Random Imagines

Imagine being able to see ghosts

Elizabeth stared out the window, at the blacktop of the abandoned parking lot under the abruptly flat side of the institution. A few scraggly trees poked up, here and there, in the little in-betweens of parking spots that were boxed with cemented curbs. They were all wilted from neglect, as well as the long persisting drought that was uncanny for Massachusetts. Elizabeth suspected that the lack of rain had something to do with the temperature fluctuations she had seen the weather girl avidly bickering about in the 22-inch television they had in the lobby, but she didn't care.

She frowned when she saw a white pick-up truck roll in the parking lot, stopping awkwardly parallel to the curbside of the building. The hazard light was flicked on, blinking lazily. Maintenance, no doubt.  They never got any visitors.

"Elizabeth?"

She turned to see Deborah standing there, holding a clipboard propped against the crook of her elbow. The older woman adjusted her rounded spectacles, fixing Elizabeth with a firm look.

"Medications," she ordered, and Elizabeth nodded glumly.

*

His dark, gaping eyes stared at her, a fierce grimace painted on his face. "Paul?" she greeted quietly, and he blinked slowly.

"What happened?" he rasped, and she sighed.

"You died.  You remember your heart condition?" Pericarditis, the nurses had called it. Paul blinked owlishly, before turning to look back at the grainy television before him. She studied him for a few minutes.

"You're dead, Paul," she repeated, and he made no movement of acknowledging her. She sighed, sitting down on the metal chair beside him. It was uncomfortable, the cold metal poking her lower back and thighs, but she ignored it, fixing her gaze on the static of the television.

"You...you see." His voice was hoarse, faint. She glanced at him momentarily.

"Yes."

He twisted his head stiffly to face her, eyes grave. "Mosely."

She frowned. "What?"

"Agatha...Mosely. Woodridge."

Elizabeth clenched her jaw.

Woodridge Sanatorium.

The sister madhouse that was on the opposite side of town. It was basically the same thing as the Trinity, only it was darker, dirtier, less maintained. The nurses were said to drop by once in a while, and the food was always weeks old. She stared at him.

"Is she your wife?" she asked. He didn't respond. He just stared at her. She sighed, massaging her forehead.

"I'll take care of it. You can leave."

"Elizabeth?" Deborah's voice broke through the room, and she glanced back at the entrance. The matron was glaring into the room with narrowed, scrutinizing eyes. When they landed on Elizabeth, she scowled fiercely. "Who are you talking to?"

Elizabeth glanced forward. The old man was no longer there, and the television was off. She sighed, climbing to her feet.

"No one, Deborah." She walked around the stool, walking out the room. "Come now, it's time for my medication."

**

"Is this Cynthia?" Elizabeth asked, "Cynthia Mosley?"

The static crackled. "It's Cynthia Westfield now," came an older woman's voice, "who is this?"