“Er, Merrison?” ventures Theodore, tapping lightly on the tinted glass.

It’s impossible to see the other side, save for a general impression of the light in the room; a vague glow flickers briefly behind the darkened window, then a small door beneath it pops open and a tray laden with tiny paper cups slides through. Beneath each cup is a slip of paper with a name and ingredient list.

The ingredients are important. Some of them are complex words Theodore has yet to comprehend the meaning of — only that they make his tongue sting when he says them.

“Thank you, Merrison,” Theodore says to the window, carefully transferring the tray onto a trolley. The only response is another brief  pulse of the faint light, but Theodore nods amiably anyway and rolls the trolley toward the door at the end of the hall.

WARD 9, the sign above the door reads. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

—
The hallway itself looks more like a corridor in an elementary school than a hospital ward, Theodore thinks. Each and every door has different decorations plastered across, over, and under – sprigs of sage and sinew over one door, velvet cloth with a wooden cross pressed across the next. There’s an assault of scents, too, all spice and garlic and soil and the coppery tang of blood. Blood?

Theodore shakes his head as he turns to the first door on the right side of the corridor. They would have had to replace the sigil today, he remembers. That’s where the scent of blood came from.

The sigil in question – a snarling, curling thing that hurts his eyes — glows a deep red color as Theodore approaches the door, trolley wheels squeaking; he mutters one of the complex words on the ingredient list and catches his tongue between his teeth, massaging the stinging sensation out as best he can.

The ghastly symbol fades, and Theodore slides back the hatch on the viewing port near the top of the door, standing on his tiptoes to peer in.

There are a pair of yellowed eyes, the pupils slitted and small, staring back at him.

“WHO DARES APPROACH AZAZEL, PRINCE OF LIES AND BEHOLDER OF TRUTH?” rumbles a voice from inside the room, so deep and fearsome that the door shakes in its frame. “WHO SPEAKS THE PROFANE SPELL THAT BINDS ME HERE?”

“It’s just me, Theodore,” replies Theodore, doing his best not to flinch. “Just here to give Mr. Hancock his medicine.”

“MR. HANCOCK DOESN’T WANT HIS MEDICINE,” the voice retorts, almost petulant.

“Mr. Hancock does want his medicine, you just don’t want him to take it,” returns Theodore. “Now let me speak to him or I’ll get the holy water.”

The voice mutters a curse that leaves a thin trickle of blood streaming from Theodore’s nose, but as the orderly wipes at himself with a handkerchief, the eyes disappear from the viewing port for a moment. When they return, they’re a watery blue, with more normal pupils.

“Sorry, Theo,” comes a meek, reedy voice.

“That’s alright, Mr. Hancock. Here, hold out your hand…”

Theodore tugs open another small portal on the bottom portion of the door. A hand, the nails long and black and sharp, the knuckles bruised, emerges, palm outstretched.  The orderly retrieves the pills: MISTLETOE, MUGWORT, HOLY WATER, reads the ingredient list.

“Will these make me better, Theo? Will they really?” comes Mr. Hancock’s voice.

“Eventually, I’m told,” Theodore says, as kindly as he can manage. “That’s what we’re working on, Mr. Hancock. Try not to worry – we’ll get you fixed, alright?”

“Thank you, Theo.”

The hand closes around the pills, little yellowish things, and retreats. Theodore shuts the portal, then wipes at his nose again as he moves on to the next door.

—
The next door is heavier, and there are bulges in the metal where something has struck with immense force. Theodore can hear growling, low and close, as he nears the entryway. 

“Miss Lucia, it’s just me, Theo,” he says, trying to keep the waver out of his voice. The door’s held fast before, but those dents put him in mind of what she could do if she got out in her current state.

The growl erupts into a snarl and a bark — not the domestic yelp of a smaller dog, but something huge and vicious, followed by a scraping sound against the door. 

“Miss Lucia Thorne, Miss Lucia Thorne, Miss Lucia Thorne,” says Theodore, as steadily as he can manage. “Come on, it’s just me — I’m your friend, right?”

The growling subsides, suddenly, and Theodore breathes a sigh of relief before bringing the trolley up beside him.

“Thank you, Miss Thorne,” he says, and tugs open — with some effort, as the hinge is slightly bent — the bottom port on the door. A large, canine snout covered in dark fur pokes through, nose twitching. Theodore gives the snout a friendly pat with one hand while selecting a cup of pills with the other. The ingredient list reads: WOLFSBANE, YARROW, XANAX.

The orderly tilts the pills into his palm, then presents that palm to Miss Thorne, who eats the medicine dutifully. Theodore gives her another pat as the snout disappears back through the port, and he pulls the hatch closed before opening the top port. Inside, on a floor that more resembled the ground in a forest than in a hospital room, a younger woman with dark, tangled hair sits against the back wall, which had a texture more akin to wood than steel or plaster.

