Chapter 2: THE DEAD CHILD
The tile was cold under my bare feet.
I stood beside my bed, legs trembling from weeks of disuse, and stared at the spot where the ghost had been. The window still held traces of frost at the edges. Proof I hadn't imagined it.
[CASE AVAILABLE: D-RANK — UNFINISHED BUSINESS]
The notification pulsed in my peripheral vision. Waiting.
"Okay. First case. First ghost. Let's not screw this up."
I made it three steps before my knees buckled. I caught myself on the bedframe, breathing hard. Whatever Paul Franco's body had been through, it wasn't ready for midnight investigations.
But the ghost—Thomas, something whispered in my mind, though I didn't know how I knew—had pointed at that bed. The empty one across the ward. I needed to reach it.
Slow. Careful. One hand on the wall. One foot, then the other.
The ward held six beds. Two were occupied by sleeping patients. Three were empty. And one—the one Thomas had indicated—looked different. Sheets still wrinkled. Pillow still dented. Like someone had left in a hurry and never came back.
I reached the bed and sat on its edge, catching my breath. The effort had cost me. Spots danced in my vision.
"Think. The system said something about a Hub."
I closed my eyes and focused. That pressure behind my skull returned, and the study materialized around me.
The cramped room looked the same as before, but now I noticed details I'd missed. The floating pins on the invisible ceiling-map had numbers beside them. Case rankings. Locations. And one pin—right above where I stood—glowed brighter than the rest.
A file floated down from the cluster, landing on the desk.
[CASE FILE: THOMAS BRENNAN]
Entity Type: Residual Spirit Threat Level: D-Rank (Harmless) Status: Unfinished Business Location: Hartford Hospital, Recovery Ward
Background: Thomas Brennan, age 8. Admitted September 1967 for treatment of acute lymphocytic leukemia. Deceased October 15, 1967.
Circumstances: Patient expired at 3:07 AM following complications from treatment. Mother (Margaret Brennan) was en route to the hospital when her vehicle collided with a truck on Route 44. She was pronounced dead at the scene.
Binding Factor: Thomas is waiting for his mother. He does not know she died. He will not move on until he understands she is not coming.
Recommended Resolution: Inform the spirit of his mother's fate. Provide emotional closure.
Reward Estimate: 100-150 EXP, 50-75 FP, 50-75 EP
I read it twice.
Eight years old. Leukemia. Died waiting for a goodbye that never came.
And his mother—racing to reach him—died on the same night.
"Christ."
The file dissolved. I was back in the hospital room, sitting on a dead boy's bed, with tears I didn't expect prickling at my eyes.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
"Focus. How do I help him?"
The system had said to inform the spirit. To provide closure. But I didn't know how to talk to ghosts. I didn't know what would happen if I tried.
First, I needed confirmation. The system's file could be wrong. This could all be some kind of delusion—a fever dream from a coma-damaged brain.
I needed to find someone who knew about Thomas Brennan.
[Hartford Hospital — January 16, 1968, 6:15 AM]
The night nurse was leaving her shift when I caught her.
"Excuse me."
She turned. Older than Martinez. Gray hair pinned beneath her cap. Her name tag read JENKINS.
"Mr. Franco." She looked surprised to see me upright. "You should be resting."
"I am. I just—" I chose my words carefully. "The bed across from mine. Was someone in it recently?"
Jenkins's expression shifted. Something guarded crept into her eyes.
"Why do you ask?"
"Just curious. I thought I saw—" I paused. "The sheets are still wrinkled. Like someone left."
Silence. Then she sighed, and some of the tension left her shoulders.
"The Brennan boy." She said it quietly, like she was afraid of being heard. "Tommy. He passed back in October. We should have changed the linens by now, but..." She trailed off.
"But?"
"Some of the staff say they see things. Cold spots. Shadows that move wrong." She shook her head. "I'm not superstitious, Mr. Franco. But that room—I don't like it. None of us do."
"She knows. They all know."
"What happened to him?"
Jenkins hesitated. Then, as if the words had been waiting to escape: "Leukemia. He fought hard. Brave kid. Never complained, even when the treatment made him sicker than the disease." She looked at the floor. "He kept asking for his mother. Right up until the end. 'When's Mama coming? Is she coming today?' We kept telling him she was on her way."
"But she didn't make it."
"Car accident. Same night he died. Horrible coincidence." Jenkins's voice cracked. "We never told him. He went thinking she was still coming. We thought—we thought it was kinder."
Kind. Was it kind to let a child die waiting for something that would never arrive?
I didn't know. I wasn't sure anyone could know.
"Thank you," I said. "For telling me."
Jenkins nodded, looking suddenly old. "Get some rest, Mr. Franco. You've had a long night."
She walked away, footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.
I returned to my bed and sat with what I'd learned.
Thomas was real. His story was real. And if the system was right, he was still here—still waiting—because no one had told him the truth.
"Tonight."
I would wait for 3:07 AM. And when Thomas appeared, I would tell him what he needed to hear.
[Hartford Hospital — January 16, 1968, 2:45 AM]
I didn't sleep.
Couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Thomas's hollow stare. That pointing finger. The desperate silence of a child who'd been waiting for three months.
The night nurse made her rounds at midnight, then again at two. I pretended to sleep both times. The other patients in the ward were dead to the world, their breathing slow and regular.
At 2:58, the temperature dropped.
I sat up slowly. Frost was already forming on the window.
At 3:03, my breath began to fog.
At 3:06, shadows gathered in the corner of the room. Thickening. Taking shape.
And at 3:07 exactly, Thomas Brennan appeared.
Same spot. Same stare. Gray skin and hollow eyes and a hospital gown three months past its use.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
"Thomas."
His name. That was the first step. Acknowledge him. Make him real.
The ghost's mouth moved. Still no sound. But his eyes—God, his eyes—flickered with something like recognition.
"Thomas, I know why you're still here."
He tilted his head. Like a dog that's heard its name.
"You're waiting for your mother."
The ghost went very still.
"She was coming to see you. That night. October fifteenth. She got in her car and drove as fast as she could." I had to pause. The words hurt to say. "But she didn't make it, Thomas. There was an accident."
The frost on the window began to spread. The temperature plummeted further. I could see my breath in great white clouds.
Thomas was still staring. Still silent.
"She's not coming here," I said. "Because she's waiting somewhere else. Somewhere better. She crossed over, Thomas. And she's been waiting for you ever since."
The ghost's form flickered. Static on an old television.
"I know where your mother is."
I stood. Legs steadier now than they'd been before. Like the act of speaking truth had given me strength.
"She's waiting for you. She never stopped trying to reach you. And now—now you can find her."
Thomas's hollow eyes filled with something. Not tears—ghosts can't cry—but the memory of tears. The shape of grief transforming into the shape of hope.
His mouth moved again.
This time, I heard it.
"...Mama?"
"She's there," I said. "Go to her."