Bubbles Pays a Visit | SCP-6290

The constant beeping. The constant hiss of the oxygen. The constant noise from out in the hallway. There is no peace to be found in a hospital. The torment is constant. Constant, constant, constant. I watch my son roll over in his sleep, lines and wires and tubes sliding around him, but never tangling. My son is a pro when it comes to sleeping in hospitals. He should be, since he's been in and out of them for half of his 14 years on this cold, cruel, unforgiving planet. I suppose it's not the planet's fault. Earth simply rotates, providing a home for scum suckers like the human race. All we do is take and take and take parasites, vampires, a virus. We are monsters, every one of us. We consume, we defile. We are the evil that this planet must purge. We are the... Dad? I startle and shake my head, a little drool flipping from the corner of my mouth and onto the floor. Both my son and I look down at it, then up at each other and laugh. Was I talking in my sleep again? My son nods, a huge smile on his deathly pale face. No rosy cheeks for my boy, not anymore. Yeah, you were mumbling pretty loudly. Crap, what was I saying? Something about the state of pollution and the end of life as we know it. Yeah, that tracks pretty much my go to anxiety these days. Dad, we don't know why I'm sick yet. Garrett sighs and relaxes back into his hospital bed. He adjusts the tubes and wires and sensors attached to his body, moving them into positions where if he shifts, they don't detach or... God forbid, rip out. The last thing my boy needs is to get an infection at his IV site. The kid doesn't have the capacity to fight off a sniffle, let alone a full blown infection. Dad? I snap too, lost in thought once more. I swear I live in a constant dream state. Sleeping every night in a recliner chair tucked into my son's hospital room is probably not helping my health any physical, mental or emotional. Sorry, pal. Still pulling myself out of dreamland. You know you can go home and sleep, right? Not a chance, pal. Really, Dad? It's fine. I'll be okay here by myself. Nope, we're in this together. Except we aren't, are we? His words stop me cold, and I have to grip the arms of my chair to keep from screaming. Not that I actually would scream. Those days are long over. After watching your child fight a plastic anemia for three years, you eventually run out of screams. How do you mean, pal? I know full well what he means. This isn't the first time we've had this conversation. I'm the one dying, Dad. Not you. Right. I'm not. Not willing to argue the fact that he can't possibly know what it's like to watch your child's health slowly, then rapidly decline. Garrett can't even fathom what it's like to see a future disappear in a tangle of wires and IV tubes. All he can see is the now. This room, his body, his immediate circumstances. But I see all of that, and the emptiness that will be my life when he's gone. Garrett's mother died in childbirth, leaving the two of us to make a go of it on our own. And we were on our own. My parents are halfway across the country, drinking themselves to death in a single wide, set up on uneven concrete blocks next to acres of cornfields. Olivia's parents died in a car accident when she was 11. So when she left us, that was it. Game over. Just Milo and Garrett Derrick's against the world. Dad! I snapped to him and laughed. Sorry, sorry. Slowly, I set the recliner upright and pushed myself out of the seat. My legs are weak and wobbly, and I give them a second for the pins and needles to dissipate before taking my first step. Although, I guess if I'm going to fall on my face, a hospital isn't the worst place to do that. I think I'll go for a walk around the hospital. I stretch, enjoying the pool at my tired and knotted muscles. Want anything? I can grab some dessert from the cafeteria, or sodas from the vending machines. I'm not hungry. I smile at my son and study the lines on his face. A teenager shouldn't have lines like that. A teenager should also be out hiking and learning to drive and going to dances and planning trips to the beach with his friends and texting crushes and all that teenager stuff. I'll get you a Snickers. I head to the door. You love Snickers. No, dad. I'm fine. I can tell by the tone of his voice that he's in pain. I point at the controller by his right hand. Have a shot, pal. Let the morphine take the edge off so you can sleep. I'll sleep when I'm dead. Jesus fuck, Garrett. Why would you say a thing like that? I put my hand against the door jam to steady myself. That shit isn't funny. Who's joking? We lock eyes for several uncomfortable seconds. Then I nod and open the door. Snickers it is. I