The Wait

Table of Contents

The town had long forgotten about the old St. Aurelius Clinic. It stood on the edge of a narrow street, hidden behind thick weeds and the skeletal remains of a wrought iron fence. No one remembered when it had shut down, or why, but it had the look of a place that had been abandoned for decades—its windows clouded with grime, its paint peeled away like shedding skin. Some said it had once been a charity clinic, open late into the night for those who couldn’t afford proper care. Others whispered about patients who went in and never came out, about the smell that lingered even years after its doors had closed.

Nathan had never given the rumors much thought until the night the dreams started. For three nights in a row, he dreamt of a hallway that stretched on forever, its flickering fluorescent lights buzzing in his ears. At the end of that hallway, there was always a door, and behind that door—silence. On the fourth night, he woke up at 3:33 a.m., heart pounding, the image of that door burned into his mind. That day, he found himself walking without knowing why. His feet carried him across town, down streets he didn’t usually take, until he was standing in front of the St. Aurelius Clinic.

The main door hung crooked on its hinges, a single pane of dirty glass in the center. It looked fragile enough to break with a touch, but when Nathan pushed it, it swung open silently, as if expecting him. Inside, the waiting room was dim, lit only by a thin beam of daylight slipping through a crack in the boarded-up windows. Rows of mismatched chairs lined the walls. In them sat people—or what looked like people.

There were seven of them, each dressed in drab, outdated clothing: an old woman with a faded scarf over her hair, a middle-aged man in a brown suit, a little girl clutching a threadbare teddy bear. Their eyes were open, but not moving. They didn’t blink. They didn’t breathe. They were still as mannequins. The smell hit him then. Mold, dampness… and something else. Coppery. Organic. Unmistakably human.

The clock on the wall read 3:33. Its hands were still. Nathan hesitated, a nervous laugh escaping his lips before he could stop it. He turned to leave, but his legs didn’t want to move. Something deep in his chest urged him to sit down. He told himself it was curiosity, but it felt more like compulsion. He chose an empty chair between the old woman and the man in the brown suit. The cushion sagged under his weight, and the faint creak of the springs was the only sound in the room.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then—whispering. It was faint at first, like leaves brushing against each other in the wind. He couldn’t tell if it came from outside or from the people sitting around him. He glanced at them—they hadn’t moved. The whispering grew louder, overlapping voices speaking in a language he couldn’t quite recognize. His skin prickled. Then, the voices merged into one. A single, unified tone, deep and resonant.

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

Nathan’s throat tightened.

“What?”

He managed to whisper. No one turned their heads. Their eyes stayed locked forward, unblinking, but their mouths began to move. Slowly, deliberately.

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

The air in the room thickened, pressing against him. He tried to stand, but his body didn’t respond. His hands gripped the armrests, but his legs were heavy, unyielding, as if bolted to the floor.

Panic bloomed in his chest.

“Let me go!”

He said, but his voice came out weak, muffled, as if swallowed by the room itself. The figures turned toward him in unison. The old woman’s scarf slipped from her head, revealing a scalp pale and patchy, her skin stretched too tightly over her bones. The man’s suit hung on him like a corpse’s burial clothes, his skin waxy and grey. The little girl’s teddy bear was missing an eye, and her lips pulled back in a smile far too wide for her face.

One by one, they rose from their seats, their movements slow and jerky, as though joints were rusted. They closed in, surrounding him. The little girl stepped forward, her head tilting unnaturally to the side.

“It’s your turn,”

She said in a voice that didn’t belong to a child. The others joined her.

“Your turn. Your turn.” 

Over and over, until the sound became a droning chant. Nathan struggled harder, but his muscles betrayed him. His heart hammered in his chest, and his breath came in short gasps. From the corner of his eye, he saw movement behind the reception desk. A man stepped out, wearing a stained white coat. His face was hidden by shadow, but Nathan could see his hands—long, bony fingers clutching a clipboard. He moved without sound, his shoes not making the slightest scuff on the cracked linoleum floor. The figures stepped aside to let him through. The man in the coat stopped in front of Nathan, lowering the clipboard.

“Patient number eight,”

He said, voice like dry paper.

“Overdue.”

Nathan shook his head violently.

“I’m not supposed to be here! I—”

But before he could finish, the man in the coat touched his forehead with one cold, skeletal hand. The room tilted, and Nathan’s vision dimmed. His breath slowed. When the darkness receded, he was still sitting in the same chair. But the others were seated too, silent again, staring straight ahead. His body no longer resisted. He couldn’t even turn his head.

The clock still read 3:33. Somewhere in the distance, the door creaked open. Footsteps echoed. A woman stepped inside, pausing to look around. Nathan wanted to scream at her to leave, to run, but his lips didn’t move. The woman’s eyes swept over the room, lingering on the empty chair beside him. Slowly, she sat down. The whispering began again.