Eldritch Care

Jerry lay in his bed, staring up at dusty white ceiling panels. The first light of morning shone through large rectangular windows, muted by yellowed curtains. He drew in a deep breath, tasting the mild odor of disinfectant in the air.

“Another day in paradise.” He sighed. He’d never get used to that smell. He rolled awkwardly onto his side and fought the numbness in his aging body to sit up on the edge of the bed. “Goddamnit.” He’d never get used to that, either.

He patted around on the nightstand for his glasses. They sat in a leather box with his service medals. The box was the only decoration besides an old telephone and two pictures. One of his younger self in uniform, and the other of him holding Herman on the day he was born.

There was a knock on the door.

“Yeah,” he said, startled.

Charlene opened the door and rolled a cart into the small room. The back left wheel squeaked and juddered as she maneuvered it. She was short and stocky, wearing tight-fitting magenta scrubs, with a thick head of curly black hair pulled into a tight ponytail.

“How’d you sleep?” She smiled.

“Like shit. The damn noises from that basement have been keeping me up for weeks.” He lifted his glasses and rubbed one eye.

“Language, Mr. Gladstone,” Charlene clucked. “And it’s probably just that old boiler.”

“Sorry. I’ve just never heard a boiler growl like that before, even on the fritz.”

“All right, Jerry. That’s enough plumbing talk. Let’s get you dressed.”

Jerry felt her fingertips dig into his biceps, and she raised his arms over his head. He jerked loose. “I can do this. Just hand me the shirt, please.”

“You won’t hear me complain.” Charlene laughed.

“I’m glad you think it’s funny that I can still put on a shirt.” Jerry shook his head and chuckled.

“You gotta find whatever humor you can in a place like this.” She handed him a thick, long-sleeved green shirt and watched him wriggle his arms and head into it.

“I suppose so.” Jerry put his glasses back on.

“Hey.” Charlene’s tone turned somber. “I’m sorry about Walter. I know you two were close.”

“Yeah.” Jerry pushed up his glasses. “I guess that’s just what happens around here.”

“He was a good man.”

“He was. It’s just…it’s weird what happens. How people just disappear. You know? Did they tell you what happened to him?”

Charlene sighed. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, Jerry. Too long, and I can tell you, it happens in all the homes. Not just Seaside.” She pulled a wheelchair from the corner of the room.

“Do I have to?”

“For now. If they see you hobblin’ down that hallway, it’s my ass. I’m back on probation, and I’m gettin’ too old for this crap. I can’t be interviewing for a new job.” Charlene nodded and pursed her lips.

“All right.” The mattress creaked and Jerry raised himself up, sliding over into the chair with Charlene holding his arm. “I’m not normally this obedient, ya know. But you’re the only one I can stand. I can’t have them get rid of you.”

“I ain’t leavin’ Jerry. And I’ll keep your secret. You can be a jerk to everyone else as much as you like.” Charlene chuckled and wheeled Jerry toward the door.

Seaside Manor had seen better days. The nursing home was bleak, with dimly lit corridors and the smell of disinfectant permanently hanging in the air. The flat-roofed concrete building sat like a grim sentinel overlooking the edge of a sharp eighty-foot drop into the Atlantic. At night, its windows could’ve served as a makeshift lighthouse if anyone was crazy enough to navigate a boat near the jagged rocks the waves crashed upon. The staff was cold and distant, and most of the residents were lost in their own worlds, their spirits broken by tepid monotony.

Jerry arrived in mid-August, and the small town of East Quay was bustling with tourists and beach goers. They made Seaside’s decrepit appearance even more stark, but after Labor Day, the vibrancy of summer had passed, and the old nursing home reclaimed its right to oversee a lifeless town for the colder, darker months. It was nothing like the brochure Herman had shown him. Maybe it had looked like that in the 1980s, but probably not.

Trick photography, Jerry said to himself, and resigned to make the best of a bad situation. Leaves turned hues of amber and yellow, then brown, each dying a quiet death as they drifted from the decades old maple and oak trees scattered through East Quay. All but the most stalwart restaurants and businesses had shuttered for the season, and a chill began to creep in most evenings at sunset.

