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Chapter 6 - Chapter 6: Shadows in the Hall

The morning after the burn-patient disaster, Montrary Soul Hospital felt different. Not calmer—just heavier, like every wall had soaked up the screams from last night and kept them humming under the paint.

Maya G walked into the ER with her coffee black and her jaw tight. She barely got past the desk before the whispers started.

"She let him die."

"No, she tried to save him."

"Save him? Half the staff almost got third-degree burns because of her ego."

Maya dropped her bag on the counter hard enough to shut people up. She didn't need to say a word. Her glare did the work for her.

But the silence didn't last.

At the corner station, Reyes leaned against the counter with a stack of charts, smirk slicker than his hair. He pitched his voice just loud enough to carry.

"All I'm saying," he told the nurses gathered around him, "is leadership means knowing when to step back. Sometimes saving one patient means sacrificing five staff. Basic math."

Maya turned her head slow, coffee steaming in her hand. "You good at math, Reyes? 'Cause I count zero lives saved by you last night. Zero. So unless you're volunteering to be the next test dummy, shut your mouth before I tape it shut."

A couple of nurses choked on laughter. Reyes flushed red.

Maya sipped her coffee, savoring the silence that followed. But her stomach twisted. She could feel it—the staff was starting to look at her different. Doubt. Fear. Both dangerous.

The day didn't let up.

By noon, a new intake rolled in: young man, maybe twenty, pale as chalk. But when the EMTs wheeled him in, voices whispered from his body—clear as radios bleeding through static.

"Code blue in Trauma Three."

"She's not supposed to be chief."

"Ghost. Ghost. Ghost."

Maya froze mid-step.

The voices weren't random. They were exact. Word-for-word hospital gossip echoing from the past twenty-four hours.

"What the fuck—" a nurse whispered, pressing her hands over her ears. The patient's skin rippled like glass in water, voices spilling out with every rise of his chest.

One of the interns burst out laughing—not from humor, but hysteria. "It's like he's haunted."

Maya's jaw clenched. Haunted wasn't the word. Targeted was. Someone wanted her off balance, and they'd sent a human loudspeaker into her ER to do it.

She snapped on gloves, stepping to the gurney. "Sedate him before the whole hospital hears their dirty laundry."

"But what if it's dangerous?" a nurse asked, eyes wide.

"It's a Tuesday," Maya shot back. "Everything's dangerous."

While the kid writhed under sedation, the ER devolved into its usual circus.

Two nurses—the same pair from last night—were back at it, whisper-screaming in the supply closet doorway.

"I saw you with him again—"

"Shut your mouth before I—"

Maya stormed over, slammed the door shut, and pinned them both with her glare. "Didn't I warn you? Fight on my floor again, I'll make you scrub toilets with your tongues. Either you clock in or you clock out. Choose."

They shut up instantly. But not before one muttered, "She's losing it."

Maya's hands itched to swing. Instead she turned on her heel and stalked off. She had bigger problems than babysitting petty squabbles.

By late afternoon, the sedated patient lay quiet, monitors steady. Maya stood over him, studying the ripple under his skin. For a second, she thought she saw her own reflection in the shimmer.

Then the boy's lips moved. Barely.

"Ghost…" he whispered.

Maya stiffened. "Say that again."

His eyelids fluttered. "They're here… watching… cleaning…"

Before she could press him, the monitors beeped hard. The boy convulsed, then slumped still. Flatline.

Maya lunged for the paddles, but before she touched him, the shimmer under his skin cracked like broken glass. His entire body stilled—unnatural, like a machine switched off.

No fight. No death throes. Just done.

Maya stared at him. Someone had cut the cord remotely. She could feel it in her bones.

She needed air.

She pushed out into the hallway, chest tight, and that's when she saw him.

The janitor.

Standing at the end of the corridor, mop idle in his hands. Just standing. Watching.

Maya blinked. A nurse pushed past her. When she looked back, he was gone.

Her pulse kicked harder.

That night, the hospital thinned out. Patients slept, staff moved slower, and the halls buzzed with low gossip.

Maya sat in her office, staring at her locked drawer—the file still inside. She could almost hear the pages rustling, like they wanted out.

Her phone buzzed once. Unknown number. She didn't answer.

When she finally left, the east wing was dark. The fluorescents flickered overhead, buzzing faint like insects.

She walked the hall alone, her Jordans squeaking on waxed tile. Then she heard it—soft, steady.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

The sound of a mop.

Her pace slowed. The floor was spotless. Not a drop of blood, not a smudge of dirt. But the sound kept coming.

She turned the corner.

There he was.

The janitor leaned against the wall, mop balanced in his hand. No bucket. No mess. Just him.

"Late night, Doc," he said, voice smooth, almost casual.

Maya's throat went dry. "You following me?"

He smiled faintly. "I'm always here."

Her fists clenched. "You've got something to say, say it."

The janitor tilted his head, eyes glinting in the half-light. Then he leaned forward just enough for his words to cut the silence.

"You really think you're the only Ghost walking these halls?"

Maya's stomach dropped.

By the time she blinked, he was gone.

The hallway was empty.

And for the first time in years, Maya felt the floor tilt under her—like the whole hospital was a trap, and she'd already stepped inside.

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