A Witness to the Worst

“Is she awake?”
A cold wind had been trekking into the hospital halls from the snowy landscape outside. If the doctors moving about their business as apathetic ghosts didn't produce an isolating experience, then the lonely wait in a queue of empty chairs did. The green garbed doctor gave the detective a look up from his clipboard but it was clear he was more in his mind than in the room.
“She's stable and awake. I doubt you'll find she is much help...” he murmured. He gave an unsure smile, as in, he was clearly unsure if he wanted to dispense the effort so he gave a mangled half-attempt.
 
“Why say that?”
“She's blind,” he said it with a strike of offence against the detective, his half smile was already gone and replaced with empty, mindless calculation. The conversation ended with the point of his pen.
“She's in recovery but she can talk.”
The ward was more depressing than the waiting room. A sombre silence made the air stale with the palpable tension of mortality. Thin veils of drab, dim green fabric caged the patients off, leaving only the echoes of rustling and nurses attending without emotion as the hint of other people.
In one was a young woman with a straight stare, eyes drained of their ink. Her complexion had fallen into a grey shock, her blood barely running. Her golden hair faded to a plastic yellow.
“Miss Claine.” Her head buckled rather than turn to his direction.
 
Detective Mor was burly man with an small stature, rounded by an indulgent diet and bolstered by the rugged wash of hard experience. A big bushy, charcoal beard laid down his chest. His masculine mould melted into an awkward rehearse of lines at the sight of her.
“I...you...I want to ask you some questions about the cas-dea-...incident that occurred.” He pulled out an oversized work wallet of photos and writing as he did. Placing them at his lap, the woman's eyes were staring at some far off direction.
“I'm detective Mor...I've been sent to handle your case. I would like it if you could recant the events prior to your crash.”
“Very comforting,” she said it with a stiff release, “You should work at this hospital, you'd fit in.” She gave the wall a teasing smile. The smile was forced, her lips stretched too far; you could almost see her gums.
“Heh...” Mor awkward orders collapsed at the site of humour, “sorry...I'm not used to handling disabled people.”
“Disabled...” she took in the word and nodded, she did it so slowly that she rocked herself a little back and forth. Her pale grin masked whatever feelings she had, but the glare of something formed in the depths. Before Mor could sum up his courage to apologize she calmly confirmed, “Yes, I suppose, that would be the word. I am disabled.” She turned to his face and peered directly into it with empty eyes.
“There is not a lot to say. I did not see a thing...” she half joked, with a dismissive tone before continuing, “but I will tell you everything that I can, detective, if you let me feel your face.”
Mor gazed incredulously at her held out hand, His mind scrambled at the request. His eyes went numb as he let his brain audibly short circuit for a moment“I...ok...” he said in a lost tone and shuffled his chair forward.
Her hand was cold, colder than metal left to winters embrace. They chilled his blood as they felt the cuts littering his forehead, and the giant gash in his cheek.
“You wear scars well, Detective Mor.”
“The fashion doesn't agree with me...” Mor gently steered her fingers away from his face back to her bedside.
“I lied, detective. The truth is...” she paused. The fake smile had evaporated with the burn of painful memories “I did see something before Sharon died.” She remained silent after that, letting it wash over for a moment before Mor finally answered with the predictable.
“But you-” she interrupted with a snap, “Disabled...” She turned from him in retreat from the doubt so obviously written over his face that it, apparently, had a Braille transcript. Mor sniffed, sucking up any thoughts as he murmured back timidly, “Yeah...disabled...”
“Claine. I want to know what you saw...” he said confidently, a curiosity had lifted him from his passiveness. He placed his hand on top of hers as he did, “No matter what, it's important.”
“It's impossible,” she croaked.
“Sometimes, that's the most important.”
Claine drew something of a solemn smile at him, her eyes harboured a hidden pain that leaked out a tear down her relieved grin. “Sharon was a close friend. I think the moment when we were destined to be friends was when she first bullied me in school...she knocked me over and said I should look where I am going.” A laughter bred with sadness came rushing. Crying tried to periodically take over.
“I remember that...when she discovered I was blind...and I bumped into her again, she said same thing. Sharon didn't make a special case for anyone. I think that's what I liked about her.”
“Now she's dead....” She gripped the detectives hand as she looked away and tried to, obviously, discretely wipe her eyes. She didn't bring herself to try and look at him again.
“Did you...se-..hear...” Mor stopped when she quickly nodded at him.
“Yes. I did, I saw it...”
 