“Thank you, Theo,” says Miss Thorne, waving at him. 

“Of course, Miss Thorne,” Theodore says and waves back. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Much better,” she replies, giving him a wan smile. “It didn’t get as bad this time, either. I think I’m getting better.”

“That’s good, Miss Thorne. That’s what the pills are for. See you tomorrow night, alright?”

“Yes. Goodnight, Theo.”

“Goodnight.”

 —
The third door is purely symbolic; it’s the complex intersection of pipes above the door that does the work of containment. Theodore can hear the water rushing through them as he approaches.

“Roscoe, it’s Theodore,” he says, tapping on the top port. The face of a young boy appears to float through the port, though it remains closed, and hovers in the air before the orderly, who stands stock still beneath the visage’s silent gaze.

“How’re you doing, Roscoe?” 

The stare continues, unblinking. Theodore fights to maintain eye contact, fumbling for the appropriate paper cup. By all appearances, the cup is empty — but as Roscoe’s ethereal hand appears next to his head, Theodore tilts the cup over into Roscoe’s palm regardless. The ingredient list beneath the cup reads: DILL, LAVENDER, SOIL.

“I know you don’t like these, but the doctor says they keep you stable, keep you…human, so to speak.”

Roscoe stares back at him, clenching his fist around the medicine.

“They’re still looking for who did it, Roscoe,” Theodore says, quietly. “They think they picked up a lead, they tell me. We’ll get you taken care of, okay?”

The ghostly face nods, his gaze still locked with Theodore’s, and presses his palm to his mouth. There’s an awkward beat in the moment afterward before Theodore ventures: “Do you remember anything yet? About how you died?”

Roscoe shakes his head.

“Do you remember anybody that might have wanted to kill you? The doctor told me to ask.”

Another head shake. 

“Well, whoever it was, I hope they get what’s coming to them,” Theodore says.

 A nod, this time.

“I’m just going to check your port, okay, Roscoe? In case the priest needs to visit.”

Another nod, and Roscoe’s face disappears.

Theodore pulls open the top port and takes a look into the room, dimly lit as it is. The walls are covered in newspaper clippings; Roscoe stands in one corner, staring intently at one of the headlines.

“Alright,” the orderly says. “Goodnight, Roscoe.”

The ghostly boy waves a hand almost absentmindedly before tracing a finger of the other hand over more newspapers. Theodore closes the port, stares at the floor for a few seconds, and then shakes his head and moves on.

—
The fourth door is the velvet one, with the silver cross on the front. Theodore reaches out and takes hold of the ornament, raises it, and lets it drop against the door. Even with the velvet stretched across the metal, the impact makes a satisfying thud, and shortly after, he hears the sound of shuffling feet.

“Is that you, Theo?” comes a voice, elderly and high.

“It’s me, Mrs. Vanita,” says Theodore. “May I open the viewing window?”

“Yes, I’m decent.”

Theodore opens the hatch to give the room and its occupant a quick inspection. An older woman – Theodore often thought of the word “distinguished” when he looked at Mrs. Vanita – peers back at him, and behind her, on the floor, sits a coffin. Even through the door, Theodore can smell the soil in it.

“Theo, I’d like to ask a favor,” Mrs. Vanita says, smiling at him. Even though the woman smiles with her lips together, fangs peek out.

“Yes ma’am?”

“I’d like you to put in a word with the head fellows – the Doctors, yes? I think we need more time in the common room. I know it’s some trouble, but it’s awfully difficult to enjoy a film or play a game of cards with what little time we have.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Mrs. Vanita,” Theodore says. He finds himself very much wanting to do whatever Mrs. Vanita asks of him, a compulsion that rattles in his spine and makes his palms itch, but the sensation passes when she looks away.

“Sorry, dear, hard to turn it off,” the woman says. He realizes he’s standing straight up, shoulders back, and he feels pins and needles in his limbs as he relaxes.

“N-no worries, Mrs. Vanita,” Theodore manages. “You’re trying, and that’s what matters. I have your medicine here.”

“Be a dear and pass it through,” Mrs. Vanita murmurs, keeping her eyes focused on the floor.

Theodore opens the bottom hatch on the door – after a quick, furtive search of the velvet covering, at least – and tilts the paper cup’s contents into Mrs. Vanita’s waiting palm. The ingredient list reads: VERVAIN, GARLIC, MIDODRINE.

“These burn a bit, you know,” the woman murmurs, slowly withdrawing her hand. “They could do something to make this process more pleasant, I feel.”

