George Karim

3

Chapter Three

I am awakened by the steady beeping of the monitor I have been hooked up to, and a blinding light. I sat quietly observing the room, slowly coming back to reality. The stench of disinfectant,  the all-white decor, and the bed sheets matching the all-white room confirm my current setting of a hospital room. Well, that and the nurse who drew back the curtain aggressively enough for me to jump out of bed.
“So”, she takes out a pen preparing to jot down my vitals.
“ What agency do you belong to?”
My state of confusion increases by the minute. ‘Agency?’ The bewilderment evident on my face. The nurse just continues to stare at me like I was wasting her precious time by not answering fast enough. I finally found a coherent sentence,
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean?”
She was about to utter what I imagine would have been a snarky response if it hadn’t been for a gentleman who walked in. He was a bit above average height and wore a leather jacket with an all-black attire to match. His stance reminds me of someone in the military, legs shoulder-width apart, back straight, and chest puffed out. He introduced himself as Inspector Barnes from the DEPRAC.
“I have a few questions about the events that took place last night.”, he explains.
I stayed silent, mainly because I was still trying to wrap my head around what I witnessed the night he was referring to. Inspector Barnes places himself on the seat beside the patient's bed. “Why were you out past curfew and how did you find yourself being chased by a Type II?” I turn to him with eyes desperately searching for answers.
“I heard this terrible shrieking and just started running. I’m sorry what’s a Type II?” He appeared slightly shocked.
“Your accent?”, he puzzled. “You’re not from around here. American, yes?” I nodded my head. He puffs out a breath of discontent, “ This is a very peculiar case.” Inspector Barnes goes on to elaborate on some answers that have been floating around my mind. “We refer to it as The Problem. Since the late 1980s, this country has been receiving visitors from beyond the grave.”
“As in ghost?”, I question.
“Yes, Ghost,” he repeats. “I work for the Department of Psychical Research and Control or DEPRAC. We support agencies who combat these visitors, like the one you encountered last night.”
I interrupt, “Who was the agency who rescued me last night?” Despite his best efforts to keep a professional appearance a tiny look of annoyance slipped out as offered the name, “Lockwood&Co.” I adjusted my position back to face forward. He rises from the chair, “I can see you are new to London and won’t be of much answering the rest of the interview questions.” He pulls out his business card and hands it to me. “If you need anything or have any more questions just give me a ring.”, and with that, he exited the room.
I was left with more questions than answers and I wasn’t about to sit around a hospital room the rest of the day. I retrieved my clothes and discarded the awful nightgown. Once again I am on the streets of London. I pull my phone out of my back pocket to see a blank home screen with a very concerning lack of calls or messages—so many questions and not enough answers.