Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Records
The sixth-floor psychiatric wing was a labyrinth of locked fire doors, pale green walls, and flickering fluorescent lights that hummed a low, ominous tune.
I clutched the heavy security radio in my right hand, its green power light glowing faintly against my palm. Down the hall, the central nurses' station was empty, the night-shift staff presumably clustered in the break room down the west wing.
I didn't head for the elevators. Elevators required keycards, and they were monitored by cameras tied directly to the security desk on the ground floor.
Instead, I spotted the heavy red sign reading STAIRWELL B near the corner junction.
I pushed the metal bar of the fire door and slipped inside, the heavy door clicking shut behind me with a muffled thud. The stairwell was cool, smelling of concrete dust and industrial cleaning fluid. I began descending the steps, holding tightly to the metal handrail to keep my balance as my swollen stomach threw off my center of gravity.
Floor five. Floor four. Floor three.
By the time I reached the second floor, my legs were trembling with exhaustion, and a dull, persistent ache had settled into my lower back. I paused on the concrete landing, gasping for breath, pressing my hand against my belly.
“Easy, Noah,” I whispered into the dimness. “We’re almost out.”
As I reached to push open the second-floor stairwell door to check my bearings, a low, modulated voice crackled to life from the security radio in my hand.
“Control to Unit Four. Status report on Room 612. We have a Code Grey in progress.”
I froze, my thumb hovering over the volume dial.
A moment later, a second voice replied—distorted by static, but unmistakably clear.
“Unit Four is down. Patient escaped the room. Repeat, patient is ambulatory and off the unit. Lock down all primary exits. Dr. Reed wants her contained before the morning administrative audit.”
Dr. Reed.
The man who had stood beside my bed and calmly tried to convince me that my thirty-two-week-old son was nothing more than a rapidly growing pelvic mass.
I couldn't go out through the main lobby. If the entire hospital was on lockdown, every exit would be watched by private security and hospital administrators acting on Dr. Reed’s orders.
I needed to find the medical records department.
If Dr. Grant and Dr. Ross had managed to wipe my pregnancy from the digital hospital database in a matter of hours, there had to be a physical paper trail somewhere—a binder, an intake sheet, a blood-work requisition form signed by a nurse who hadn't been bought off by the administration.
I pushed open the second-floor door and stepped out into the main administrative corridor.
Unlike the sterile psychiatric wing, this floor was lined with dark wood paneling, rows of historical portrait photographs of hospital benefactors, and heavy oak doors marked with brass nameplates.
MEDICAL RECORDS & HEALTH INFORMATION MANAGEMENT.
The door was locked. Of course it was.
I looked down at the heavy metal security radio in my hand. Then I looked at the brass doorknob.
Desperate times required desperate measures. I lifted the radio by its heavy rubberized antenna and brought the bottom corner down hard against the brass lock mechanism with a dull CLANG.
The metal housing cracked, but the lock held.
I swung it again. CLANG!
The internal tumblers gave way with a sharp snap. I twisted the handle, shoved the door open, and slipped inside into the dark, paper-scented sanctuary of the archives.
I clicked on a small desk lamp sitting on the nearest clerk’s station, casting a warm pool of yellow light across the room. Row upon row of metal filing cabinets stretched away into the shadows.
I didn't have time to search every cabinet. I needed my specific patient file—the physical binder that preceded the digital purge.
I ran to the computer terminal on the main desk. It was logged in under a generic staff profile. I opened the hospital’s enterprise software, typing my own name into the global search bar: MILLER, CLAIRE.
The screen flashed.
NO RECORDS FOUND.
My fingers flew across the keyboard. I tried my social security number.
NO RECORDS FOUND.
I tried Mark’s name: MILLER, MARK.
RECORD FOUND.
I clicked on his file. It opened instantly.
According to the screen, Mark Miller was a primary contact for outpatient counseling services related to severe grief and trauma management following a tragic miscarriage three years ago.
Attached to his file was a digital intake questionnaire—filled out and digitally signed by Mark himself.
I scrolled down, my eyes scanning the text until my breath caught in my throat.
“Patient’s spouse, Claire Miller, suffers from recurring delusions of pregnancy following a spontaneous abortion in 2023. She frequently creates imaginary nurseries, purchases infant supplies, and exhibits phantom abdominal swelling driven by acute psychological distress. Requesting administrative authorization for voluntary psychiatric evaluation and medical intervention upon manifestation of pseudo-pregnancy episodes.”
The date on the electronic signature was August 14, 2023—three years ago.
No, wait. I looked closer at the timestamp.
The year had been altered. The signature had been uploaded, backdated, and digitally authenticated yesterday morning—just hours before Dr. Grant told me there was no baby.
Mark hadn't just gone along with their lies.
Mark had built the trap.
He was the one who had set up the fake medical history, authorized the psychological intervention, and signed away my rights as a mother before I even stepped foot inside the examination room.
Why? Why would my husband—the man who painted the nursery green, who kissed my stomach every night, who cried with joy when we saw the ultrasound—why would he conspire with a hospital to steal our son?
Before I could process the terrifying answer, a bright beam of light swept across the hallway outside the open office door, casting long shadows against the filing cabinets.
May you like
“Check the records office!” a sharp voice commanded from the corridor. “Security logs show an unauthorized terminal login on this floor!”
I scrambled back from the desk, my heart hammering against my ribs, just as heavy footsteps turned down the hallway toward the open door.
