This is one of a collection of stories that are like “Final Destination” meets “The Monkey’s Paw” (W. W. Jacobs, 1902). As such, they are tragedies more than either mysteries or horror, and would appeal most to readers who enjoy the inexorable pull of a story arc that leads to doom. In each story, a protagonist makes a wish that comes true with fatal results for someone, often the person making the wish. Nothing supernatural, but just how things work out. (Or is it?) The technical details surrounding the fatal (or near-fatal) event are drawn from real cases in the US OSHA incident report database or similar sources and are therefore entirely realistic, even if seemingly outlandish. The plots draw lightly from cultural beliefs around actions such as pointing at someone with a stick or knife, wishing in front of a mirror, or stepping on a crack.
Stacey sat on a faded wooden bench outside the ED, watching the last of the setting sun dip below the chapel roof. It was her last shift, and she let the tension flow from her hunched shoulders and tired legs. She breathed in the deep purple scent of grape hyacinth in the beds around her, and it filled her mind.
Her bags were crammed into the trunk of a hail-pocked car resting rusted at the far end of the staff lot, her apartment key and paperwork were in the office drop box, and she had no chores left between her shift and the road. It had been a furious week, but a final one, one with no glancing back to see if she was pursued.
The revelation that her online stalker had been admitted for elective surgery had been a shock, but she had recognized him instantly, as prey usually does. To him, though, her face was just one among many uniformed and flitting beings who orbited him in the hospital. She paused to see if recognition would dawn, and perhaps some contrition now that he was faced with the living person whose life he had scavenged, twisted, and broadcast for cheap and passing fun.
She had thought to confront him, to demand recognition and justice, but she understood that for him it would be theater. He would bend her outrage, turn it on her, and leave her empty and charred. She had considered publishing his medical records, but that would be tawdry and just the kind of thing he might do. Many women whose private moments of intimacy or lust had been leaked, spread, and amplified, just for a laugh. Leaking his intimate medical information would be picking up his tools, his way, and seeking redress using his logic. She almost didn’t do anything. She almost let it pass, but standing behind him as he settled into his private suite, she heard him boast to one of his helpers, one of his jackals. She heard him describe “the stupid bitch” whose secrets would be so much fun to reveal. It changed her mind, shifted her thought, hardened her will.
Hospitals are busy and dangerous places, and things can go wrong. Many ampules look alike; many dosages look the same. The little glass vial that she dropped into his medication trolley would seem identical to a nurse who was harried and hungry and needed the restroom. Soon, the vial was empty, and the nurse bustled on in a cloud of busy, thinking ahead to the next patient in a chain of many.
So here it was, her perfect spring evening: the scent of freshly mown lawn, emerging life, and a cool breeze as the sun finally sank from view. By the time her break was done, and the sun was gone, the drug had begun its path, and there was no return. Stacey rose and returned to the remainder of her shift, the hectic press of patients needing her, things to do, smiles to give, and the sweet taste of revenge.