Charlene rolled the chair into the common room. Its white cinder block walls stood on a sickly green and yellow checkerboard floor. It served as a cafeteria, rec center, and impromptu medication dispensary.

“Thanks, Char. What’s on the menu this morning? Smells mediocre.” Jerry rolled his eyes. The food at Seaside was better than MRE’s, but not by much.

“Your favorite. Cream of Wheat. Try not to throw up,” she whispered in his ear and chuckled. “Behave, though. Simmons is on shift.”

Jerry groaned. The cream of wheat was the worst. Raul, who ran the kitchen, made it with no butter or salt. “Gotta keep the diabetes in check,” was his answer every time Jerry asked for either. It was the consistency of wallpaper paste but tasted less appetizing.

Getting up from his chair and dreading breakfast, Jerry managed his way over to a small side table where he used to sit with Walter and play Backgammon.

Jerry stared at the unfinished game. He fidgeted with the black and ivory disks, and sipped his coffee, eyeing the bowl of cool beige slop on a red plastic tray. Jerry felt a pang of sadness, knowing Walter wouldn’t show up today. He was never late, which Jerry had appreciated. Walt had also seen time in Korea, and called Jerry a “young buck”, which he also appreciated. Jerry hated backgammon, but there was a strange comfort sitting across that little board from someone who had seen the same kind of things. Things no person should have to experience in a lifetime. They never talked about it. Mostly just stories about their families and friends, or fishing, but there was a quiet understanding and mutual respect that Jerry found solace in.

“No board games today?” a shrill voice broke Jerry from his reverie. He looked up and saw Simmons scowling down at him.

Charlene warned Jerry about Simmons on day one. Her reputation preceded her as the cruelest nurse in Seaside. In her late forties, she had grown up in town, been prom queen, and become a nurse when her modeling career ended abruptly. They explained to him how she had traveled to Providence for a nose job but didn’t have the money to hire a decent surgeon, so things came out…wrong. The botched procedure had left her otherwise pretty face disfigured; what cartilage remained was upturned and gave her the appearance of a bat. Her hair was dyed ruby red, only the roots peeking out auburn, and she had red nails to match against bleached white scrubs. Her abuse of residents was common knowledge. Rumor was Al Lawson had called her fruit bat when she gave him a soured cup of peaches with his lunch. The next nurse on shift found him in the corner of his room, confined to his wheelchair for thirteen hours, crying and soaked in his own piss and shit.

“No. Not today. How’d he go?” Jerry asked.

“Can’t say. HIPAA violation.”

“Really? I don’t think…”

“HIPAA. Violation.” She glared.

“He went. At night. This is a nursing facility, Mr. Gladstone. People die here. Finish your breakfast.” Air flowed from her mangled nostrils like a draft from a cave mouth.

“It’s just a shame, is all. He was a good man. A war hero,” Jerry replied.

“Yeah. I bet. Finish your food.” Simmons turned and marched away.

“Well, Walter,” Jerry picked up the scoresheet left over from their last game, “looks like you won this round. Probably the least I can do is give you that.” Jerry crumpled the paper and dropped it back on the board, then noticed something on the back. Walt tended to sign their scoresheets to “keep an official record”, but this looked different. Jerry smoothed out the paper and read the note penciled on its dented topography. Jerry. Down in the basement. They know. RUN.

What the hell? Jerry stared at the note, wide-eyed. It was Walter’s handwriting. “I still see porridge,” Simmons\' shrill voice made Jerry leap out of his chair. “What is that?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing. Just a scoresheet,” Jerry quickly crumpled the note and stuffed it into his pocket, “Just a memento.”

“Pffft. Everything is eventually forgotten, Mr. Gladstone.” Simmons\' voice was icy. “Now finish up. It’s almost time for some fresh air.”

“Fresh air” was code for Simmons and the other nurses to take an extended break. They corralled the residents out into the open grass field that made up most of the grounds. They smoked and gossiped, occasionally taking headcount to ensure no one met the cliff’s edge.

