The Haunting of Pier 56

Chapter 10—A Slow Recovery

Author's Note: Wow... Chapter 10! It's amazing how much I've put into this story... The following chapter is from Mark's point-of-view, but it may be a little different than what you're expecting.

Now, I KNOW that there are people that read this. So please take just a minute to review! Even if you don't like it. You have no idea how much a little review helps... In the meantime, enjoy the following chapter!

When I opened my eyes, I immediately closed them. Everything hurt terribly; it was too much for me right now to take in my surroundings.

I was obviously in the hospital—as I began to remember what had happened, anxiety began to worm its way into my brain. My mother must be worried sick about me! …And Otto.

Otto… I wonder if Otto even knew about it. About what happened? I didn't know. I didn't know anything.

I couldn't think. It hurt too much to even think.

I closed my eyes and regretted it, my mind shutting down as I fell into darkness…

The next time I opened my eyes, a face was in front of my blurred vision. "Mark! Oh, Mark!"

My mother hugged me.

"Ouch," I managed to mumble. That had hurt. Everything still hurt. The pain was only a little less than before; still excruciating to the point of insanity.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, dear!" she exclaimed. She brushed some hair off my face. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," I managed to blurt out in a whisper. My vision was kind of blurry; my chest, legs, and head hurt something terribly. Maybe I needed more pain killers.

"Oh, honey…" Mom touched my forehead. "We'll find the person who did this. I promise."

I nodded my head incoherently, closing my eyes. For some reason, I was really tired again. So tired…

I hear mumbling, the string of incoherent words growing louder as I became more awake. I felt something cold brush against my forehead. A chilly breeze sweeps through the room, and even though I'm not quite… here… I think I know who it is.

I try to sit up. Bad idea. I cried out as my body screamed in protest. The cold breeze came back, hovering next to me as though it was a sentinel. I fluttered my eyes and saw the ghost.

"O-Otto?"

"Yes, Mark," the voice said calmly. "I'm here."

How did Otto find out? I wondered dimly. But… there was a more important question to ask the ghost. He would know the answer to this question.

"Otto…"

"What is it, Mark?" the voice asked, concern showing through.

I opened my eyes again and looked at the ghost. Really looked at him. Or through him, that is. Maybe it was because my vision was blurred, but he seemed faded somehow. Other than that, though, the ghost looked the same as ever in physical appearance.

I tried to clear my throat before asking the question I knew he knew the answer to. "Otto… what's it like to die?"

The ghost turned away. "Oh, God, Mark. Please don't ask me that," he replied, his voice cracking. "You're not going to die."

I felt like I was going to die. I knew it was a possibility, a pretty high possibility. Otto would know what it was like; he had died. He hadn't described his death in detail, but I knew it had been very painful.

Like mine was going to be if I did die, which seemed almost probable.

I closed my eyes to a swirl of color. I felt very dizzy and the blackness greeted me again as an escape from the never ending pain…

The next few times I woke up I can't really remember much of it. Just my mother; my aunt Jemima was there once, I remember. But it's all a blur. My minutes of wakefulness are mingled; blurred with my memories.

I saw long forgotten memories of my father, of Otto; of both of them, and it confused me. Finally, I remembered what my mother had suppressed for years. I had known Otto before he died...

"This is Otto," my father said, pointing to the rather friendly looking man wearing a long winter overcoat. "He's a good friend of mine."

Otto kneeled next to me and shook my hand. "And what is your name, young man?" he asked me politely.

"I'm Mark," I said proudly. "What do you do for a living?" I blurted out.

My daddy's friend seemed surprised. He pointed to himself. "Me?"

I nodded. "Uh-huh."

He smiled. "I'm a scientist, Mark. Through science, we make the world a better place."

I was content with that explanation and nodded happily. "Cool!"

Otto stood up. "I'm going to go talk with your father now, okay, Mark? I'll be at dinner, so I'll see you soon." He left the room.

Going towards the stairwell, I heard Daddy and Otto talking.

"He'll grow up to be a fine young man, John. I just feel it."

"Really, Otto? You really think so?"

"I really think so," the other voice said confidently. "He's a curious boy. He'll make a great man someday, John."

Their voices faded away after that, and I walked up the stairs to my room…

My father sat at the kitchen table, head in his hands. I was eight years old. I approached him. He seemed to be crying, his sobs making an actual sound. "Dad!" I gasped. "What's wrong?"

