet to run forward, eyes closed, and mash at the wall with his sweaty palm until he found the switch. Light filled the room, forcing his shadowy tormentors to retreat back to their otherworldly realm.

Leaning against the door, the doctor surveyed the room as his ragged, panicked breath became more even and controlled. Against the window his unmade bed stood out as a beacon of disorder in his neat, cramped living space, and the smell of stale sweat from the sheets found his nose. The smell of restless nights, of guilty dreams, offended his sense and the doctor wrinkled his nose as he quickly stripped the sheets from the bed, stuffing them into a laundry bag and throwing them into the hallway to be dealt with later.

As he closed the door, the doctor found himself standing before the full length mirror that hung on the inside. His heart skipped a beat at the image of the pale, gaunt face that stared back at him before he recognised himself. Lack of sleep had left dark rings around his eyes, and his high cheekbones and sunken cheeks gave his face an unnatural look that made Graves shudder. His thinning, dark brown hair had grown long and messy from neglect and for a moment Graves played with the strands hanging over his forehead and a feeling of normality set in. Once his hair was less disorderly, Graves looked at himself to see if it had improved his frightening image, and as his gaze passed over his face, the doctor locked eyes with himself.

Black, lightless, lifeless pools stared back at him. Beyond the surface Graves saw two endless pits stretching far beyond the scope of his own soul, extending into a darker place; faces waited there, screaming faces that, aware of an onlooker, turned and raced towards the doctor with the fierceness of a dark purpose.

Sweating, Graves turned away from the mirror, sobbing; his chest ached as he realised he had been holding his breath. Twenty-three deaths! He felt each one like a weight upon his chest that threatened to crush the air further from his lungs. As he felt his willpower faltering, Graves opened his eyes and forced himself to look at the wall to the left of the door. Amidst the photos, mementos and newspaper clippings jostled for space on a cork board, one leapt out to hold his attention. TRAGEDY IN E.R. screamed the largest headline, the front page story showing a photo of the hospital entrance, overlayed by the smiling portrait of a young, fresh faced woman with dark hair and wearing a surgical coat. From where he stood the print was too small for Graves to read, but his mouth silently recited the word he could never forget.

A young surgeon was brutally stabbed to death by her patient last night while on duty in the emergency room of St. Andrews’ hospital. Dr. Rebecca Graves  was operating on 34 y/o Jackson Gerke who had been brought in with a shattered right femur after he fell while attempting to flee from police. Despite anaesthetic, Gerke reportedly regained consciousness on the operating table. In a frenzied state, Gerke reportedly overpowered Dr. Graves and stabbed her three times in the chest with her own scalpel, piercing her heart. Security guards struggled to restrain Gerke, but medical attention could not be administered to Dr. Graves in time to save her life. Rebecca’s husband, Dr. Richard Graves, also a surgeon at St. Andrews, was part of the team called upon to try and revive Gerke, but after nearly 2 hours of surgery Gerke died from massive blood loss…

Died at 2:22am, Graves told himself, tearing his eyes away from the painful memory on the wall. He fought back the pain that resurfaced with the memory, the raw guilt of tonight’s events too sharp a pain to be able to relive that night yet again. The guilt and grief of his wife’s death was becoming harder and harder for him to bear with each new murder he committed.

With tears flowing freely down his cheeks, Graves found himself standing beside the dresser that stood beneath the newspaper clippings, his hand firmly gripping the handle of the third drawer; his most prized possession lay within the drawer, the one thing gave him purpose and could help calm his nerves. No, he told himself firmly, sniffing back tears, reminding himself that his gems could not risk unnecessary exposure to light, no matter how desperately his will needed to be bolstered. All of this would be for nothing if they were damaged before he achieved another successful capture.

The thought alone renewed his courage and Graves’ fingers cracked as he unclenched his hand from around the drawer’s handle, mechanically flattened out his collar and smoothed out his shirt as he turned away from the dresser. He returned to stand in front of the mirror, and glared deep into his own eyes, daring the spectres to return to challenge him now. Nothing came forward. Graves wiped at his tear streaked face with his sleeve and once again tried to shape his hair into something more professional. Once he was finished, the doctor stood back to survey his own image yet again. It must continue, he told himself with renewed resolve, I can’t give up now, no matter how hard it gets; for Rebecca’s sake.

The phone on the wall beeped loudly and the doctor started, frightful at first, then quickly succumbing to anger; he was angry both at the interruption of his privacy and at his own fearful reaction. He yanked the phone from its cradle and paused to slow his breathing before holding the thing to his ear and listened.

“...you there? Dr. Graves? Can you hear me?” an unfamiliar voice crackled through the phone.

Graves struggled to keep his voice even and calm, and simply grunted an acknowledgement.

“Dr. Warren is calling for you in emergency. We’ve got three new arrivals being prepped for surgery. Car accident, driver is suffering major head and facial trauma, one passenger has a compound fracture on his right thigh, the other has broken ribs, right should and elbow are shattered, and two gunshot wounds to the shoulder and torso?”

