Rock Bottom

Trigger warnings:

Self harm/suicide

Harm to children

Drip. Drip. Drip. His eyes open and strain to adjust. He tries to raise his head but it’s so heavy it falls back with a loud thunk.

“What am I lying on? Is this metal?” he shivers under a single, cotton sheet. His body feels like it’s made of lead and he can’t lift his arms. “What the fuck is going on? Where am I?” His eyes start to focus and take in the chipped concrete, and the tarnished, worn bricks. There is a bright, round light above his head. His heart starts to pound and his skin gets clammy as he struggles to move.

“Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?”

When he turns his head, there are metal doors to his right; on his left is an old wheelchair beside an industrial metal sink with the dripping tap.

“Oh my God!” he breathes in the dank, musty air, “Is this a morgue? Is this a fucking morgue?”

His lips are parched and his mouth so dry the he can’t swallow. The “lub-dub” rhythm of his racing heart is getting louder and louder, faster and faster. He lets out a raspy scream, his breath quickening and straining against this paralysis.

He hyperextends his head back to see a concrete staircase encased in a light so bright that it’s almost blue. In the light he notices a slight movement and then a woman’s silhouette appears at the top of the staircase.

“What is going on?” he wonders as his hands start to sting, feeling like thousands of pins pricking him.

“Hello?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Hey! I’m here! Down here!” he yells in desperation.

The bright light behind her swallows her features and her shadowy form descends. As she nears him, the light above casts eerie shadows that create mosaics on her white, tattered, and stained dress. A dirty surgical mask covers her nose and mouth, and her scrub cap appears yellowed with old sweat.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he demands as fear envelopes him, “Please… please don’t hurt me.”

A burning sensation flows through his veins. He writhes in agony and is surprised to find that his limbs can move. He arches his back trying to sit up but doesn’t have enough momentum. She leans over him, pressing his shoulders down with her ice-cold hands, her eyes boring into his soul. He is immediately stunned still.

“Stop being so dramatic,” she says snarkily.

He looks into her eyes, searching for an explanation.

“Calm down. You had… “ she pauses, “an accident, and are still numb from the anesthesia and epidural you were given.”

“What accident? What is going on? Where am I? I… I can’t remember...”

“You will slowly start to regain use of your arms and legs. Once you do, you can get off the table. But first, let me verify your information. You know, all that ‘right patient-right treatment’ jazz,” she winks conspiratorially and pulls a folder out of a pouch at the foot of the table.

“What’s your name and date of birth?” she asks flipping open the chart.

“You should already know that,” he mutters.

“Come on, you of all people knows how this goes,” she purses her lips, “If you don’t care to answer now, I can make a note that you are still too altered and come back later.” She starts to close the folder.

“Dr. Darren Ratcliff. August 20, 1975,” he sighs.

“Thank you, Dr. Ratcliff. What year is it? Who is the president?”

“19.. no, 20..17? Wait.. 2015. Oh, what’s that dude’s name? I can’t… no, it’s Bill something,” he feels his frustration getting the better of him.

“It’s ok,” her voice reassures, “Take your time, it will all come to you. Relax…”

“How the fuck can I relax? I’m lying in some goddamned basement morgue! I can’t move! My body feels like it’s catching on fire! Where’s my doctor? I wanna see him!”

“Look,” her voice becomes stern, “You’re only making this more difficult…”

“Fuck you!”

She snaps the folder closed and lays it at the foot of the table, “Clearly you’re not quite ready for an exam. I’ll give you more time to recover.” She walks towards the staircase.

“No, don’t leave,” he begs. “Please. I promise I’ll cooperate.” He hears her pause, but then she continues up the stairs.

He wrestles with his own body on the table, desperately trying to get up to follow her. He feels his muscles straining and struggling to do what his brain is telling them. With a thud, he falls off the table onto the cold, concrete floor.

“Aargh!” Pain encompasses him and his eyes close.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he wakes. He is cold, exposed, and vulnerable. He searches the room for her but doesn’t see her anywhere. As soon as he sits up, the room starts spinning. He claws at the ground to steady himself.

“Is this nausea and headache remnants of a weekend bender? Was it the meds they gave me?”

Before he gets up, he hears the faint sound of a baby crying but can’t tell where it’s coming from. The hair on the back of his neck starts to prickle. His eyes dart to the refrigerated drawers, and he shivers.

“I gotta get out of here.”

He stands up and runs to the stairs thankful that there is only one way; up. He starts up the stairs thankful to be leaving this creepy morgue.

“Geez,” starting to pant, “How many fucking stairs are there?”

He looks up, he is no further up the stairs than when he started.

“What…?” he gasps and starts to run. He hears his feet pounding with each step, and feels the burning in his thighs, but is still not getting any further than the fifth step no matter how fast he goes. Holding onto the rail he tries to use his hands to pull himself up the staircase to no avail. Sweat pouring off his body, he finally gives up and goes back into the room.

He frantically searches every corner and he pulls haphazardly at the refrigerator doors looking for another way out. He claws at the ground and walls trying to find some give in their cemented structure. With maniacal energy, he pushes against bricks hoping one would be loose. Running over to the wall with the mirror, he stops in his tracks. There is a reflection of a woman in the mirror on a rocking chair, holding a baby. He can barely hear the whispered lullaby she is singing over his pounding heart. He turns his head expecting to see them behind him, but no one is there.

