joeeglyauthor

The dust was whirling behind their car as they sped down the gravel road. Dust and dirt swirled behind them like a dark cloud gaining on the small car. David glanced at the dash board to see how fast he was driving and it showed sixty-eight. He wasn’t sure why he was driving so fast; they weren’t exactly in a hurry. He and his friend, Ryan, were heading across the state after fall break to their school. They were both freshmen at Crestwood University.

Very seldom does it happen that a young person enters a nursing home. Mostly we assume that nursing homes are for the elderly. Those who are too fragile or infirm to be without twenty-four hour care, those with a broken hip that won’t heal or with too many illnesses to count. A few who will recover and the rest left here as a last resort. But occasionally a child inhabits a room at a nursing home. Here is the tale of one such child, and the impression she left behind.

“Welcome to Riverwood.” The administrator exclaimed, shaking the hand of the new night nurse. Riverwood was the town’s only nursing home. It had been built as a hospital back in the early days of Millville. It was a grand three story building, built in an “L” shape. At the far west end of the building was a bell tower. It no longer sounded, the bell having been removed several years ago. It was on a slight hill overlooking the north end of town and was surrounded by trees so thick that it was…

Of places that you would think to be haunted and creepy, hospitals and nursing homes, at about one a.m., are the worst. Death and illness run the halls of these institutions on a daily basis. The walls become infected with it. The floors and fixtures are run down by it. Each room becomes a cell of this thing and at times, makes it appear living. Let me tell you a story about a particular room, one that has become known as the death room. That room is 210.

Mr. Woo was standing against the railing at the top of the stairs. He’s been standing there for the last three nights, when I get home from work. I live in one of those five stories, downtown apartment buildings that are always filled with a variety of characters. The woman with the million cats, who’s always wearing a worn-out robe, the man and woman who are constantly fighting and then making-up, loudly. The mother with the screaming children. The neighbors that you never see, but can hear…

Back in the woods, in a little ol’ town. There sits a grave on unholy ground. It’s covered in leaves and things that crawl. Buried in weeds and the vines that sprawl. The light is dim and the wind grows cold. Her name was Nellie, she was ten years old. She killed her family and fed on their fat. She killed their dog to feed her cat. She haunted the neighbors with her spells and her tricks. She stabbed at their ankles with nails and sharp sticks.