Jerry hobbled toward the drop, keeping a healthy distance from the loose ground at the rim. Whitecaps ran across the dark Atlantic waters and crashed unseen eighty feet down. A cave had been borne into the cliffside by time and tides, and at least once a season the newspaper ran a story that some foolhardy tourist or drunk towny drowned trying to explore it. Sucked in, or out, by the uncaring riptide and smashed against the rocks.

Jerry breathed in the cool salt air to scrub his mouth and lungs of Seaside’s disinfectant odor. Even on a sunny day, the home’s gray concrete walls were a dismal backdrop to watch the old folks mill around the grass like zombies or sit—doped up on some pill or another—and stare at nothing. Visions of La Drang clawed their way out of the deep psychic graves Jerry had buried them in. His buddies, numbing themselves with booze and pot and pills. Anything they could stuff in their bodies to try to cope with the slaughter they’d witnessed in that godforsaken valley. His eyes warmed as tears welled up. Jesus, Walt. Why’d you have to up and leave me with these people? And what the hell was with that note?

A rusty horn perched on Seaside’s roof blared. It’s siren song droned across the field, commanding the wranglers in white to round up their chattel. Simmons and the others took the last puffs and spread out to corral the residents back inside, single file.

“I gotta get the hell outta here,” Jerry said, and began the long hobble back toward the door.

Over the next few days, Seaside consumed the time and lives of its residents uneventfully, but Jerry couldn’t stop thinking about Walter’s note. Maybe he hadn’t died. Were they keeping Walter, or anyone else, down in the basement? And what the hell were those noises that kept him awake every night? Jerry’s obsessing was interrupted by a rumbling growl that shook his room.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Jerry started and fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand. The room came into focus, illuminated by moonlight cascading through the window.

“That’s no goddamned boiler.” He sat up and maneuvered his legs over the side of the mattress, then stabbed with numb toes until he felt his slippers and pushed them on. Another loud growl, followed by a disgusting gurgle, echoed through the room. Jerry grabbed his cane and hobbled over to the floor vent. He could hear more strange noises echoing up through the old metal shaft. “What the hell is going on down there?”

He needed to try to find Walter and uncover the source of that noise. Even if it was just for his own peace of mind. Jerry gripped his cane and marched toward his door.

The main hallway was quiet. Jerry had memorized the rotating night shift schedules. If you hit a buzzer at 2am because you were dying, it helped to know if anyone might answer. This week was Perkins’s shift, and he wasn’t the type to reply. Late thirties, out of shape, and indifferent to everything; Perkins was the kind of guy who would’ve never made it out of basic.

He seemed to enjoy the night shift, though. It afforded him time to sit behind the main desk, snacking and watching porn on his phone. Jerry shuffled down the hallway, following the path of sickly yellow, fluorescent lights that hummed and flickered along the ceiling. With a bit of stealth and luck, he could slip right past Perkins while the smut-loving oaf was distracted by a glowing rectangle. He shuffled his slippers, and deftly pushed his cane; its rubberized tip gently plodding against the dirty tiles.

Jerry approached the main hallway intersection. He crept carefully and heard the faint sound of a girl moaning through a tinny speaker. He drew even closer, gripping the edge of the wall to round the corner. The moaning from the phone speaker got louder, and Jerry craned his neck. He heard heavy, labored breathing, and the rhythmic creaking of an office chair. Oh, yeah. He’s definitely distracted.

Pulling himself around the corner, Jerry slid down the side hall. He stood in front of the windowless metal door to the basement. Perkins and the other night staff usually unlocked it early for cleaning staff to do laundry before sunrise, and tonight was no different. Jerry clutched the metal doorknob, and it turned without hesitation.

He slowly opened the door and peered down into the inky void of the basement. An old incandescent bulb hung from the ceiling, barely illuminating the staircase.

He hesitated at the threshold. A vision flashed in his head. He was back in ‘Nam with his buddies, about to take the first step into a mine-laden field a few miles outside a farm that was occupied by the VC. Jerry took a deep breath and shook the vision from his mind. He had never left anyone behind then, and he wasn’t about to now, so sure was he that Walter was down there. A knot tightened in his stomach, and his heart pounded in his ears. He steeled himself and took the first step down the staircase.