leave quickly before he sees the tears spill from my eyes. I'm down the hall and around two corners before I realize I'm heading in the wrong direction. Shit. Looking around for a sign on the wall or something to tell me which way to go. I start to get dizzy as I swivel my head back and forth too quickly. I pause and take a breath. You'd think that after three years of being in hospitals, I'd know my way around a hospital. But we've been in so many that the layouts all meld together in my head. Each one is built and laid out differently. And I swear to God they make these places like mazes on purpose. I look left. No help there. I look right. No help there. I could backtrack. But did I take a right at that last corner or a left? Shit. I need to find a map or directory or QR code for the hospital's website. A shiver runs up my spine as I irrationally think I'll never see Garrett again. Doomed to wander these hospital halls for all eternity. A ghost built of grief and regret and longing for what could have been. Of course, there is no map or directory or QR code to be seen. And I come to the unfortunate realization that I am completely lost. Shit. Think, Milo. Think. After a second of hesitation, I choose a direction and just start walking. I study the walls and the plaques next to rooms. Nothing looks familiar. I don't know how, but I must have taken way more than just a couple of turns when I left Garrett's room. It makes zero sense since I should have been on autopilot and automatically headed toward the elevators. Garrett's right. I need to go home and get some real sleep. But even being away from him for this long is killing me. Look around, Milo. Figure out where you are so you can get back to your dying son. My self-admonishment doesn't help at all. I'm quickly becoming more and more frustrated with every wrong turn. And where the hell is everyone? How come I haven't seen a single member of the hospital staff for what feels like ages? Two more turns and I come to a new corridor. The walls are covered in plastic sheeting with various piles of supplies and construction equipment strewn around. I must have stumbled into a new wing or something. As I take a deep breath, the pungent aroma of mold and mildew assaults my sinuses and I sneeze repeatedly. And after each sneeze I hear what I think is a honk. I don't notice it at first since my senses are occupied with my sudden sneeze attack. But after the third honk, it becomes hard to miss. Hello? Anyone there? I peer into the gloom and try to see to the end of the hall. But so much of the plastic sheeting has come loose from the wall and is flapping about that it's hard to make out any details. But there is something down there. I squint. Hello? Who is that? I swear I see someone standing a few yards away. Excuse me. Can you help me get back to my son's room? It's 614 Pediatric Ward. I don't say he's terminal even though that would help locate his room. They keep all of the terminal children in one section, probably due to the amount of code blues that happen. Being mixed in with the rest would be terrifying to those children not terminal. Especially considering the frequency with which emergency alarms are triggered as one child stops breathing or another's heart gives out. The figure shifts and what little light in the corridor there is shines on something strange. A bright red nose. I move closer. Um, are you one of the performers for the Pediatric Wing? The person doesn't answer. But they do take a few steps toward me. The red nose makes sense now that I can start to see the full outfit. A semi-crushed red hat over a shaggy pink wig. Purple and yellow spotted shirt with puffy sleeves and oversized buttons along with what looks like rainbow mardi gras beads around its neck. Strangely, he's wearing a white laboratory coat. Like that Patch Adams character wore in that old movie. Almost fluorescent green trousers. And, of course, the ubiquitous oversized floppy red shoes. It's a freaking clown. Oh, hey there. Did you get turned around too? Maybe we can put our heads together and figure out how to get back to the Pediatric Wing. Do you have any idea which way to go? Without saying a word, the clown continues to move closer. His shoes slapping at the dirty industrial tile. Hello? I'm sorry. Can you not hear me? He keeps walking, silent the whole way. Instinctively, I take a step back. And another. And another. Uh, yeah, okay, never mind. I'll find my own way. Thanks. I spin about and start to rush away from the silent weirdo. But my way is blocked. 