Speaking in Tongues

water on full force. The pressure from the water ruptured his stomach and several feet of intestine. He died from internal hemorrhaging and shock. Although several patients were nearby when this happened (Matthews, No. 97–4335, and Ketter, No. 91–3212), they could offer no further information. The death was ruled suicide by the medical examiner.
    Megan read through several other files. They were all similar—reports of patients killing themselves. One victim was found in the library. He’d apparently spent hours tearing apart books and magazines, looking for a sheet of paper sturdy enough to slice through the artery in his neck. He finally succeeded.
    She shivered at the thought.
    Someone else had leapt out of a tree and broken his neck. He didn’t die but was paralyzed for life. When asked about why he’d done it he said, “He’d been talking to ‘some patients’ and he realized how pointless life was, how he was never going to get better. Death would bring some peace.”
    Yet another report stated, “Patient Matthews was the last person to see victim alive.” The administrator wondered if he’d been involved and the boy had been interviewed and evaluated but no charges were brought.
    Reading more, she found that not long after the last suicide a reporter from the Washington Times heard of the deaths and filed an investigative report. The state board of examiners looked into the matter and closed the hospital.
    But Megan understood that the deaths weren’t suicides at all. How could they have missed it? Peter Matthews had killed the other patients and somehow covered up the evidence to make the deaths look like suicide.
    She flipped through the rest of the files and clippings.
    Nothing she found told her anything helpful. She shoved them under the bed. What can I do? There has to—
    Then she heard the footsteps.
    Faint at first.
    Oh, no . . . Peter was coming back up the hall.
    Well, he’d missed her before.
    Closer, closer. Very soft now, as if he was trying not to make any noise. But she heard his breathing and remembered the picture of the eerie-looking boy—his twisted mouth, the tip of his pale tongue in the corner of his lips. She remembered the stained sheets and wondered if he was walking around, looking for her, masturbating . . .
    Megan shivered violently. Started to cry. She eased up to the door, put her head against it, listened.
    No sounds from the other side.
    Had he—?
    A fierce pounding on the door. The recoil knocked her to her knees.
    Another crash.
    A whispered voice. “Megan . . .” And in that faint word she heard lust and desperation and hunger. “Megan . . .”
    He knows I’m here . . . He knows who I am!
    Peter was rattling the lock. A few loud slams of a brick or baseball bat on the padlock.
    No, please . . . Why’d Matthews leave her alone with him? As much as she hated the doctor, Megan prayed he’d return.
    “Megannnnnnn?” It now sounded as if the boy was laughing.
    A sudden crash, into the door itself. Then another. And another. Suddenly a rusty metal rod—like the spears in his horrible comic books—crackedthe wood and poked through a few inches. Just as Peter pulled the metal back out Megan leapt into the bathroom, plastered herself against the wall. She heard his breath on the door and she knew he was looking through the hole he’d made. Looking for her.
    “Megan . . .”
    But from that angle he couldn’t see that there was a bathroom; the door was to the side.
    For an eternity she listened to his lecherous breathing. Finally he walked off.
    She started back into the room. But stopped.
    Had he really gone? she wondered.
    She decided she’d wait until dark. Peter might be outside and he’d see her. And if she plugged up the hole he’d know for certain she was there.
    She sat on the toilet, lowered her head to her hands and cried.
    Come on, girl. Get up.
    I can’t. No, I can’t. I’m scared.
    Of course you’re scared, Crazy Megan chides. But what’s that got to do with anything? Lookit that. Lookit the bathroom window.
    Megan looked at the bathroom window.
    No, it’s nuts to think about it.
    You know what you’ve got to do.
    I can’t do it, Megan thought. I just can’t.
    Yeah? What choice’ve you got?
    Megan stood and walked to the window, reached through the bars and touched the filthy glass.
    I can’t.
    Yes, you can!
    Megan crawled back into the room, praying that Peter wasn’t outside the door and looking through