Jerry clutched the railing and gently shut the door behind him. He made his way down the stairs, gripping his cane, heart still pounding. As he reached the bottom step, another loud noise filled the basement. It was a growl, followed by a strange sloshing noise like the tide washing over a beach.

What in God’s name is down here? Jerry’s hands shook, but there was no turning back now. He had to know.

The basement opened into a large unfinished concrete room lit by more dangling incandescent bulbs. A few old industrial washers and dryers sat quietly on the flanks, while an ominous rusty steel door, that the noises seemed to be emanating from, stood on the opposite wall. Jerry approached the door slowly, and the sloshing sounds got louder. He carefully opened the door and peered beyond.

The room past the door was like no other in Seaside. It was more of a cavern than a room. Dirt floor and smooth stone walls, likely carved from thousands of years of the lapping ocean. In the center of the room was a large pool, and salt water lapped out of it, spreading, and receding across the dirt ground. What…the…hell?

Simmons!

Jerry didn’t believe his own eyes. The woman knelt in front of the water, holding up a torch in her right hand that barely illuminated the dank cave. It was Simmons, and she seemed to be talking to herself and throwing something into the water.

Jerry carefully approached; his cane silent on the soil floor. If he could sneak past a VC patrol in a jungle hellscape, he could creep up on a preoccupied nurse in the dark.

“Hertfth zug thlith Uzog!”

Jerry drew closer, and Simmons\' strange words became clear over the whoosh of lapping water.

“Tyvad ub wasrad thlith Uzog!” She chanted and tossed in something else.

“Jesus Christ.” Jerry gasped when he saw a severed human hand bob up for a moment before sinking below the surface.

Simmons\' halted her chanting halted spun around. Her eyes narrowed in the torchlight. “Mr. Gladstone. You’re up past your curfew.” She rose to her feet.

“Stay the hell back, you crazy bitch. Where’s Walter?”

Simmons’s face twisted into a malevolent smile. “Walter? In the deep, with the others. In fact, maybe you just saw him wave his final goodbye.”

Jerry’s eyes turned to dinner plates. “You goddamned lunatic!”

Suddenly, the pool behind Simmons’s began to bubble. It was slow at first, but the black water began to roil.

“Uzog rises!” Simmons’s exclaimed in an almost euphoric tone. “Witness now, Mr. Gladstone, Uzog, the ageless one.”

Jerry watched in horror as a huge, webbed hand rose from the bubbling pool and slammed onto the dirt floor. A second hand emerged, and two yellow eyes illuminated the room when the hulking entity rose from the water.

Pain racked Jerry’s head when he looked at the foul thing. Those eyes. Horrible yellow eyes, like two blazing suns atop an amphibian head with rows of dagger-like teeth. Its body was a mass of knotted muscle and iridescent scales.

“Sdgeth, fir warzan, sleth, Uzog.” Simmons stepped back from the pool. Jerry wretched when he saw the huge silver plate--piled with human remains--Simmons had been kneeling beside. Uzog dragged its bulk to the plate and snapped at the human meat. It cleared the platter in two bites, leaving a puddle of thick, gelatinous drool. The abomination then slid on its stomach back into the water, those horrible eyes glowing just below the surface.

“Thank you, oh ageless one!” Simmons rushed to the slimy plate. Jerry’s head was still reeling from the sight of Uzog, and his stomach turned when Simmons cupped the pool of monster’s residue in her hands and raised it to her mouth. She drank all she could, and rubbed what she couldn’t across her disfigured face.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jerry yelled, fighting back the acrid taste in his mouth.

“Wrong, Mr. Gladstone?” Simmons flashed a gnarled smile, slime dripping from her chin. “Nothing is wrong. This is the natural order. We’re born, we grow old, and then we die.” She minced toward Jerry, her white shoes padding across the dirt floor. “But that order isn’t the destiny of some of us, Mr. Gladstone. No. The followers of Uzog are bequeathed a great gift.”

Jerry narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t get a messed up nose job. Did ya?”

“No, Mr. Gladstone. I didn’t. People like to make up stories, but the truth?” Simmons tilted her head. “The truth is, I discovered this place by accident. When I was just a girl, before East Quay was East Quay.”

