Ink

Dr. Elizabeth Malone sat in a room that smelled of dust and neglect, a space that felt more like the forgotten corner of a family attic than a proper setting for scientific inquiry. The fluorescent light above flickered with an erratic rhythm, its glow hesitant, as though wary of fully illuminating the space. Shadows wavered with each pulse, elongating and then snapping back, as if something unseen were toying with them.

A battered cardboard box sat in the corner, its label scrawled in faded black marker. XMAS DECORATIONS. Inside, tangled garlands gleamed with dull tinsel. Half-crushed bows sagged beneath the weight of time. Among them, the nativity figurines stood stiff and silent, their painted eyes reflecting each erratic flash of light.

The Virgin Mary’s face, chipped at the edges, seemed to waver between sorrow and something more inscrutable. The baby Jesus, its tiny plaster features cracked, looked almost unnatural in the flickering half-light, its mouth slightly open, as though whispering something only the shadows could hear.

Elizabeth adjusted in her chair, ensuring her posture remained upright and professional. She removed her glasses, folded the arms with methodical care, and slid them into the pocket of her blouse beneath a grey sweater vest. She placed a neatly arranged stack of inkblot cards beside her laptop. A small black box blinked in time with the computer, its mechanical pulse unsettling in the unsteady light.

Across from her, Mr. Omnia sat rigid in his chair, fingers curled around a small remote, thumb hovering over the button. His gaze fixed on the card she held up, yet there was an absence in his eyes, as though he were staring through it. Beyond it.

“Whenever you are ready, Mr. Omnia,” Elizabeth said, her tone even and precise.

He hesitated before pressing the button. A faint click punctuated the heavy silence.

Elizabeth placed the card down and lifted another from the pile. “Again, please.”

Mr. Omnia exhaled, the sound so shallow it barely registered. He flicked his gaze toward her, something unspoken lingering in his expression.

“Can I ask a question?” he murmured, his voice nearly swallowed by the stillness of the room.

Elizabeth maintained her composure, though a flicker of impatience crossed her features. “If it pertains to the inkblot, I must insist that you refrain. We have discussed this. My knowledge of the card would compromise the integrity of the study.”

He sighed, deeper this time, and returned his attention to the inkblot. After a moment, he pressed the button again.

Click.

“And another card,” she said, presenting it with the same measured calm.

Something in him shifted. His fingers tightened around the remote, knuckles blanching to an unnatural white. His shoulders slumped, pressing deeper into the sagging chair. His breathing slowed, turned dry, each inhale a rasping whisper.

Then the lights convulsed.

Brightness and darkness stuttered too fast, too erratic. The room seemed to pulse in and out of existence, each flicker subtly altering the space. Shadows spasmed across the walls, stretching impossibly tall before collapsing into needle-thin slivers.

The Christmas figurines became grotesque in the broken light. Mary’s sorrowful gaze hollowed into dark, empty sockets. Joseph’s face warped into something lean and predatory. The baby Jesus gaped, mouth cavernous, frozen mid-scream.

Mr. Omnia’s hand trembled as he pressed the button one last time.

Click.

Elizabeth lowered the card as the lights steadied, their frantic pulse dimming into an uneasy hum.

“My apologies, Mr. Omnia,” she said, her voice retaining its composed cadence. “I recognise this environment is less than ideal. Entirely too many distractions.”

She gathered the inkblot cards, glancing toward the shelf stacked with dusty ornaments and half-forgotten oddities. “I instructed the caretaker to refrain from using this room for storage. He assured me the bulb would be replaced.”

She returned to her laptop, fingers hovering over the keys, then paused.

The air felt different now. Heavier.

Elizabeth looked up.

Mr. Omnia was staring, not at her, but at the farthest, dimmest corner of the room. Colour had drained from his face. His lips were parted slightly. His pupils were vast and unfocused.

“Mr. Omnia?” she said, lowering her voice.

He didn’t respond at first. Then, after too long, he blinked and shook himself, as though breaking free from something unseen.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Did you say something?”

Elizabeth studied him carefully. “Are you feeling unwell? You appear unsettled.”

He swallowed. Slow. Deliberate. “Slept poorly last night,” he said. “You know how it is. When I’m tired.”