20 feet ahead is a second identical clown. I glance over my shoulder and the first clown is gone. When I look forward again, I scream. The clown is now only six feet away. And he doesn't look healthy. I put the back of my hand to my nose to try to block out the stink of rot and decay wafting off the guy. At first, I thought it was part of the corridor's stink. Just another layer of mold and mildew. But now this close, I know the rot is the clown itself. You rolling roadkill or something, buddy? I gasp around my hand, trying to take short breaths. Then I get a closer look and realize the clown didn't roll in roadkill. He is the roadkill. Or at least the dead and rotting part of roadkill. His skin is gray and parts of it are sloughing off where what used to be white pancake makeup was applied. One ear is dangling by a thread of tissue. I even think there's a hole in the right cheek. Because I swear I can see into its mouth where black nubs of what might be molars reside. What the hell are you? I look down and see the plastic toy horn the freaky clown holds in his left hand. He lifts it up and points it at me. I jump and stumbled backward. I want to turn and run, but I don't dare take my eyes off the thing. Oh, screw it! I run. My hands brush aside the flapping plastic sheeting or try to. With every step I take, I feel my arms getting entangled in the plastic and I have to yank and pull and rip my way through the construction zone. Jesus, what the hell is it? A clown? Yeah, sure. But it's not like any clown I've ever seen. Well, except for in horror movies. Christ, am I having an episode? Maybe I'm having a stroke. Strokes can cause hallucinations, right? Yes, sure. But hallucinating, and I'll just say it. An undead clown is a little specific. I don't even have a fear of clowns. They're a non-issue for me. Garrett, on the other hand, does not fuck with clowns. He never has. A left, a right, another right, a left again. I see elevators. Sprinting as fast as my fatigued body will allow. I make it to the end of the hall and jam my thumb against both the up and the down call buttons. I do not give a shit which direction I go, as long as it's away from the horrid thing chasing me. The elevator bell dings and the doors slide open. The clown is standing right there. Fuck! My feet tangle up as I try to turn and run at the same time and a nearly face plant against the stained and ancient tile. Luckily, I get my hands out in time and I'm able to scramble my ass a few feet away before I manage to get back upright. My legs pump and my lungs burn. Stop that! Leave me the hell alone! Without paying attention at all, I turn corners. My only thought to put as much distance between myself and the nightmare clown pursuing me. Left, left, right, left, right, right, right, right, right, right. I'm back at the elevators. The doors close then open, close then open, over and over. But, thank God, there's no clown inside. However, there is a clown nose on the ground, keeping the elevator doors from closing. I bend and pick the red foam nose up, then immediately throw it as far away as possible, almost retching as I do so. There was a real nose still inside the fake one. I wipe my hands on my jeans and hurry into the elevators. To my surprise and horror, I'm three floors above the pediatric wing. How the hell did that happen? I never went up any stairs. I only made turn after turn after turn. I look up as the doors slide closed to see the clown walking straight toward the elevator. The doors close before he reaches me, but I sigh with relief, leaning my head against the back wall. Finally, free of the thing, I let my eyes close for the remainder of the ride back down to the pediatric wing. I scream as I scramble into the corner of the elevator car. The undead clown is standing by the bank of buttons. It's horn held up like he's saying hello to me. W-w-w-what are you? I nearly piss myself. Just stay back, okay? Stay right there. I swear, if you come near me, I'll fucking kick your ass. You hear me? Huh? I will go fucking nuts on you, buddy. Stop that! I said stop that! I slap my hands over my ears as the undead clown squeezes the horn's bulb over and over and over and over and over. I said stop! Please stop! Please stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! The doors dang and slide open. Mr. Derricks? I recognize the nurse as she stands and waits outside the elevator. Are you all right? Where'd it go? Where is it? I shiver and shake as I look about the elevator car. No undead clown. It's vanished. Where'd Hugo go? No one else is in there with you. She holds the elevator doors open and angles her body, telling me she expects me to step off the elevator. With a buzz of phones ringing and conversations echoing up and down the halls, I gladly step off the elevator, so happy to be around people, to be around