He rushes back to the staircase and calls up, “Nurse! Nurse! Please come back! Help me! Please!”

His pleas are met with the plaintive cry of a baby. Then nothing. And silence.

“HEY! IS ANYONE HERE? HELP! HELP!”

He tries to run up the stairs again, hoping if he can go faster he can make it. He loses his footing and falls to his knees. Crying, he tries to crawl to the top of the staircase. His efforts are futile and he slumps on the fifth stair sobbing.

Exhausted, he goes back to the table and his eye catches the folder. His folder. He opens it hoping for answers but there are only newspaper clippings. With every headline, his heart thumps harder in his head as he thumbs through them.

“CHIROPRACTOR CHARGED WITH MURDER”, “CHIROPRACTOR LOSES MALPRACTICE SUIT”, “VICTIMS’ FAMILY SEEK RESTITUTION”, “CHIROPRACTOR ATTORNEY USES MENTAL HEALTH DEFENSE”, “WHEN ADDICTION BECOMES A CRIME: Chiropractor Sued in Wrongful Death Suit”, “CHIROPRACTOR FOUND GUILTY IN DEATH OF WOMAN AND UNBORN INFANT”, “CHIROPRACTOR CHARGED WITH FETICIDE”, “FATAL ADJUSTMENT: Chiropractor Charged with Killing Pregnant Woman”.

The folder slips from his hands and the articles splay on the ground like a bag of bones.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry,” he yells at the staircase and runs back to it crumbling to his knees, staring up, and hoping to find his savior to free him from this place.

“Please come back,” his voice strangled in desperation and tears gleaming in that bright light, “Can someone please help me?”

Finally, in defeat, he goes to sit in the wheelchair with his head in his hands and weeps. A hand gently touches his. He looks up and is grateful to see the nurse.

“Is this a morgue?” He looks into her poker player eyes.

“Yes.”

“Why would I have a procedure in a morgue?”

“You didn’t.”

“But then why am I here?”

He watches the corners of her eyes crease with a glint of mischief.

“Seriously,” he pleads, “Why am I here?”

She tilts her head, looking at him curiously, “You haven’t figured this out yet?”

“Figured out wha…?” his voice trails off and he slowly puts all his thoughts together like a puzzle.

His practice. His failures. His mistakes. His despair. His ruin. His addiction. His pain. His depression. He lost it all. His decision to finally “end it all” on his terms, or so he thought.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” A gut-wrenching cry escapes his lips. “No! This can’t be! How is this possible?”

She places her hand on his cheek, wiping away his tears.

“Don’t you remember me?” She removes the surgical mask to reveal a sly grin. He concentrates on her face, taking in her features. Recognition starts to come.

“Aaah! There you go; you do recognize me? Don’t you?” she chuckles sinisterly.

He falls to his knees in front of her, clutching her legs, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“To what?” she barks, “You didn’t mean to kill me? Or my baby?” She is laughing hysterically now.

“You pathetic, disgusting drunk.” She pushes him off her legs.

“I paid your family. They took everything. I have nothing anymore! I even tried to kill myself!”

“Tried?” she guffaws, “What do you mean ‘tried’? You’re here, aren’t you?”

He looks at her, his confusion slowly changing to realization.

“You still have no clue, do you? You think your money was worth our lives. You think you can throw money at your problems and they will go away! This time, doctor, you lose! Ehhhhhh!” she makes the sounds of a game show buzzer.

“There are risks with adjustments…” he starts.

“Oh shut the fuck up you arrogant prick! I know the risks, but when you’re high and drunk, you’re the risk! You broke my neck with your fucked up adjustment!”

She pauses, takes a breath, smooths her uniform, and shakes her head with her palms in a “stop” position. Her demeanor changes and she smiles at him.

He looks around and understanding starts to come.

“Are you saying that I’m dead like…”

“Me? Yes,” satisfaction etches her brow.

His pounding heart starts to slow as he begins to grasp the reality of who, or what, he is. It slows to a halt. The only sound left in its wake is that of emptiness and loneliness. He lifts his index and middle fingers to his neck for his pulse. He finds none.

“Is.. is.. this… hell?” he nervously stammers.

“I don’t know about that,” she giggles. “You know how they always say dead people are in a ‘better place’? Well, this is your ‘better place’, in fact, it’s the best place for you. When I go upstairs this time, you will never see this version of me again.”

“Can’t I come upstairs with you? Please take me with you.”

“No, those stairs can only be used by the versions of me you will meet in your looping cycle.”

“No!! No!! You can’t leave me! Please!!”

He stands trying to grasp for her but falls backwards onto the table as she ascends.

Once halfway up, she stops, turns to him, and chuckles.

“Until we meet again, Dr. Ratcliff.”

Drip. Drip. Drip. His eyes open and strain to adjust.

Author’s note: This is not my usual genre. I entered the NYC Midnight Challenge and I was given: Ghost Story (genre), downstairs, chiropractor. I would never have attempted a ghost story like this had it not been for this challenge and I can honestly say, I enjoyed writing something out of my comfort zone.

If you or anyone you know has feelings or ideations to harm themselves, please call or text 988. If you are having problems with substances, you can also call or text 988 for help.