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 under the weight of time, and 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, professional. She removed her glasses, methodically folded the arms before sliding them into her blouse pocket, beneath a grey sweater-vest. She then placed a neatly arranged stack of inkblot cards beside her laptop. A small black box blinked in time with her computer, its mechanical pulse unnerving in the unsteady light.

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

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

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

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

Mr. Omnia exhaled, the sound so shallow it barely existed. 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 touched 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, studying it before pressing the button once more.

Click . . .

“And, another card,” she stated, presenting it with the same measured composure.

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

Then, the lights convulsed.

A frantic stutter of brightness and darkness . . . too fast, too erratic. The room seemed to pulse in and out of existence, each flicker altering the space. Shadows jerked and spasmed across the walls, stretching impossibly tall before shrinking into needle-thin slivers. The Christmas figurines, caught mid-flash, became grotesque in their new form . . . Mary’s sorrowful gaze hollowed into dark, empty sockets. Joseph, his face warped in the uneven glow, no longer resembled a humble carpenter but something lean, predatory. And the baby Jesus . . . his open mouth now gaping, cavernous, as if frozen mid-scream.

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

Click . . .

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

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

She gathered the inkblot cards, casting a glance 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 he would also replace that bulb.”

She resumed her notes on the laptop, yet a shift in the air made her pause. There was a weight now, an unspoken presence in the room. She looked up to find Mr. Omnia staring . . . not at her, but at the farthest, dimmest corner of the space. His face had drained of colour, his lips parted slightly, his pupils vast and unfocused.

“Mr. Omnia?” she prompted, lowering her voice slightly.

He did not respond at first, his attention fixed on something beyond her perception. Then, after too long a silence, he blinked, shaking himself from whatever held him captive.

“Sorry, Doc,” he murmured, his voice thin and strained. “You say something?”

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

He swallowed, slow and deliberate. “Slept poorly last night,” he admitted. “You know how it is, Doc… when I’m tired.”

A thought surfaced in Elizabeth’s mind, one that made her tread her next words with care. “Are you seeing them… now?”

He hesitated, then gave a barely perceptible nod. His voice was barely more than 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.

She slowly closed her laptop, reaching for her notepad instead. The room felt colder now, as if the flickering lights had stolen the warmth from the air. She pulled at her sweater-vest, trying to persuade it to cover more than just her torso, her fingers stiff with an unease she couldn’t quite place. She retrieved her previously pocketed glasses and placed them on her face. At the top of a fresh page, she scribbled a quick line of text: 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 shaky hand, fingers trembling as though 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 started to rock in his chair, arms folded tightly across his chest, his eyes darting around the room, never fully settling. “It’s… just a shadow,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

The overhead light shuddered violently, casting jagged slashes of darkness across the walls. The nativity figurines on the shelf twitched in the strobe . . . like flashes, their painted eyes catching the flickering glow in strange, unnatural ways. Mary’s sorrowful face seemed to distort, 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 confines of its plaster form.

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

Mr. Omnia clenched his eyes shut, groaning softly, as if the effort was physically painful.

“Mr. Omnia,” she pressed, her tone taking on the weight of authority, “I cannot assist you unless you articulate what you are seeing.”

He opened his eyes again, staring past Elizabeth at a dark corner of the room. The fluorescent light hummed, its steady rhythm suddenly sputtering out into a frantic, erratic flicker. Shadows jerked and quivered, stretching and retracting like something was shifting beneath them. Elizabeth cursed under her breath, glancing up at the light.

“It really doesn’t like me looking at it,” he muttered, his voice fraught with tension. “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.”

The words sent a slow, creeping chill down Elizabeth’s spine.

“Just one more observation,” she encouraged, her voice measured, though the atmosphere of the room had grown cold. “If we can comprehend what it is, we may finally be able to address it. That is what you want, is it not?”

He let out a low, strangled sound, nodding, still staring towards the corner. His lips parted, but no words came for a long moment. Then, finally, “It’s… 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, glancing behind herself briefly, unable to identify where the draft was coming from. The air carried a bite now, an unnatural, bone-deep cold that made her stomach twist. She tugged her sweater-vest tighter, almost hugging herself, her fingers going white around the pen.

“Remain calm, Mr. Omnia,” she instructed, though she had to steel herself against her own growing unease. “One final observation. Any further description will be beneficial.”