“We were on a trip across the main lands from one coast to the other. We started at the RuralRidge and slowly made our way across. When we left for Redleaf it was starting to turn to night, I remember Sharon was really insistent that we kept moving. Said she didn't like the look of MistBrook Lodge.”
 
“Did she say why?”
“She said it looked wrong. Mistbrook got its name from this mist that comes out at night from the local lake. It goes everywhere, she said it even seeped into our room through the windows. I remember it felt weird, like, normally in fog you feel nothing but this one: It got hot and cold really quickly, made me feel like hands were grabbing at me.” She went silent but her body twitched uncomfortably.
 
"I didn't argue against it. All I know is that she thought she saw something and we left.”
“Did you...see this?” Mor asked it with obvious disbelief but his curiosity came out stronger than his doubt as he leaned in to her.
 
“I remember that she complained about the mist leaking out into Redleaf. It was so bad she had to turn on her fog lights. We didn't talk because of it, she was so focused on the road. I heard this weird bumping sound, like pebbles were being thrown at our car. Then this thud drummed out as we hit this rocky, windy path. Sharon was really quiet the whole time.” Claine finally bought herself to look back at him.
“I think she was nervous, she started just talking...about anything once the sounds stopped. She only ever did that when she was worried. Maybe I should of made her stay at Mistbrook...”
“Claine, listen to me; you did not stay at Mistbrook and you both had reason to leave. There was no other choice you could have expected yourself to have made at that time,” Mor spoke it with an scolding confidence. It seemed to sink in as she inspected her sheets in thought before continuing.
“I remember I saw an old tree. It stood alone in the darkness; it had this weird texture to it. As if, it wasn't made of bark but blackened ash. These really long, naked branches pointed out really far in a sphere. A big hole was in the middle and all these...I think they were feathers bundle at the end of the branches. That's what I saw, I don't know if that helps...all I know is after I saw that. A second later Sharon Screamed and...well...crashed into a tree.”
Mor's stood at his apartment with the events of the last hour swirling in his head, As he stared at the “45” painted on his green door the circumstances concerning Sharon's death echoed endlessly. He bombarded Claine with all the questions he could think of.
“Are you sure the mist didn't affect your minds somehow?”; did this tree have any odd colours?; did you feel well, are you sure this wasn't a dream in the crash?”
Eventually, Claine had become unresponsive to all his doubts on her competency.
 
Without answers in the obvious, he was left to fathom answers in the ambiguity of open absurdity. He unlocked the door, trying to not drop the wallet full of reports as did. His small apartment had the grime that only urban architecture could bring to the table, a look of being used for squatters despite it...relative...cleanliness. Yet, it was still warmer than the shiny walls of the hospital.
 
The lamp sat beaming over a table, left on from earlier over a disarray of swiftly salvaged breakfast. Mor swiped away the newspapers and magazines before placing his wallet down, “Another night of notes,” he lamented in a sigh, grabbing a drink to prepare himself to peruse the pages.
 
Reports from the morgue: instant death by skull trauma; report from the scene investigator, testimony of the truck driver that found the wreckage; and photos; mostly of Sharon dead in her car.
 
She had this, oddly panicked look. Her eyes wide open from behind the stream of blood that had spilt from her cracked skull, but they weren't looking at the camera. In fact, they were lodged against gravity, upwards, as if she were still looking over her shoulder.
“What the fuck...”
Mor quickly took out a magnify glass from the nearby debris of what once was a well organised side desk, avalanching papers in it wake. Sharon's mouth was agape with a frozen look of shock. Her two, bulging, blood shot eyes pointed in one direction out the car window. Something was there. A vague silhouette, a slight glimpse of crooked lines in the distance in the cover of shadows.
He rose his spyglass over the picture and...
“Oh, you got to be kidding. Fucking, cheap ass bulb,” he berated as he got up and promptly hit his shin against the table. The sound of his work wallet hitting the floor rang out. He cursed in protest. “For fuck...sake..” he petered out at the end in defeat. The light had gone out, leaving him in total darkness.
Mor frantically moved about the tiny apartment, feeling everything as he carefully scouted for the wall. He felt a brush of thin, patterned cloth. With a sigh of relief he quickly opened them. Awaiting the glow of the nearby neon, Chinese sign next to his home.
“No, god...no!...please, god, NO!” he cried out as he stood there clutching the spread cheap curtains and was greeted by an all encompassing, unending, darkness.
Category:Weird