There’s something about Harmony Care Home that affects the memory. Like a veil or a sort of fog. So that when you’re here, you think everything is normal. And when you leave, you forget that you came or if you do remember, have only pleasant recollections. Sunshine, daisies, chatter in the common room around trivia night, or the flaky crust on the meaty pie they served for dinner. You don’t recall the unpleasant parts, like cutting into the pie and wondering what it was you just ate…
I’ve spent a lot of time reaching out to the families about their loved ones. The responses all hit the same note:
“He’s so happy there!”
“She never wants to leave!”
“It’s just so wonderful knowing that our sweet Gran is in good hands!”
“Sweet Gran,” by the way, is Bernadette Smythe in room 201. Bern’s room is the first on the right at the top of the stairs, and if you peek in you’ll see her sitting in her rocking chair like a withered raisin, her head thrown back, wispy white hair trailing down her shoulders, wrinkled flesh lost in a faded nightgown. Pills tumble out of her open mouth, her jaw so wide it looks like it’s been dislocated, multicolored gels and capsules spilling across her lap and down around her chair, scattering around the floor like skittles…
Yep, good hands. She might be a little overmedicated, though…
As a lifelong con artist, I’ve pulled a lot of shady scams in my time, but I gotta say—none of ‘em hold a candle to the grift that is Harmony Care Home. It operates on the allure of an insidious lie: that Gran is “happy,” “cared for,” “looked after.” This isn’t particularly original—it’s the same lie that all unsavory institutions tell while senior citizens are being robbed of their life savings, neglected by overworked staff, or forgotten as their blood is sucked dry by bedbugs. At least at most of these institutions, though, there’s a morbid upside: once you’re dead, it’s over. The final page turned. The curtain dropped.
Death being the inevitable end.
… except at Harmony Care Home, right, Bern?
(Sorry, folks. She can’t talk—her mouth’s full. She definitely can move though—I sometimes hear the crrrick, crrrrick of her rocking chair…)
Oh. Right. If you haven’t guessed yet, I’m a prisoner at Harmony Care Home, making these posts from room 313. It was supposed to be a secret in my first post along with a hidden plea for help but since you folks in the comments can’t keep a secret to save my life… yeah. Thanks, by the way. I’m lucky I’m stil allowed to use wifi, though part of the deal is that I now have to write a new five-star review for every reddit post. So keep an eye out for those, and don’t believe a word I say. The bingo nights are not as great as I make them out to be.
Where was I? Oh right. I think where I left off, I was just about to meet Darlene’s granddaughter, EMMA…
***
When I initially reached out to Emma Anderson, she replied like all families, informing me her grandmother was “very happy.” It’s only after I persisted, telling her about an emergency having to do with her grandmother’s cats, that she finally agreed to make the long drive out to Harmony Care Home to meet me.
As I remember it (it’s all so hazy now!), on that sunny autumn day, she pulls into the visitor parking lot in a gleaming electric blue hybrid, the azure sky reflected in the tinted windows. She’s kind of a mystery gal, her Instagram nothing but Korean food and lattes. I’ve gleaned that she’s bougie, adopted, and that’s it.
So when she swings tanned legs out the door, it’s my first glimpse of Emma in the flesh and—
Oh, hello. What flesh it is—
Ahem.
Emma Anderson is an adorably petite girl who might have stepped off the cover of a k-pop album, her tiny frame all but swallowed in a fluffy white cardigan, the sun winking off her sparkling earrings and carefully manicured nails. When she smiles, it’s this coy flicker that makes me wish I’d styled up a bit ‘cause I’m such a scruffy tramp and she’s just so chic! We shake hands, her grip lingering in mine as she leans in and asks me to repeat my name.
“It’s Jack.” I smile.
“Funny.” She peers at me over her sunglasses. “You sure it isn’t… ‘Susan’?”
“Huh?” I say. … Uh oh.
“Nice to finally put a face to the name, ‘Jack’—” Her grip suddenly squeezes, hard. “—aka ‘Susan,’ aka whatever else you go by when you’re not scamming innocent grannies out of their cat rescue funds! I mean, who even does that? Can you possibly get more scummy?”
Oh, you can. (And I have.) Prolly shoulda guessed someone in Darlene’s family would wise up to me. Lesson number one in why you should never appear in person to your victi—I mean, to the good people whose cats we’re rescuing here! But since I’m reformed now, I do something that’s very rare for me: I tell this girl I just met the actual truth.
