Rain lashed the windows of Doctor Philip Stanton’s office as his coffee maker noisily pushed out the last few drops of water. His wife had bought the small coffee maker last Christmas for evenings such as this one. It was eight o’clock and Dr. Stanton was just beginning his shift, which wouldn’t end until six the following morning. Sitting in his chair behind his desk, he yawned and stretched his arms. It had already been a long day, and it was going to be another long night. At least I’m not out in that weather, he thought, listening to the storm push against the hospital. It sounded like a doozy.
A short, balding man with gold spectacles and a slight limp, Philip looked every bit the aging, wizened doctor. Having worked his way up in the world from a poor lower-class family background, he never took for granted his fortunate position in the hospital, even if it did demand some sleepless nights. He was single, though he had once proposed to his best friend who was a female. She had turned him down, laughing, saying, No, no, Philip, marriage is not for us. He hadn’t tried again.
At the moment, he had some emails to catch up on. The hospital had just upgraded his computer to the latest model, and although it was very fast, Philip felt lost on it. He appreciated the convenience that the machine provided him, but it was also a ceaseless cause of perplexity whenever a simple problem arose. Tonight, however, he was having no issues with it, and he was thankful for that. He was responding to an email sent to him by his sister, who had just returned from a trip to New York, where she had seen The Phantom of the Opera at the Lyceum Theater. He smiled as he read her account of the evening. The musical was one of his favorites, and sometimes he felt like the phantom himself as he strolled the deserted halls of the hospital in the small hours of the morning, lost in his thoughts. Sometimes the hospital felt haunted to him, as if the souls of those who had departed their earthly bodies still resided in the building. And twice he had heard voices.
He had never told anyone about these occurrences. He felt ashamed that he had experienced something like this—the sort of thing that belonged on a television special about haunted houses that you could see in the early hours of morning. He was a doctor, a scientific worker of health, not some shaman or voodoo practitioner. No, he had determined that he would never tell anyone about what he had heard, what the voices had said, how it seemed that they knew him.
He got up from his chair and walked over to the coffee maker, pouring a cup of the strong brew, savoring the smell. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, wasn’t addicted to any medications—this was the one vice that he afforded himself. He breathed deeply, letting the aroma wake up his senses and clear his mind. He already felt more awake before he even took his first sip. It was going to be a long night, but he was going to make it through just fine.
- posted by Timothy @ 11:41 AM