He was silent, still as stone, his eyes fixed on her. His breathing sounded wrong now . . . ragged, like someone inhaling through shattered glass. His gaze grew colder, his lips forming the words slowly, deliberately. “It’s… so angry, Doc.”

Elizabeth’s grip tightened around her pen. She was acutely aware of the accelerating rhythm of her own heartbeat, of the air pressing in around them, humming with something unseen. “Please, Mr. Omnia. One final look, and we will conclude our session.”

Through gritted teeth, he responded, his eyes wild and haunted, “But I am looking at it, Doc.”

He lifted a trembling hand, pointing just over her shoulder. “You’ve really pissed it off.”

The clicking started again. Rapid, unnatural, like insect legs tapping against glass.

Elizabeth’s stomach lurched. Every hair on her body stood on end. Then, before she could stop herself, she turned.

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

A shape loomed in the doorway, still, silent . . . 

The fluorescent light stuttered back into steadiness, revealing the weary face of the caretaker, broom in hand.

“Sorry,” he said, shifting awkwardly. “If I’d known you were in here, I’d have knocked first.” His eyes flicked between them, unaware of the thick unease that clung to the room like cobwebs.

Elizabeth inhaled sharply, grounding herself, pressing a hand against her chest in a slow exhale before straightening her posture. Her composure returned in an instant, though her fingers still tingled with residual adrenaline. “Henceforth, assume I shall be present,” she instructed crisply, adjusting the cuffs of her blouse .” She bent down to retrieve her stool. “I will be utilising this space more frequently. My transition to this facility is nearly complete.”

The caretaker twisted the handle of his broom between his hands, his expression unreadable. “Sure, no problem. It won’t happen again, Elizabeth.”

She straightened, pausing to look at him with narrowed eyes. “Please, call me Doctor Malone,” she said firmly, “especially in front of patients.”

The caretaker nodded. “Noted, Doctor Malone.”

Elizabeth’s eyes remained on him for a moment longer, assessing. Then she turned back to Mr. Omnia, her tone softening slightly, but retaining its firm professionalism. “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, but 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, Doc.” His smile was hesitant, uncertain, before he stepped toward the door.

The caretaker moved aside, watching Mr. Omnia as he left, then turned back . . . only to find Elizabeth’s eyes already on him, her expression hardening the moment 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, efficient. The caretaker opened his mouth, hands raised slightly, but she did not grant him space to interject. “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 to calm her down. “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 couple of five-foot fluorescent light fixtures leaned against the wall, half-hidden behind a shelf piled with supplies. “Those are the old lights. I swapped out the fittings entirely… I couldn’t find anything wrong with the tubes, so I thought replacing the whole fixture would fix it.”

Elizabeth looked at the fixtures, then glanced up at the ceiling. She hadn’t even noticed the patchy paintwork where the new lights had been fitted. Their shape didn’t entirely cover the marks made by the original fixtures. Her irritation faded into mild embarrassment.

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

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

The caretaker shook his head with a faint smile. “Nah, let’s see how it goes. If this stuff’s gone by the time you get back, then it’ll mean a miracle happened and half the patients here stopped pissing themselves in the corridors.”

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, though amusement glinted in her eyes. “That was… exceptionally vivid. Thank you for that mental image. If this remains unresolved, I shall take extra care while navigating the hallways, Mr..?”

“Black. Mr. Black.” The caretaker nodded, then turned and headed to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr. Malone.”

Elizabeth hesitated briefly. “Apologies for my earlier demeanour,” she called after him. “You may call me Elizabeth… or Effy, if you prefer.”

The caretaker paused for just a moment, as though considering her words, then continued out the door. “Goodbye, Dr. Malone,” he called over his shoulder.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Elizabeth stood still, processing Mr Blacks words. She was not doing a great job of acquiring friends at the institute.

Then, her gaze dropped to the inkblot card Mr. Omnia had handed her. She turned it over absent-mindedly . . . then froze.

The ink had formed something unnatural. There, within the chaotic swirls of black, a figure loomed . . . a tall silhouette that looked almost human, yet disturbingly . . . not.

A deep chill crawled up her spine. The fluorescent lights above gave a final, feeble flicker before settling into a dim, uneasy hum.