the living. Mr. Derricks? Did something happen? She lets the doors slide closed without stepping on. Do I need to call someone for you? Maybe you should have a seat over here. She gently guides me to a chair by the nurse's station. I sit down and it's like the weight of the entire world falls off my shoulders. I'd like to take your blood pressure and temperature if that's all right. I nod. She gives me a warm smile. Okay, great. I'll be right back. I watch her walk off. Eyes are on me. I can feel them. But I don't look about. It's not out of embarrassment. Now, this crew has seen me at my worst. They've watched me shout and wail and cry. They've seen tears streaming down my face and snot dripping from my nose. I've had more than one breakdown in this wing. Now, the reason I don't look around is because I am terrified I'll see the damn clown. Here we go. The nurse wheels a blood pressure machine over to me. This'll just take a second. She wraps the cuff around my upper arm, then presses a button on the machine. As the thing wears and buzzes, and as the cuff gets tighter and tighter, she pulls a thermometer out of her pocket and points it at my forehead. Now, fever. She tucks the thermometer back into one of the many pockets on her brightly colored scrubs. No drab blues or grays for the pediatric wing. The machine beeps three times, and the pressure on my arm slacks until the cuff is completely deflated. Your blood pressure is a little higher than I'd like to see. She frowns. And your cheeks are flushed. Did something happen? I debate about telling her. I really do. But as the moment drags on, and a little bit of time and perspective starts to creep in, I decide not to mention the undead clown. Just exhausted, I sigh. Garrett told me to go home and get some rest. That's not a bad idea, Mr. Derricks. You're no good to your son if you want to make yourself sick. While your blood pressure isn't in the danger zone, it could get there quickly if you don't take care of yourself. She leans in and places a hand on my shoulder. No one here will think ill of you if you go home. Don't just stay to keep up appearances. We are all watching Garrett closely, and will call you if anything happens. Yeah, well, I can't risk that. I swallow hard. Not again. She frowns and I continue. His mother died in childbirth. I stepped out to go get some food, and when I came back, Garrett was in the world, and my wife wasn't. Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. So, I think I'll stay right here if that's okay. My biggest fear is to get home, fall asleep, and then wake up to the worst news of my life. Tears well in my eyes. I know I can't save him. No one can at this point. But nothing will keep me from my son's side when this time comes. You will have to drag me kicking and screaming to get me to leave this hospital. I don't think it'll come to that, Mr. Derricks. No one will be dragging you anywhere. We all understand that this is a waking nightmare for you. Waking nightmare? An image of the undead clown splashes across my mind and I jerk back. Mr. Derricks? Are you okay? Sorry, sorry. Just a twitch. She watches me carefully, the nods. I'll tell you what. You've been sleeping in that awful recliner for weeks and haven't complained once. Let me see if I can get a cotton there for you. No, no, I'm fine. I've actually gotten used to sleeping in that recliner. My ass and its cushions have become the best of friends. Are you sure? It's really no problem. I'm sure. She shrugs. Suit yourself. Then she smiles. I was about to head down to the cafeteria and grab some food. Care to join me? In my professional opinion, you look like you could use a boost to your blood sugar. I think about it, then smile back. Yeah, sure. That'd be great. I stand up and at the same moment I hear, I look about but don't see the thing anywhere. God, is it only in my head have I finally cracked? Yup, the pressure of Garrett's illness has pushed me over the edge. It was bound to happen eventually. No one can endure the stresses that I have for all these years and reasonably think they can stay stable and sane. My shoulders slump as I stand and face the nurse. I think I need to. What is that noise? Do you hear that? It sounds like a horn. You can hear it too? My question elicits an even more worried look from her than had already been receiving. Glancing about, I see the rest of the staff starting to look up. There it is again. The nurse studies me. You can hear it, right? I nod and swallow. It's a clown. A clown? An undead clown. Worry turns to fear. A few heads swivel in my direction. