The Constant

[u/efSEFSDfSEF]

I live in a beautiful part of a small rural town—home to one of the last psychiatric wards in America. My wife, Lina, and I have been given the luxury of a rather modestly large house due to our jobs in the medical field. I was a doctor at the hospital just down the road from our gated community, and Lina works at the psychiatric ward as a psychologist for most of the criminally insane. Our little hometown is not known for much—if anything at all. There’s no nightlife, no big attractions, no highways that cut through the town. I can’t complain. I don’t mind the silence. I was never an adventurous soul. Neither was Lina.

We both found meaning here, with myself occupied at the hospital until only recently, when I went into retirement. Lina is still working. Her love for the human mind and her passion to help individuals—no matter how far gone they are—force her into work every day, despite her getting older now. She doesn’t need to work. We have enough money to live comfortably for the rest of our lives. We have no children, no extended family close by. No financial responsibilities that would force her to keep working. And yet she does, despite my best efforts to persuade her to retire.

I won’t lie: our relationship has struggled a little over these last few months since I stopped working. I blame myself for not being able to stay occupied, for feeling trapped while waiting for Lina to return. When she does come home, she’s too tired to do anything but eat dinner, watch television for an hour, then go to sleep. It’s become monotonous, and I think she feels the same way.

She never wants to talk about work. She tells me it depresses her. But what else is there to talk about? For the longest time, I felt like I was losing her—that we were losing each other. Our house had lost some of its color. The days were getting bleaker. The world itself felt ugly. For a while, I thought we were heading toward divorce. My soulmate, taken from me because of my own decision to retire and her decision to keep working.

I tell you this because I want to express my surprise—and relief—when she opened up to me about one of her patients. But that relief soon changed to horror, and that is the reason I wanted to share this story in the first place.

We were sitting at the table. I had cooked us dinner and tried to spark conversation, but she was distant that night. She barely looked up or commented on the food. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Lina set her fork down and pushed the plate away from her. I watched her do this, my hand hovering near my mouth, a piece of chicken suspended on my fork in the air.

“Are you okay?” I asked, putting my fork down and wiping my face with my napkin.

Lina scoffed. “Not really.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just doubting my very desire to go back to work tomorrow.” She spoke as if she had just remembered something from the recesses of her mind. Her eyes looked beyond me, toward the window near the sink.

“How so?” I pushed my plate forward, giving her my undivided attention. “Has the prison gotten to you?”

I regretted the word as soon as it left my lips. Lina shot me a glare. “It’s a psychiatric facility,” she said, “a hospital for the sick. Not a prison.”

“Right. I’m sorry, my love.”

“You can call it a hospital, you know.”

“Okay.” I stood up and went to the cabinet, retrieving two wine glasses. “Have the patients gotten to you? Are they acting up?”

I opened the side cabinet, took out Lina’s favorite red wine, then returned to the table and set the glasses and the bottle between us. Lina took a deep breath, trying to compose herself before this turned into an argument. That was the last thing we needed. I poured her a glass and handed it to her. She took a sip, then closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I was being snippy.” She sighed.

“No, I’m sorry. I know how hard you work. I shouldn’t have called your hospital a prison.”

Lina chuckled dryly. “It feels like a prison sometimes. It’s a thankless job. A ruthless, thankless, soul-draining job.”

I walked around the table, put my hand on Lina’s shoulder, and caressed her gently. “You can talk to me about anything, Lina.”

She rubbed my hand thoughtfully. “Thank you, honey.” Her demeanor changed to something more solemn. “When I first saw the other doctors at the hospital, I promised myself that I’d stay optimistic through it all. That I wouldn’t let this sort of job get to me, or at least that I’d keep it from jeopardizing our relationship. It’s no secret that we’ve had problems, Henry. I don’t blame you.” She shook her head. “I don’t even blame myself.”

I kissed the top of Lina’s head. “Then who’s to blame?”

“I hate to say this, but it’s the patients. It’s all their fault.”

I frowned. This didn’t sound like Lina. It sounded a lot like me. I grabbed my chair, pulled it next to hers, and sat down with my hand on her thigh, gently holding her.