He lifted his head, and sure enough, there were tears on his face. He shook his head. "Nothing, son. Nothing that need concern you."

My mother came into the room at that moment. She looked… almost smug. "I told you, John. He was bound to do something like that eventually."

"Shut up, Nancy," my father snarled angrily.

I was extremely confused. "What's going on, Dad?" I demanded to know.

My father sighed. "You're going to find out at school anyway." He motioned to the newspaper sitting on the table. "You remember our family friend, Otto, don't you, son?"

"Yeah, I do, but…"

My father shook his head and took the paper in his hands. "Otto had a demonstration last night. It went horribly wrong somehow. I don't know the details, but his wife is dead." My father paused, taking a deep breath. "My guess is to what happened next is as good as anybody's. But they... they're calling him a monster now. A... a freak." He put his head in his hands.

I picked up the paper. "FORMER SCIENTIST ESCAPES FROM HOSPITAL, KILLING TEN" the headline screamed. Underneath the headline was a photograph of my father's friend, a maniacal determination in his eyes. But the strangest part about the picture was the metal looking... things hovering around him. I shuddered. "What are those?" I said, pointing to the picture.

My father frowned. "I'll tell you later, son," he said, his voice cracking. "I... I need to be alone." With that, he walked out of the room. A few seconds later, I heard a door slam.

I stared at the photograph solemnly, not completely understanding what was going on but knowing it was bad. What had happened to him?

"Come on, now. Wake up, son…" Something cold was shaking my shoulder.

'Son'… There had only been one person that had called me that to my memory. I fluttered my eyes, hoping against hope that it was who it was.

"Dad?"

I opened my eyes and found myself in the same white room again. No one was there. But… someone had said something… I had been sure of it…

"Dad?" I asked again, hoping that at least someone was here.

"Mark… I'm not your father. As much as I'd like to be…" the voice cracked, and a shimmery see-through substance appeared in front of me. It was barely visible.

"O-tto?"

The translucent figure nodded. "Yes. Mark…" The figure shook its head, his eyes looking distant and sad. "I think I'm going to leave now…"

"No…!" I said, a little more loudly than I should have. I started coughing hard. After it was over, I said, more softly, "Please stay, Otto. At least for a little bit."

The spirit sat down at the foot of my bed. He didn't say anything for a while, and my eyes drooped…

I woke up again, and the ghost was still sitting on my bed. He was staring out the darkened window silently. "Otto?"

The ghost looked up and turned to me. "Mark," he said mournfully. "I was wondering when you would wake up." He paused. "How are you? Are you feeling any better?"

"A little," I admitted. "How long have I been sleeping?"

The ghost sighed softly, shrugging. "I don't know. A few hours, at least." He turned away from me. "I stopped measuring time years ago."

I struggled to sit up in my bed, wincing from the stabbing pain in my chest. With a rapid movement, the ghost moved forward and held out a translucent hand as if to stop me. "No… Don't do that, Mark. You need your rest."

Taking Otto's advice, I laid back down.

"Mark…"

"Yeah, Otto?"

He turned back to me then, and on his translucent countenance I saw a twisted face of anger and sadness. "Who did this?" he demanded. "Who did this to you?"

I shook my head. "I don't… I don't know, Otto." I tried to remember… but, nothing. "My memories are kind of clouded at the moment..."

"That's alright, Mark. Just, if you remember, I want to know."

"Alright," I said, surprisingly more alert now than I had been since the accident. Granted, the pain was still there (and it would be for a long time) but I felt more awake; less delirious and restless than before. I felt at least a little hope despite the fact that everything still hurt like hell.

Otto went over to my bedside. He took my hand, and put it in his barely visible one. "Hang in there, Mark."

I nodded. "I will, Otto. Thank you."

"Whatever you do, Mark, don't give up on yourself. Just... Never give up on yourself." With that, he disappeared from my line of vision, and I sighed, wide awake for the first time in… Well, I'm not even sure when. I just knew that I was feeling… A little better.

Suddenly, my mother breezed into the room. "Mark?" she asked, looking as concerned as ever.

I nodded my head, trying to speak but my tongue not wanting to cooperate. "Hi….. Mom."

Mom sat down next to me in a chair. She shivered. "Why is it so cold in here? Did one of the nurses leave the window open on you?"

I smiled a little, knowing what my mother would never know. "I have no idea."