A thought surfaced in Elizabeth’s mind, one that made her choose her next words with care.

“Are you seeing them now?”

He hesitated, then gave a barely perceptible nod. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I always see them. But it’s worse when I haven’t slept.”

His eyes flicked to the nativity scene, and this time, he didn’t look away.

Elizabeth closed her laptop and reached for her notepad instead. The room felt colder, as though the flickering light had leeched the warmth from the air. She tugged at her sweater vest, trying to draw it tighter around her torso, fingers stiff with unease.

She retrieved her glasses and slid them back onto her face.

At the top of a fresh page, she wrote:

Mr. S. Omnia
Hallucinations
Session #2

“Describe what you see,” she instructed, her voice softer now, deliberate, steadying her grip on the pen.

Mr. Omnia’s gaze flickered to the corner of the room, then back to her. His breath grew unsteady, chest rising and falling in shallow, quickened bursts.

“It doesn’t like me looking at it,” he whispered, pressing his forehead with a shaking hand, fingers trembling as if resisting an unseen force.

Elizabeth leaned in, her voice gentle but firm. “What does it look like, Mr. Omnia? Any details you can provide would be most helpful.”

He began to rock in his chair, arms folded tight across his chest, eyes darting around the room, never settling for long.

“It’s… just a shadow,” he murmured, barely audible.

The overhead light shuddered violently, casting jagged slashes of darkness across the walls. The nativity figurines on the shelf twitched in the strobing flashes, their painted eyes catching the flickering glow in strange, unnatural ways.

Mary’s sorrowful face distorted, her painted pupils hollowing into endless pits. The baby Jesus, nestled in his chipped manger, no longer looked serene. His tiny features warped between flashes, his mouth hanging open wider than before, stretching past the limits of plaster.

Elizabeth forced her gaze away, her voice precise and controlled. “Excellent. You’re doing well. Can you provide any further details?”

Mr. Omnia clenched his eyes shut, groaning softly, as though the effort itself caused pain.

“Mr. Omnia,” she pressed, her tone hardening with authority, “I cannot assist you unless you articulate what you are seeing.”

He opened his eyes again, staring past Elizabeth toward the dark corner. The fluorescent light hummed, its rhythm sputtering into frantic irregularity. Shadows jerked and quivered, stretching and retracting as if something shifted beneath them.

Elizabeth muttered a curse under her breath and glanced up at the light.

“It really doesn’t like me looking at it,” he said, his voice tight with fear. “Please. Don’t make me look again. It’s worse when I do. It’ll keep me awake all night. It prefers when I pretend it’s not there.”

A slow chill crept down Elizabeth’s spine.

“Just one more observation,” she said carefully, though the room had grown colder. “If we can understand what it is, we may finally be able to address it. That is what you want, is it not?”

He made a low, strangled sound and nodded, still staring toward the corner. His lips parted, but no words came. Seconds stretched.

Finally, he spoke.

“It’s like a shadow with no depth. I think it wants to look like a person, but it’s wrong.”

A second light in the room began to flicker.

Elizabeth shivered and glanced briefly behind her, unable to locate the source of the sudden draft. The air carried an unnatural bite now, cold enough to twist her stomach. She tugged her sweater vest tighter, fingers whitening around the pen.

“Remain calm, Mr. Omnia,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “One final observation. Any further description will be beneficial.”

He froze, still as stone, his eyes fixed on her. His breathing sounded wrong now, ragged, like air drawn through shattered glass. His gaze hardened, lips forming each word with care.

“It’s so angry.”

Elizabeth’s grip tightened. She became acutely aware of her own pulse, of the air pressing inward, humming with something unseen.

“Please, Mr. Omnia,” she said. “One final look, and we will conclude today’s session.”

Through clenched teeth, he answered, eyes wild and hollow. “But I am looking at it.”

He raised a trembling hand and pointed just over her shoulder.

“You’ve really pissed it off.”

The clicking began again. Rapid. Unnatural. Like insect legs tapping against glass.

Elizabeth’s stomach lurched. Every hair on her body stood on end.

Then she turned.

Her stool clattered to the floor as she spun toward the doorway, breath caught in her throat.

A shape stood there.

Still. Silent.

The fluorescent light steadied.