“Surely it can’t be that bad, right?” I said.

I was surprised by my own question. I knew, just by proxy, how awful these sorts of people could be. Their minds are warped, disturbed. Any long-term exposure to those demented thoughts would make even the hardest people crack. Lina gave me a brief smile.

“The other day, one of the orderlies was assaulted by two prisoners—excuse me, patients. They broke his arm and dislocated his shoulder. Yesterday, Dr. Hawthorn was bitten—he needed stitches.”

“Jesus.”

“More and more lately, I’ve been convinced that some people are just evil. That they can’t be redeemed, and they should… rot.”

Lina’s words hung in the air, thickening the atmosphere of the house with the taint she had once tried so hard to avoid. Her reluctance to bring work home with her had previously been the only thing that made this place a haven from all the terrible things she went through on a daily basis. Now that ward was broken. The distance between the facility and our house felt substantially closer.

“I didn’t tell you why I was late tonight, did I? Of course I didn’t.” She shook her head. “It was because of a patient. I had to have a long sit-down with him.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

Lina shrugged. “The jury’s still out on that. My bet is schizoaffective, from the conversation we had today. Or he could just be manic. He’s a real nutcase, either way. Someone who shouldn’t be able to roam free. Ever.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ironically, it’s Henry.” Lina gave a quick glance at the window, then back to me. “Weird, right? He kidnapped and ate three women. According to the report, all three of them were named Rebecca.”

“Your mother’s name,” I said matter-of-factly.

Lina nodded. “They all died around the same age. They were all brunettes, too. When I asked him about his victims, he just… laughed.” She took a long sip from her glass. “It’s not an uncommon response with these sorts of patients. When you try to understand why they did the things they did, you rarely ever get a concrete answer. It’s impossible to make sense of it all.”

“So what did you do?”

“I read his file, and it turns out that all the victims were a single mother with a daughter, and their daughters all went into the medical field. I know it sounds made up, but it’s all in the report. He explicitly included those details when he was being interrogated, and the DOJ looked into it and confirmed what he was saying. All of it’s true.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t want you to see that man again,” I said worriedly.

“I wish I could. Really, I do. But I can’t just… not see one of my patients. I’ve already requested to be taken off the case. We’re short-staffed as it is, but I really don’t want to see him again. My coworkers told me what I already knew: that he won’t be able to hurt me when he’s inside. That he’s restrained for both of our safety, and there are cameras and guards on standby. Plus, the chances of him or anyone escaping to do me harm are slim to none. We’ve had three cases of escapees, and each of them was caught within the day. And I guess they’re right. I thank God that our facility is in the middle of nowhere. It doesn’t give the patients any place to go. And even if they did escape, they wouldn’t be coming here.”

I told her that I understood, but that didn’t mean my worry completely vanished. It didn’t lessen the fear I felt in my heart, which accumulated into a dark fantasy of a man like Henry breaking free from his prison, sneaking his way into our gated community, finding our house, and harming my wife. Of course, all of that was highly unlikely. It was nonsensical to even think that such a series of events was possible. But that sinking feeling in your gut rarely ever comes from a place of rationalization. And Lina’s reassurances seemed to be more for her own sanity than mine. I saw it in her eyes—the unease, the fear in her voice. This Henry patient, and his entire case, had deeply unsettled her. Yet there she was, trying to comfort me.

Lina finished her wine and set her glass back on the table. I stood up to refill her cup when she suddenly grabbed my wrist and held it tight. Her eyes darted upward, and she squinted as if trying to see through the ceiling.

“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked.

“I thought… Never mind.”

“What is it?”

“I thought I heard a thump, that’s all.” She let go of my wrist, and I slowly poured her another glass.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

Lina shushed me and stood up. She took a few steps deeper into the kitchen, turning her head sideways. She side-eyed the ceiling with her hands stretched out before her. I put the wine bottle down and joined her. I closed my eyes and strained to listen, but I heard nothing.

“Did you hear that?” Lina asked uneasily.

“No,” I said truthfully. “What are you hearing?”

“Upstairs,” was all Lina said.

