Hank's Radio: Haunted Collection Series Book 4

219 pages

Chapter 3: Old Time Radio

“Sofie, have you seen Kristine this morning?” Shelly asked.

Sofie Han put her coffee cup down and shook her head. “No, now that you mention it, I haven’t.”

Getting up grabbing the master key for their floor, Sofie said, “I’ll go and check on her.”

As she made her way down the south corridor, Sofie said hello and greeted some of the residents. She, like all of the nurses, regardless of the shift, knew their wards and charges by name. It had been one of the selling points when she had decided to go for interviews for the position. Sofie had trained in a nursing home where the care could best be described as benign neglect.

And that hadn’t been why she had become a nurse. She had chosen her career path because she wanted to help people like Kristine. Elders who had no one left, and who had to rely on the system to take care of them.

When she reached the door to Kristine’s small apartment, she paused and listened. If Kristine was awake, the television would be on. The woman was religious about her viewing of certain daytime soap operas and talk shows. Kristine watched Good Morning, America, then wandered down to the rec room for coffee with the Stark sisters.

Today, Kristine hadn’t come down for coffee. And when people broke their routines in the Arel Home, it was generally a bad sign.

Only silence greeted Sofie as she strained to hear, and after a minute of fruitless waiting, she knocked on the door. Lightly at first, then with greater force. She knocked a third time, and when Kristine still didn’t respond, Sofie used the key to enter the room.

She winced as she stepped across the threshold, the air in the room painfully cold and stinging her lungs with each inhalation. A vague, sour odor reached her nose, and her shoulders slumped.

It was the smell of death.

She passed through the small kitchenette and entered the sitting room, where she found Kristine doing exactly that.

Sitting in an overstuffed chair, her knitting on her lap, needles loose in her hands. Her head was tilted back, the jaw hanging down to reveal a toothless mouth.

Sofie’s shoulders slumped, saddened to see the older woman dead. Then Sofie’s back stiffened as she caught sight of Kristine’s throat.

There was a thin, black line around it. As if someone had drawn on a choker, much as the woman in the 1940s had drawn on the lines of nylon stockings during the Second World War.

It was an unnatural, hideous desecration of Kristine’s pale flesh, and the sight of it caused Sofie to shudder.

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