The weary face of the caretaker came into view, broom in hand.

“Sorry,” he said, shifting awkwardly. “If I’d known you and Skippy were in here, I’d have knocked first.”

His eyes flicked between them, oblivious to the tension clinging to the room like cobwebs.

Elizabeth drew a sharp breath, grounding herself. She pressed a hand to her chest and exhaled slowly before straightening. Her composure snapped back into place, though her fingers still tingled.

“Henceforth, assume I shall be present,” she said crisply, adjusting the cuffs of her blouse. She bent to retrieve her stool. “I will be utilising this space more frequently. My transition to this facility is nearly complete.”

The caretaker twisted the broom handle between his hands. “Sure. Won’t happen again, Cupcake.”

She straightened and looked at him coolly. “Please address me as Doctor Malone,” she said. “Especially in front of patients.”

He nodded. “Noted, Doctor Malone.”

Elizabeth held his gaze a moment longer, assessing, then turned back to Mr. Omnia. Her tone softened, though her professionalism remained intact.

“That will be all for today, Mr. Omnia. You performed admirably. Thank you for your continued participation in this study. I sincerely believe we are making progress.”

Mr. Omnia nodded, though his gaze lingered on the corner of the room a moment longer. Then, as if shaking off a weight, he picked up an inkblot card from the desk and handed it to Elizabeth.

“See you next week, Dr Malone.”

His smile was hesitant and uncertain as he stepped toward the door.

The caretaker moved aside, watching Mr. Omnia leave. When he turned back, he found Elizabeth already looking at him, her expression hardening the instant Mr. Omnia was out of earshot.

“I distinctly recall requesting that this room be cleared of unnecessary clutter last week,” she said, her words clipped and efficient. The caretaker opened his mouth, hands lifting slightly, but she continued without pause. “How am I expected to conduct my work in an environment resembling a neglected storage closet? The only source of natural light is obstructed by an absurd stockpile of blue paper towels, and the flickering fluorescents have yet to be addressed. This space is intended for professional patient assessments, not as an afterthought to maintenance storage.”

The caretaker exhaled, patting the air in a placating gesture. “I’m really sorry. I’m stretched thin around here. This place keeps me busy, what with these maniacs and all the spills and repairs. But I’m working on it.”

He pointed toward the corner, where a pair of five-foot fluorescent light fixtures leaned against the wall, half-hidden behind a shelf stacked with supplies. “Those are the old lights. I swapped out the fittings entirely. I couldn’t find anything wrong with the tubes, so I figured replacing the whole fixture would sort it.”

Elizabeth followed his gesture, then glanced up at the ceiling. Only now did she notice the patchy paintwork where the new fittings had been installed. Their outlines failed to fully cover the marks left by the original fixtures.

Her irritation softened into mild embarrassment.

“You’re telling me the lights are still flickering?” the caretaker said, leaning on his broom with a tired sigh. “Great. That means it’s a wiring problem. Just what I need.”

Elizabeth’s expression eased. “I must apologise. I hadn’t realised you’d gone to the extent of replacing them entirely. If there’s anything I can do to assist in clearing away this disorder…”

The caretaker shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Nah. Leave it with me. Hopefully the loony tunes stop pissing in the corridors long enough for me to lug this junk outta here.”

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, though a glimmer of amusement crept into her eyes. “Thank you. I shall take extra care while navigating the hallways, Mr…?”

“Mr. Black,” he said with a nod. He turned toward the door. “See you tomorrow, Cup… Dr. Malone.”

She hesitated, then called after him. “My apologies for my earlier demeanour. You may call me Elizabeth. Or Effy, if you prefer.”

The caretaker paused, just briefly, as if weighing the offer. Then he continued out into the hall.

“Goodbye, Dr. Malone.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Elizabeth remained still, absorbing the exchange.

I am not doing a particularly good job of making friends here.

Her gaze dropped to the inkblot card Mr. Omnia had handed her. She turned it over absently.

Then she froze.

The ink had settled into something unmistakably wrong. Within the tangled swirls of black, a figure loomed. Tall. Almost human. And yet, disturbingly, not.

A chill crept up her spine.

The fluorescent lights overhead gave one final, feeble flicker before settling into a dim, uneasy hum.