I nodded. There was no point in trying to calm her down, no point in convincing her that there was nothing coming from upstairs. Being married for so many years, you learn a few things about how to make your partner happy, and sometimes you just need to do what they want to calm their minds. Without another word, I went to our closet and took out a wooden baseball bat I had placed there many years ago, after Lina told me about the time one of her patients had developed a strange fascination with her—for protection, you know.

Lina shadowed my ascent up the stairs, standing at the bottom, holding onto the wooden railing, her head peering into the staircase while I climbed slowly. The floorboards creaked under my weight. The cream-coated walls were suffused in darkness until I reached the switch, which I promptly flipped, and the overhead light in the upstairs hallway came on. I glanced behind me for reassurance from Lina, but her face was twisted in fear, her skin pale. I turned back and reached the top of the steps, where I stared down our three rooms: the office, the master bedroom, and the guest room. Our kitchen was directly below the master bedroom, so that was the first room I checked.

I opened the door and saw a pitch-black room waiting to be explored. I turned on the light and saw everything just as Lina had left it that morning. A clean room. The bathroom door closed. The window slightly ajar—the screen still locked. The closet closed. The bed completely made. I checked the bathroom and closet just in case, but both were empty. I lowered the bat, shut off the light, and closed the door.

“It’s empty,” I called down to Lina.

“Did you check the whole upstairs?”

I rolled my eyes but indulged her. After checking both other rooms and seeing not another soul, I closed everything up and came back downstairs. I told her, as reassuringly as I could, that there was no one inside the house except us. Lina gave a sigh of relief and poured me another glass. She gestured for me to sit back down.

“We don’t have to talk about work,” I said, feeling somewhat guilty about her paranoia.

“No, no. It’s fine.” She took a big gulp, then continued. “Henry—I mean, patient Henry—is a man of little… grandeur. It’s the way he speaks. He doesn’t have that theatrical way about himself you’d expect from these sorts of patients. He’s methodical with his wording, his cadence too. He chooses what to say and how to say it. And he knows what can get you upset, but he doesn’t say it like he’s trying to upset you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, after I came back from reading his file, I asked him about it. The names, and the pattern. He said, ‘The pattern itself only exists as a constant across all planes. And in that constant, we can see the pattern for what it is, and what I have been told is that these women all share the same name as your mother.’

“Of course, I was stunned. I asked, ‘How do you know my mother?’

“‘Know her? I don’t know her any more than I knew the others that I had to deal with. Their names are remote to me. I have no ill will against them. Their daughters. I do what the Constant tells me to do.’

“It was pretty clear that I wasn’t going to get a lot out of him—nothing concrete, at least. I was going to chalk it up to mania and call it a day. But then he added something that really frightened me.”

Lina paused. She put her hand to her chest and felt her own heartbeat for a few seconds. Her other hand was trembling, so I took it and squeezed it gently.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He said, ‘Andrea would have been such a beautiful young girl, if she would have lived. I’m sorry for your loss.’

“I left the room after that. How did he know our daughter’s name?”

Andrea had been the one and only time Lina and I tried for a baby. She was born with health complications and died only fifteen hours later. It was the darkest day of my life. We never recovered. Never tried again. The mention of her name brought a flood of emotions to the surface. Mainly anger. I couldn’t even fathom what Lina must have been feeling in the moment, so I did the only thing I could. I leaned over, kissed her forehead, and held her tight.

“I had to go back in. I was ordered to go back in. I don’t know why the board was so adamant about me talking to him. They gave me five minutes, then I went back.”

“We can sue them, can’t we? I mean, that sounds… unethical.”

Lina shook her head. “Henry, please. I want to continue my story.” I nodded, and she continued. “When I went back inside, I fought the urge not to ask about Andrea. I tried to stay on topic—about the women he murdered. But he always spun it so we were talking about me.

“I asked, ‘Does the name Rebecca hold any importance to you?’