“I’m told they’re meant to curb your appetite,” Theodore replies, closing the hatch. “But I’ll mention that to them when I ask about the common room, Mrs. Vanita.”

She smiles at him through the viewing port while staring fixedly at his ear.

“Thank you, Theo. You’re a good boy.”

“I try, ma’am,” Theodore says. “Goodnight, Mrs. Vanita.”

“Good morning, Theo.”

—
The last room has a newcomer – one Weston Herbert, who arrived just yesterday. This will be his first night on the ward, and thus his first time meeting me, Theodore thinks to himself.

Mr. Herbert’s door is an odd one, even by the standards of Ward 9: the front of it is covered in strange runes, and Theodore, veteran of many a beach boardwalk, swears he can smell seawater as he stands near it, trying to read them – a course of action he quickly abandons when a stabbing headache erupts behind his eyes.

“Right, right, they told me not to do that,” he mutters to nobody, closing his eyes as the pain subsides. When it’s gone, Theodore affixes his gaze to the viewing port, and gives a polite knock.

“Yes?” Mr. Herbert’s voice is weak, scratchy; Theodore has to strain to hear him.

“Hello, Mr. Herbert,” Theodore says warmly. “I’m Theodore Montgomery, the night orderly. I’m here to give you your medication?”

“Oh, right, medication. Just a moment.”

“I’m going to open the viewing port, is that alright?”

“Er – well it’s…yes, I suppose it’s fine,” stammers Mr. Herbert. “You’ll see the thing anyway.”

“The thing, Mr. Herbert?”

“My arm, Mr. Montgomery,” Mr. Herbert says, wretchedly. “It’s what I’ve done to my arm.”

Theodore, feeling a tinge of alarm, tugs open the viewing port to peer into the room. There’s more of those strange letters on every wall, but standing in the center, beneath the sole fluorescent light, is a man dressed in a sweater vest and khakis, with lank blond hair and an ill-kept mustache curling over his top lip.

His right arm, where it emerges from the rolled up sleeve of his collared shirt, is not a human right arm, but rather resembles that of an octopus.

“Found out…some things I probably shouldn’t have, in my research,” Mr. Herbert mutters. “Tried to play with forces beyond my understanding.”

Theodore coughs, politely, after catching himself staring.

“You’re in good company here, Mr. Herbert,” he says. “Nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve got your medicine here, is all.”

Mr. Herbert appears to relax, his shoulders slouching, and he approaches the door.

“Thank you, Mr. Montgomery,” he says, “What do they have me taking, anyway?”

Theodore eyes the ingredient list for the last cup of pills.

“Says here Clonazepam, Valium and Xanax.”

“Oh, dear, that’s quite a cocktail.”

“It’s to stave off the nightmares, the doctor says,” Theodore replies. “Oh, and I’m supposed to recite something.”

“What is it?”

“Er, I’ll give this my best shot, but I’ve never been the best at sorting out words on the fly,” Theodore says. “Right, erm…”

He reads the words as best he can, then catches his tongue between his teeth once more as the sting of magic returns. God, he hates casting spells.

Mr. Herbert gives a surprised yelp and grips at his right arm, which now looks much more similar to his left one, though the end still doesn’t have any fingers on it. Theodore tries not to stare.

“What the…where did you learn that?”

“It’s here on the sheet, Mr. Herbert. Sorry, didn’t know it would hurt.”

“They just wrote that out for you? What sort of doctors are these people, anyway?” Mr. Herbert stammers, gawking at the viewing port.

“The kind that know how to fix things,” Theodore replies, simply. “Here, Mr. Herbert, hold out your hand.”

Mr. Herbert obliges, and Theodore tilts the pills into his waiting palm.

“Breakfast is at 8. Common room time starts at 9 a.m., Mr. Herbert,” Theodore says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too, Mr. Montgomery,” murmurs Mr. Herbert, clapping his left palm to his mouth and swallowing without taking his eyes off of his right arm.

Theodore closes the viewing port, jots down what he saw on the ingredient list with a pencil from his breast pocket, and starts the trolley back down the hallway.

—
When Theodore returns to the medication window, the light behind it has gone dark entirely. Merrison must have dozed off.

Replacing the trolley back in the closet, Theodore places his note about Mr. Herbert on the spike, signs out as quietly as he can manage and slips out of the hospital and into the cool light of dawn.

It’s a short walk to his apartment; his cat Fido greets him at the door with a plaintive yowl, and Theodore makes a beeline for his kitchen to feed the poor creature. Sunlight has begun peeking through the blinds, and the orderly can feel his shoulders sagging as he slumps toward the bed, Fido following at his heels.

He’s nearly asleep before he hits the mattress, still in his uniform.