Jerry stepped back, driving his cane into the dirt floor. “How the hell old are you, you rotten witch?”

“Older than most, Mr. Gladstone. But Uzog’s gifts aren’t without drawbacks, as you can see. They’re also not without…costs.” Simmons drew a scalpel from her pocket, its polished blade glinted even in the dim cave.

“Stay the hell away from me!” Jerry hobbled backward faster.

“Uzog awaits!” Simmons raised the scalpel, then dashed at Jerry.

She swiped the blade, and Jerry used all his strength to dodge her. She swung again, and his arm burned when the implement found his flesh.

“Aaaagh!” Jerry screamed. The pool boiled once again, and Uzog’s eyes illuminated the cave with sickly yellow light.

“You’ll make a fine meal,” Simmons hissed, and slashed toward Jerry’s throat.

Jerry’s arm burned, and his leg pricked with pins and needles, throwing him off balance. Simmons’s eyes were wide with madness as she bore down on him.

“I’m not interested in being fish food.” Jerry swung his cane at Simmons’s head. It connected with a smack, and she reeled backward. He swung again, his arm burning from the laceration. The cane hit her skull with a loud crack, and Simmons hit the dirt floor next to the pool.

“You wanna eat?” Jerry shouted. “Here you go!” Jerry’s knees hit the floor, and he shoved the tarnished plate underneath Simmons, as she writhed on the ground.

A terrible growl filled the cave, and Uzog reemerged from the bubbling water. Jerry dragged himself across the floor, straining every muscle he could still feel to get back to the door. Behind him, there was a loud crunch, and Simmons screamed as the ancient horror devoured her, like so many before.

Rising to his knees, Jerry pushed himself up with his cane. His nerves were on fire, body soaked with sweat as he slammed the rusty metal door behind him. He could still hear Uzog’s growls ringing in his ears as he limped through the concrete basement and up the staircase.

Jerry shouldered open the basement door and careened into the wall. He lurched forward in a panic, cane prying into his ribs as he rounded the corner. Visions of the jungle, and Simmons’s twisted face, and those horrible yellow eyes swirled in his mind. He approached the desk, but Perkins was nowhere in sight.

He fell back into Perkins’s chair, blood-smeared arm burning. He wouldn’t last much longer without getting it patched up. Why hadn’t he heeded Walter’s warning? Another shockwave of pain assaulted his head, and an image of Uzog flashed in his mind.

“Aaaagh!” Jerry reeled forward onto the desk. The pain subsided, and he reached for the phone. Herman had to know. He knew his son would pick up. He poked at the glowing green buttons until he heard beeping.

“Hello?”

“Herman. It’s me!”

“Dad? What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Late. Herman, you have to listen! They’re killing people. In the basement. This. This…thing!”

A sigh came through the receiver. “Dad. It’s OK. You’re safe. The war is over. You’re in a nursing facility.”

“Herman, no. That’s not it. I’m telling you…I...” Another vision of the ancient horror flashed in Jerry’s head. “Aaaagh! I’m bleeding, Herman. They’re coming for me.”

“Dad. I told you. You’re safe. You’re in New England, not Vietnam. I’ll call the night nurse to check on you, but then I have to get some sleep. Cassidy has soccer in the morning. I’ll call and check in with you after the game. I love you, Dad. Get some rest.”

“Herman, wait!”

There was a click, then the receiver droned in Jerry’s hand. He slammed it on the desk, tears welling up. Jerry clenched a fist, his arm burning. He had to get back to his room and barricade himself in until morning. When Herman called back, he’d form a plan to escape. He’d be collected, and then his son would realize he was telling the truth. Once he was out of Seaside, he’d never step foot back in this godforsaken place.

Jerry pushed up from the leather chair and made his way back down the deserted hallway. As he approached his door, he heard the squeaking of rubber shoes on the tile behind him. He turned and saw Charlene.

“Hey Jerry. What’s wrong?”

“Charlene! Thank God it’s you!”