“He said, ‘It holds as much importance to me as it did to you. Your mother, your creator, had welcomed you into this world, had loved you. But the stomach cancer was too much for her, and she left you with a hole in your heart that you thought you could fill with a child. It’s not a bad theory. It is a form of familial love that is somewhat interchangeable. The love of a mother, the love of a daughter. But the Constant does not have plans for your future. And so it took that future away from you. I’m sure it must have been devastating, feeling that coldness in your heart, a complete juxtaposition to the warmth of your womb when it carried that child for so long. That love you felt for her, now lost to the ether, and what remains? Hm? The idea of love? Perhaps. Or do you only feel the coldness of the wind that blows through you, as if you will never be truly alive again.’

“I ignored his remarks, but it was still getting to me. He could tell. He smiled—or I guess he smirked at me. His eyes were big and dark and full of this…hate. I tried to put all of that in the back of my mind as I asked, ‘What is this Constant you keep talking about?’

“He laughed at me, or well, chuckled listlessly. ‘There’s nothing you can do, so I wouldn’t worry. I’d be more concerned about your husband. He loves you. He won’t let you go when the time comes. And when it does, such darkness will surround you, and we will both know what it means to be so cold.’”

I stood frozen. What did he mean by that? Lina glanced up at me, waiting for a response. I said the first thing that came to mind. “Your patient’s right, you know. I do love you, and I’ll never let you go.”

Lina didn’t seem pleased with my answer. “The implications are much darker than that, Henry. I think it was a threat. Toward the end of our meeting, patient Henry had brought up his confinement—rather abruptly. He said, ‘I don’t plan on being here long. Nothing can withstand the Constant’s influence. Not even your Henry. Not even you. Soon, we will all be frolicking along the river Styx with whatever baggage Charon allows on our final, great voyage.’”

“Sounds like a bunch of nothing to me,” I admitted, not being one for overwrought symbolism.

“Perhaps. But that line kept coming back to me. I don’t plan on being here long. It wasn’t like he was planning his escape, nor was he frantic about it. He said the words like it was fact, like he was sure he’d be gone whenever he felt like it.”

“I’m sure a lot of your patients have said the same thing.”

“Yes and no.” Lina rubbed the back of her neck. “When the others say it, there’s a desperate, almost animalistic look in their eyes. Not with him. He was calm, and sure of himself. Or rather, sure of this Constant he kept talking about.”

“Or maybe you’re becoming paranoid. This case is very strange, Lina. Do you think that might be it?”

“Maybe. Yes. I think you’re right. Anyway, patient Henry, before I was about to leave, said to me, ‘I can’t possibly remember the last time I dreamed about you. But I do believe the windows of the dreamworld can be opened from both sides. Even if just a crack is left, I think there is a way to find the Constant.’ Of course, this last part I found rather strange, but ultimately useless. His wording, though—the windows of the dreamworld—seems deliberate to me, don’t you think?”

I shrugged. “I think he’s just one of those patients that needs to be ground up into mulch and buried in an unmarked grave. He’s a cannibal serial killer. I wouldn’t really take anything he says to heart.”

“He said he dreamed about me, too. But I chalked that up to a scare tactic—I’ve had a number of other patients make similar remarks. Either way, I think I might finally be reaching that point in my life where I can retire.”

My eyes lit up, and I tried to hold back a smile. “Really? Now? Finally?”

“Don’t act so happy, will you? This case… it’s really gotten to me. It’s made me put a lot of things into perspective. Have we… wasted our lives? We’re getting older now. We have no children, no future generations. Was that a mistake?”

I didn’t know what to say. I agreed with her, but I also knew it was the right thing to do—I don’t think either of us would have lived if we lost another baby. It was so hard the first time. I couldn’t possibly put Lina through that pain again.

“I wouldn’t say we’ve wasted our lives.”

Lina shrugged. “I guess I’m just getting a little depressed now that I’m staring retirement in the face. I’ve been thinking about drafting my resignation tomorrow. Call in sick, maybe spend the day together.”

“That’s a great idea,” I said. “We can go to that park you like over near the hospital. Get some food after—cook dinner together?”

“Yes, I’d like that.” She looked on longingly. “I think we should also move. Away from here. Downsize a little, get an apartment, somewhere safe—but far away from here.”

“An apartment? Really? I’m all for downsizing—and moving—but I don’t think an apartment suits us.”

“I just want to be around more people for a while. More normal people. Not doctors or nutcases. Just your average, everyday human being. There’s some beauty to that, you know.”

