Creepypasta Stories

Nurse Anne

I approached, cautiously, so very cautiously, as if a heavy step would shatter her frail, frail frame. I did not stop my gingerly walk until I reached her bedside, and reached gently, oh, so gently, for her yellowed and brittle hand. Her entire form was that of the pages of an ancient text, and, for fear of breaking her, I grasped her hand softly, and stared at the thing that claimed to once have been my wife.

Anne whispered something, and I strained to listen, my ear coming ever closer to her mouth until the words were clear. I listened, nodded once to signify that I had heard, and raised myself, still gazing at my wife. As I gazed at her, I saw her chest rising and falling, in a shaky rhythm, and, as I watched, a deep breath came forth from her mouth, and her chest rose no more. I did not understand this until the monitor in the corner, sounding the beats of her heart like a tolling bell, now resounded with a long drone, and the evidence came crashing down on my simple mind. I cried out, a sound of immense pain and loss, and shook her, as if that could bring my darling, my love back to life. But to no avail. She was dead. Anne was dead.

Doctors soon arrived, hurrying down the long, white hallway, down which I had walked not five minutes earlier, so very full of hope, and nurses rushed me out, pushing me and shutting the door in my face, as I screamed, demanded to see my bride. The door blocked all noise from the room, but, through the small window in the oaken door, I could see nurses rushing about, bringing the doctors, who were fiddling with mechanisms and pressing defibrillators against my beloved's chest. After five or so minutes of defibrillating and injecting her with miscellaneous syringes, the doctors stopped, the nurses disconnected the technology from Anne, and one doctor took her bed sheet, and pulled it over her body, up so it even covered her face, a makeshift funeral shroud in the white and darkened hospital room.

Another doctor came to the door, opened it, for the nurses had locked it to prevent me, in my frenzy, to enter and disturb the doctors. He uttered two words to me, two words that, to this day, I remember. I'm sorry, he said to me in the hallway, before, like his compatriots, he departed, leaving me, the empty door-way, and the shrouded form of my wife, in heavy silence.

I stood there, in the silence and the grief, for a time, the amount of which I am unsure. Soon a nurse asked me to leave, as the visiting hours had closed. I stared at her for a moment, unsure of what she had meant, for I was visiting no one, as Anne had departed, and I had considered myself the guardian of her body, a sentinel, making sure none violated her corpse. But, upon the nurses second urging, I gave in, and walked out of the hospital, silent and brooding. I walked home, forgetting until next morning that I had driven to the hospital, and my car there still remained. I lived quite a long while away from the hospital, but I noticed not, as, by the moonlight, I could think of nor see anything else but my deceased wife.

I arrived home near midnight, about three hours after I had left, and I opened the door to the darkened house, as if the home itself was mourning the loss of its mistress. Submerged within a fog of grief, I entered, locked the door behind me, ascended the steps, and entered the room Anne and I had shared for ten years. In this room, my heart shattered, and I wept, I wept uncontrollably, crying out to Heaven, cursing the doctors, cursing God, even cursing Anne herself for taking my beloved betrothed away from me. I realize now that these curses were foolish, and I retracted them the next morn, but in my incredible pain that dreadful night, they, and many more foolish curses, seemed reasonable and real. I wept for three hours, before, exhausted and in pain, I pulled the covers over my shaking body, and closed my eyes in an attempt to get some sleep after the long day, but, as I closed my eyes, I still saw those dead, sulphur eyes staring at me, staring at my soul, and sleep came not.

The funeral for Anne was two weeks after her death. Some friends of ours came, but not many, and this fact plunged me even further into the vortex of depression I had entered on that fateful day two weeks prior. Her coffin was kept closed at all times, for I did not want the grotesque spectacle of her corpse to be seen by all; it would be my secret. The funeral was short, and, afterwards, walking out at the head of the funeral-procession, I saw the mocking sunlight, mocking me from the moment I walked through the maple-wood double doors that lead to the cemetery from the funeral-home, mocked me as Anne was laid to final and eternal rest in the ground, and kept mocking me until I entered my car, and drove home, still in my fog of desolation.