Charlene squinted at his arm. “Yeah, Jerry. I picked up an extra shift from Tracy. Herman just called. Said you were upset, having a flashback, and…are you bleeding Jerry?”

“Yes! It’s not a flashback, Charlene. Simmons is killing people!”

“Simmons? She ain’t even on shift tonight, Jerry.”

“No, she was here. In the basement. The noises. It was a creature! She was feeding people to it.” Jerry’s voice went up two octaves. “She…she fed them to it, Charlene. Walter, and who knows who else. But I got her. I knocked her out and it ate her.”

“ATE HER?” Charlene laughed. “OK Jerry. It sounds like you’re having a rough night. Let’s get you in your room. I need to check out that arm. It looks like you hurt yourself pretty good. I may need to call the ambulance.”

Yes. An ambulance! Jerry never thought a ride in the meat wagon would be the answer to his prayers. “Yeah. OK. Come check it.”

Charlene wrapped her sturdy arm around Jerry’s waist and hoisted him over her shoulder. His cane clattered to the floor as she helped him into the room.

“C\'mon, here you go.” She managed to flick on the light, get Jerry to his bed, and pull up his sleeve. “Oof, yeah. That’s gonna need stitches. Nasty.”

“I told you; she was killing people!” Jerry shouted.

“Mmm. Hmm.” Charlene shook her head. “OK, let’s get you in the chair and I’ll call the ambulance.”

Charlene unfolded the wheelchair with a creak, and Jerry yanked his body toward it faster than he ever had. He sank into the taut leather seat and let out a deep sigh as Charlene wheeled him around toward the door.

“I’m so glad you took that shift tonight, Charlene. How long you think before the ambulance gets here?”

“Oh, a few minutes after I call.”

“Good, my arm hurts like hell.” Jerry winced.

“Yeah. She sliced you good with that scalpel of hers, huh.”

“Wait. What?” Jerry’s blood turned cold as the Atlantic. He leaned forward in the chair, but Charlene’s hands pinned his shoulders down. “What the hell? Charlene, what the hell are you doing?” Jerry writhed in the chair to fight back, but the nurse kept him pinned, and his arm flared with pain.

“Simmons was getting real sloppy, Jerry. It’s no wonder you conked her out.” Charlene laughed again, her tone menacing. “I mean, some of us know what’s behind that door. What it is. WHO it is. You can’t keep something like that a secret forever, even when you got a nice thing going like Simmons did. She was a real bitch though, wasn’t she?” Jerry struggled but Charlene dug her fingers into his wound. He screamed in agony.

“Nah, Jerry. I’m glad you did her in. Did me a huge favor. Like I told you: I’ve been doing this way too long. I’m starting to feel it every day. I wake up and put on my scrubs. Aches and pains, and I seen Simmons walking around smoking a half pack a day like she was twenty-five, never getting sick, never looking older. I mean, her face was all messed up, but I think she just didn’t want people to know she paid for a bad nose job.”

“Charlene don’t do this! Please!”

“I’m sorry, Jerry. You’re a good man. I know, but I can’t have you telling the paramedics, or the news, or Tom down at the grocery store about that thing living down there. I spent too many years trying to get a job here, figuring out if it was real. Then, when I shadowed her one night a few weeks ago, I caught her in the act, and knew it was true. I needed to be next in line.”

“I’m begging you, Charlene!” Jerry howled.

“Goodnight, Jerry,” Charlene whispered.

Jerry felt a pinch in his neck as the needle pierced his skin. His body went numb, and he slipped into the darkness, the smell of disinfectant filling his nose.

The sun shone through the yellowed curtains in Jerry’s room. It was 11:35am and the silence was broken by the phone ringing next to his bed. It rattled the nightstand where a leather box containing service medals was flanked by a picture of Jerry Gladstone in his uniform, and another of him in the hospital holding his son, Herman, on the day he was born. The phone rang five times, then went silent.

About the Author

B.L. Daniels is a writer of horror and weird fiction. He is the author of the Plague Blade dark-fantasy series, and his short stories have been featured various literary magazines and anthologies. He lives in New England with his family and a couple of devious cats.

Follow him on Instagram @bldauthor or visit his website at https://bldaniels.com