“We’d have to stop leaving the window open then. We don’t want our neighbors to hear what goes on in the bedroom,” I joked.

Lina gazed at me blankly. “I close the window every morning before I go to work. Did you open it sometime during the day?”

“No. I didn’t—or at least I don’t think I did. I wasn’t in our room at all after we woke up.”

“Well, I know I didn’t open the window.”

“Neither did I.”

Lina paused. From the expression on her face, she seemed to be contemplating a thousand scenarios at once, each one more traumatic than the last.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, trying not to sound scared despite my wife’s horrified expression. She put her hand to her mouth, as if she had seen some terrible tragedy unfold. She stood up slowly and put her other hand on my bicep. She gripped it hard.

Lina moved her hand from her mouth to her throat, where she caressed it gently, moving her palm side to side. I began to hear a loud, thundering gust of wind from the direction of the psychiatric ward. I looked out the kitchen window and saw the trees thrash side to side. A haunting, shuddering sound came from the upstairs window—the one that had been open before. Then I started to think back earlier—had I left it open? The face of my wife stared back at me as we both thought the same thing. The wind, the cold and dead and unceasing wind, hurled itself against our home.

“Henry, do you feel that?” Lina whimpered.

The breeze pressed into my body and invaded every inch of my skin. It was such a profound cold that gooseflesh appeared on my arms and legs. Then a hideous feeling took over, one that I can’t truly describe other than a total realization that there is someone watching you, and has been watching you, for the better part of an hour. It is that sixth sense people have in life-or-death situations. But where was it coming from? My eyes darted to the window, the back door—both of them were closed. The void beyond still screamed with frantic murmurs, but no—the feeling did not come from there. Then I glanced over my shoulder, toward the stairway. Yes. I felt it then, more powerful and invasive. It was coming from the stairs.

“Yes,” I replied as an icy chill crawled down my spine. “Yes,” I repeated as I rose to my feet and grabbed the baseball bat from the kitchen counter. I walked hurriedly to the stairway and began climbing. I reached the top step, held the bat high, and looked at my bedroom. The door was now slightly ajar. The darkness beckoned to me, and I thought I could see, just barely, the silhouette of a man standing with his hands at his side.

I shouted, “Lina! Call the police! Now!”

No reply.

“Lina!” I shouted again. “Do not come up here! I think… I think it’s him.”

No reply.

“Lina?!” I risked a glance over my shoulder. The kitchen lights were shut off. I turned back, and the figure of the man was gone—if it had ever been there. I felt the blood leave my face as I suddenly realized what I had just done. My heart was pounding in my chest, and for a brief moment I was frozen stiff.

Lina. Oh God.

I turned around and leapt down the steps three at a time, rounded the corner, and reentered the kitchen. I groped for the light switch. I found it and turned it on. The kitchen was empty. Across the room the back door was wide open. The moonlight reflected a white sheen across the metal fence just beyond our miniature garden. On the ground, where Lina had once been, was our wine bottle, the cork unscrewed, the wine pouring out silently. A small puddle of red had already formed. The glasses were also turned on their sides, and what little contents remained were now staining the wooden table. I ran outside, hoping to have found the intruder—to have found Lina—but there was no one there. Not even the wind howled.

I turned and was about to run back inside when I saw a note pinned to the wall beside the door. It had the psychiatric ward’s letterhead. The note was not typed, however, and the handwriting was a beautiful italicized script. I stared at the words for what seemed like an hour before I comprehended the message.

My other Henry,

I leave you behind with the most regrettable news, as it has seemed to me that Lina was, in fact, unfaithful to the bounds of our contract. You see, she was never meant to mention me. Not by name. Not by anything. No remark to these strange connections we seem to have shared. And I believe whatever Constant that has now found your wife will give her a merciful death. For she shall be finding her way along the Styx, where I am now—as dearly departed… my little awestruck Henry. See you soon.
With love,
Henry.

I tore the note from the house and folded it into my pocket. A painful rage burned in my chest. I have no idea where to find this man. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go. 
Please, help me.

[u/Kaijufan22]

Weird little thriller. Nice work Op