“Gunshot wounds?” Graves quickly roused from his stupor, “from a car accident?”

“The three were supposedly trying to outrun police, they shot at the police, the cops shot back. I dunno the full story, but there’s 6 officers down here that came in with them.” Shouting form the other end of the line, “Dr. Warren’s calling me and says you need to get down here pronto.”

The phone hung up before Graves could respond. His stepped into the kitchenette, yanked the lever-arm of the tap, splashed cold water over his face and hair. He then grabbed a bottle of mouthwash that sat on the bench and gargled a hasty mouthful, spitting it back into the sink before hurriedly gathering his equipment and heading for the door. As he evaluated his image one final time, Graves noticed something missing; his hand smacked his chest twice before he saw his gold chain hanging from a hook beside the door handle, the golden crucifix

As Graves fumbled to unlock the tiny clasp and put the chain around his neck he searched his memory of the past hour, desperate to know if he had been wearing it during his last attempt at a soul capture. Could such a small oversight have been the cause of this failure? Graves shook himself free from that train of thought with a silent acknowledgement that he needed to find a way out of this, and soon, before he lost control of himself.

Clutching at the crucifix around his neck once more he said another prayer asking for forgiveness and strode quickly out of the door.

The E.R. was a hive of activity; orderlies, nurses, paramedics and surgeons hurried from place to place carrying clipboards, chemicals, equipment, patients and corpses. Dr. Graves stepped out of the elevator into momentary confusion as the white, tiled-reflected light overpowered his eyes. As he squinted uncomfortably against the light, a voice called “I’ve been looking for you,” and a hand clamped down on his shoulder. The doctor reeled backwards, slamming himself bodily into the closed steel doors of the elevator. His breath rushed out of his lungs from the impact leaving Dr. Graves gasping for air as he scurried away from his assailant.

“RICHARD!” exclaimed a familiar voice, loud and surprised, yet also full of concern. “Richard, are you all right? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

The voice of Graham Chambers, one of the hospital’s resident chaplains, felt like velvet on the doctor’s ears as he craned his neck up to look at his friend.

“It’s okay,” he stammered through short gasps, “I think I’m about ready for my shift to end. I lost another patient in recovery, and I think it’s just getting to me tonight.” Graves tried to force a smile as he regained control of his breathing.

“I’m not surprised, Richard,” Graham leaned down to match the doctor’s eye level and looked carefully at the younger man’s face, “it looks like you may need more time off than shift break.” The chaplain’s genuine concern shone through his round, careworn face as he placed his hand back on Grave’s shoulder. “When was the last time you had a good night’s sleep?”

“The night before I started my medical degree,” Graves said through a weak grin as he stood upright and reached out to shake the chaplain’s hand..

Their usual joke failed to raise a smile on Graham’s face. “I’m serious, Richard, you look…” his voice trailed off, not wanting to put a word to the thought in his head.

“I know,” Graves said with a defeated slump, his grin fading, “you don’t need to say it.”

“Of all the nights to be working, Richard, why tonight? Why night shift? You should be with your family, or Rebecca’s family. I wish you’d taken my offer of…”

“I know!” the doctor’s voice contained a sudden viciousness that surprised both the chaplain and himself. A year of suppressed anger and rage was suddenly welling up from deep inside of him, and for a brief moment Graves felt as though he didn’t have the strength to fight it.

“What do you want me to do?” Graves barked. The ferocity of his voice shocked him back to his senses and he fought back his anger, giving into the sense of self-pity and desperation that lay even deeper within himself. “What do you want me to do?” he repeated in a whimper, “I can’t afford to go home and everyone I know is here. This place is the only life I’ve had since moving to this city. It was the only life we had…”

Grief and tears threatened to undo what little composure he had left, and he was forced to look away from his friends’ startled face as he clenched his jaw and tried to suppress the whirlpool of emotions inside him.

A buzzer overhead summoned Dr. Graves urgently to the operating theatre, the same unfamiliar voice form the phone. The doctor stood upright, his professional instincts overwhelming his personal sorrows. He looked into Graham’s eyes, deep, warm pools like welcoming thermal rock pools, filled with compassion, and gestured apologetically to the speaker as he turned to leave.

“Go,” Graham said with a nod, “but Richard…” He hesitated as Dr. Graves turned around to face him, “I… I came to find you earlier tonight, I went to your room and saw…” Graves heart was in his throat as the old man searched for words, “I’m not sure your choice of reading material is really going to be helping your state of mind right now. Superstitious beliefs and rituals, summoning spirits and ghosts, its only going to make it harder for you in the long run.” every muscle on the chaplains face pleaded forgiveness and preached hope, but Graves stiffened in response.

“You know religious studies was my minor at college, Graham, don’t try to deny me one of my intellectual comforts now, of all times.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Graham said, “I’m just concerned for you.”

“I’ll be fine, really. There’s work to do.” Graves said as he turned his back on the chaplain and walked away, the older man watched him leave, feeling powerless.