“Martin... wait. Help me... please.”
His hand clung to the doorknob, ready to press it down and flee. The voice from under the blanket was faint, yet urgent.
“Only you can help me.”
Martin’s stomach tightened. What was he supposed to do? What was he even afraid of? His life? But what life? Maybe this was just a dream... but painfully real. He let go of the knob.
Step by step, he drew closer to the figure in the wheelchair. The head came into view. In the dim light from the hallway, it looked ghastly -gray, stiff, corpse-like.
“Good, you’re here, Martin,” the gaunt face spoke, bulging eyes fixed on him. “I need to ask you for something.”
“Find my daughter. She’s terrified for me, and I can’t reach her anymore. I regret arguing with her before I left. We never said goodbye. And then... the train I was on crashed.”
Headlines flashed through Martin’s mind. A terrible tragedy.
“It wasn’t supposed to end this way. Please, tell her. You must tell her.”
Then he felt it - a cold hand on his skin. His heart nearly stopped - and... he woke up.
***
“Where am I? Right... the guesthouse near our outpost at the ‘end of the world.’ Another day in the warehouse. More detective work.”
For a moment, fragments of the night’s vision clung to him, but they soon drowned in thoughts of missing goods. Reality took over. On his way out, he passed the hospital. It seemed familiar, though he couldn’t recall why.
At work, they dissected every possible method of theft. Every item had an RFID chip, scanners at the gates, at every exit. Impossible to vanish unnoticed. Removing the chip? Too risky.
“I’m guessing it’s one of the carriers,” Martin said. “But then someone would notice missing cargo. Unless...” He thought how he’d do it himself.
“We’ll go through the orders, check the types of goods that vanished, narrow down the clients and carriers. We’ll set GPS trackers. Fifty euros each - but worth it. The selection must be careful.”
The day slipped away, but the plan was ready. The trap was set. Tomorrow, he’d get up early to oversee everything. On his way home, he stopped for dinner and a drink. Again he passed the hospital. The déjà vu gnawed at him. Where had he seen it before? He drifted off to sleep, satisfied with the day’s work.
***
“Martin, do you hear me?” The corpse-like voice again. “My daughter... she’s waiting... pleeease.”
Then silence.
“What...? Nonsense,” he muttered. He turned and walked toward the door. Nothing stopped him this time. He opened it - and found himself in a labyrinth of corridors. He went against the arrows. A sign: Pathology. “Morgue... brr,” he shuddered.
He quickened his pace. Stairs. A faint light. Then a reception - empty.
Above the window: Hospital of the Holy Cross. Ring the bell.
“No way,” he thought, slipping out unseen.
***
He woke up drenched in sweat.
“Another dream. Or was it? This can’t go on. I need a dreamcatcher. If they even sell them in this backwater.” He smirked at the thought, then scolded himself for the arrogance. Maybe he was starting to settle here.
Quick shower, dressed, no breakfast. He had to check the traps. He jumped into the car, slammed the gas. At the crossroads, his eyes caught the sign: Hospital of the Holy Cross. Left.
He drove straight past - then it struck him. He braked hard.
What now? Turn back? Or wait till after work?
Curiosity won. He grabbed the phone and called the office. He’d be late.
The story is originally written in the Slovak language. English and Czech translations are generated by ChatGPT. The picture is downloaded from pixabay. This story is fictional and any resemblance to real characters or events is purely coincidental.
