American Horror Story: Hospice

Thunderstorm: Part 1

"What in the name of God?!" Joan whispered.

She was locked into the meat freezer with the dead bodies of the Clown Killers previous victims. "What's going on?" She asked pleadingly.

Maia spoke. "We are the spirits of those murdered by the Master."

"You can talk!" Joan exclaimed. "Like Harold."

"No shit, Sherlock!" Spoke the one with the nametag Marty. "I didn't deserve to die anyway. Just wandering down the halls and this freak jumped out and slit my throat. Next thing I know, I'm hanging on a God damn noose in a meat locker!"

Maia rolled her eyes. "That's Marty as you can tell. He always has something to complain about!"

"At least none of you are missing a heart..." Jay muttered.

Jennifer shot him a glare. "At least you weren't thrown in a dumpster. Do you know what shit people throw in there?"

Joan blinked. "You people seem awfully content with being dead."

Maia shrugged. "Whatever fate intended for us was bound to happen. It's just that some of us aren't exactly 'pleased' by the matter."

"Who is this Master you were talking about?" Joan asked shaking. Jay took off his jacket and gave it to her. It made her even more chilled.

"Sorry," he smirked. "Not much a dead corpse can change about the temperature."

"Getting back to the Master subject," Maia explained, "the Master is the person who murdered us. He or she has control of our spirits whereabouts. Like a monitor."

Joan pondered for a moment. "If the Clown Killer is making you four stay here, then why is he letting Harold run around free?"

Marty shrugged. "That's what we was tryin' to figure out, Hun. He must of had something to do with the murders."

They all stood there, awkwardly around the crouching Joan. She scratched her head, struggling to comprehend all of the information given.

"What you all are saying is that the Clown Killer, whoever he is, murdered you all and is keeping your spirits locked up here. And Harold is his right-hand?" Joan reviewed.

Maia nodded with the others. "Correct. Harold must know who the killer's identity is. Or he could be doing it just to prevent being locked up here with the rest of us."

Sadness flooded Joan's face. "I'm never getting out of here, am I?"

"Not unless some idiot comes looking for you." Marty explained.

"If you do get out of here," Jay said, "find out who this son of a bitch is and kill him!"

Maia nodded in agreement. "Please, Joan. For us."

"Ok," Joan agreed. "I'll do it."

Metal music screeched in the background as Kindle shuffled through her notes and clues in her room. Rooney was due to come any minute to help her prove Dr. Jensen was guilty of being the Clown Killer, whom she now referred to as Black Ice. A knock emanated from her white-painted wooden door. She opened it to find Rooney, who strolled into her square, cream-colored hospice dorm.

"Nice place you got here." He said, looking around at all the band posters she had hung up.

Kindle rolled her eyes. "That's what people say when they think it looks like shit. But thanks for trying."

His face turned red. "No. I think it's awesome! Black Veil Bride is life. And-The Candlesticks? Never heard of them before."

She giggled in reply.