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a different nurse pick up the phone as she watches me closely. That sounds insane, I know, but I got lost earlier and couldn't find my way back here. Then I ran into this clown and, well, it's a little rotten. Rotten? Its flesh is all decayed and it smells like roadkill. I tried to swallow, but now my mouth is bone dry. It's a nose fell off. I absentmindedly wipe my hands on my jeans at the memory. Still a little wary and with good reason, the nurse tries to smile at me, but manages only a grimace. It's coming from down there! One of the nurses at the station points down the hall, right toward Garrett's room. No! I push past the nurse helping me and sprint down the hall, almost colliding with an orderly delivering meals. He shouts something at me, but I don't hear him. My attention is on my son's room. The door is cracked when I get there and I slowly push it open. Garrett? No response. I step into the room and head straight for my son's bed. Still breathing. Good. But he's fast asleep. Jesus Christ! The nurse is standing in the doorway, having followed me. She points at the bathroom door. It came from in there! Call security! I look about the room. A metal bedpan sits on the shelf above where I stash my coat and backpack. I snag it and hold it up by my shoulder as I approach the bathroom door. The nurse jumps and pulls out her phone. Hey Martha, we need security in room 614 right away. My hand rests on the door handle. What are you doing? Wait for security! I shake my head. No! I have to stop it before it wakes Garrett up. He's deathly afraid of clowns. I don't tell her why that's bad. Anyone in Garrett's shape can't afford a severe shock, even if it is from an irrational phobia. Although, considering what I've been dealing with, this is way more than just a phobia. And I'm pretty sure rational has long left the building. I take a deep breath, grip the bathroom handle, and yank the door open. The undead ghost stands there next to the toilet. Its horn held out. It sets the horn down on the sink, takes a bow, then we both watch, stunned. As it slowly fades away. After half a second, the horn fades too, and the bathroom is completely empty once again. When it's gone, I blink a few times, then look at the nurse. You saw that too, right? She nods. Good. Two security guards arrive a second later. Dad? Garrett's sleepy face is looking at me, trying to make sense of what he's woken up to. What's going on? Nothing, pal. All good. I turn to the security guards. I'll be right out to give my side of things. They nod as the nurse leads them into the hall. I close the door and look at my son. Are you okay? Me? Fine. He shrugs. Well, you know, as fine as I can be. Did you see anything, hear anything? His face scrunches up, puzzled. Like what? Glancing at the bathroom door, he shakes my head. Nothing, pal. You go back to sleep, okay? I'm going to talk to some hospital folks, then I'll be right back in. Okay, dad. He's already settling back into his pillow, his eyes closing slowly. After watching him for a few seconds, I head to the door, then pause. I hurry over to the recliner and drag it in front of the bathroom door, just in case. Then I head out and get ready to tell one hell of a story to the security guards, reminding myself that I never did get that snickers and need to do that. But maybe I'll take someone with me this time. SCP-6292 is the corpse of a Caucasian male, approximately 75 years old at time of death. SCP-6292 is in a state of advanced decomposition. SCP-6292 is dressed in a clown costume, comprising red hat, pink wig, white face paint, red foam latex nose, purple and yellow spotted shirt, multi-color plastic bead necklaces, white laboratory coat, bright green trousers, and novelty oversized shoes. Despite SCP-6292 state of decay, before mentioned clown costume remains in pristine condition. SCP-6292 spontaneously materializes inside healthcare institutions within the continental United States. For SCP-6292 to materialize, the structure in question must house at least one patient, aged 4 to 15, afflicted with a terminal illness or an otherwise life-threatening condition. SCP-6292 will materialize in the nearest space, not under direct or indirect observation, often in toilet stalls, storage spaces, and maintenance areas. SCP-6292 will dematerialize anywhere from 20 minutes to 6 hours after appearance. After an additional 24 to 72 hours, SCP-6292 will rematerialize at a different suitable location. Attempts to remove SCP-6292 from the premises of the facility it currently occupies result in early dematerialization. Objects placed within SCP-6292 fail to dematerialize along with it. Any damage inflicted on SCP-6292 save for natural wear and decay will not persist following rematerialization.