And if you think about it, it’s actually a very sweet story. I mean, here you have Jack, the cat fisher, only now turned cat rescuer. Scammer, no more!—And it’s all due to the kindness of his former victim, Darlene, who sent him flowers after he OD’d and was recovering alone in the hospital in the midst of an existential crisis. Sure, I’m fudging the chronology a bit since technically I reformed before she sent me those flowers. But it’s still truth, just rearranged. And it’s heartwarming! Isn’t it heartwarming?
And, ok. Maybe rescuing Darlene isn’t my only goal here. Maybe I learned, through my calls to the families, that the care home has been charging some pretty hefty fees for its services over the years, and… where is all that money going? Hypothetically, if someone were to scam away some of that cash, would the amnesia cancel out any investigation? Obviously poking into the financial operations of a paranormal care home is incredibly dangerous… but I mean, if I’m already here trying to rescue Darlene anyway…
Emma, though, is not buying what I’m selling. Instead she’s whipping out her phone and announcing, “Everyone, this Jackhole here is the guy who’s been collecting donations for cats that, guess what? Don’t actually exist—just like ‘Susan’ doesn’t exist, unless you think this scruffy tattooed loser looks like a ‘Susan’—" I try to interject that Darlene is sick, but Emma won’t stop narrating.
... and finally I grab her wrist and yell, “Hey!”
She gasps.
I’m a pretty short guy at just over 5'6", but suddenly I’m aware how tiny she is, her wrist completely enclosed in my grip, and—oh, this is not a good look.
“Let go of me, creep!”
“She’s dying, Emma!” My brain finally sends the signal to my hand to let go, and I back up and explain, “That’s why I called you here. Ok? Please, let me take you to her. You have to see her. Please.”
The first flicker of doubt punctures Emma’s self-righteousness. “What are you talking about? I was here earlier this week. She was fine—"
“The staff are covering it up but… it’s bad. You have to see her,” I repeat, and point toward the ivy-covered building looming behind us. “In there.”
Emma frowns, but tucks her phone away. She grumbles something about getting me arrested if I try any funny business, and I warn her that we might get a frosty reception from the front desk if they suspect she’s investigating Darlene’s care. I suggest we stick to the story that we’re here for the cats. I grab a book from my car—a prop to help once we’re inside—and the two of us head in through the double doors.
Since I’m in the company of a legitimate family member, Lolita simply asks us to sign in and points us upstairs.
Once we’ve gotten to the second floor hallway, I hand Emma the book from my car and ask her to take a look, saying, “It’ll help prime your mind…” It’s a Stephen King novel, but I’ve switched the dust jacket with Chicken Soup for the Soul. As she examines it, I explain, “Everyone who visits only sees the cover. Seems fine unless you start reading. Even then, depending on which scene it is, you might not notice anything wrong. But keep reading, and eventually you’ll realize you’re in a horror novel…”
“Cute.” Emma hands it back to me. “So, is this a metaphor for you? Don’t think you’re going to distract me from—”
“Emma, you’re only seeing the dust jacket right now, but in a moment you’ll see the truth. It’s a good idea for you to record the meeting. Once you see Darlene you’re gonna know what book you’re in. Just… be ready.” As I reach for the knob to her grandmother’s room, I pause to turn back to her: “And whatever happens in there, keep recording…”
***
Darlene Anderson is one of the easiest marks I ever had, falling very quickly for my scams after the first disfigured cat pictures I sent, more than ten months ago. I stole about $2k from her through repeated asks for donations for imaginary vet bills. And while initially I made elaborate mock-ups of receipts, Darlene became such good friends with “Susan” (my cat lady persona) that by the time karma caught up to me and slammed me into a coma, I’d just send her an ask and she’d throw money my way.
This whole relationship says a lot about us—how much I deserve what I’m going through, and how much Darlene doesn’t. For what it’s worth—I’m sorry, Darlene. Here’s how I want you to picture her: 57 years young, with luxurious auburn curls and twinkling eyes and just the hokiest cat sweater, with a unicorn Pusheen covered in sequins. Imagine her holding her precious brown tabby, Mickles, both of them in ridiculous hats that she knitted herself, and he’s headbutting her chin so hard you can almost hear his purr.
Got it? Okay, hold that in your mind.
Now, with Emma in tow, I swing open the door.
The reek of cat piss assails us, mingling with the odors of unwashed flesh and rotting death. The dim room is cluttered with discarded clothes, bags, medicine bottles and cat vomit encrusting the rug, barely distinguishable from the dark pattern. Darlene sits in a faded armchiar by the window, her fingers working at knitting a small woolen cap on dirty knitting needles. Every so often, she strokes an object in her lap—a hairy lump that was once a brown tabby. The cat’s body is bloated, the stomach stretched like a drum and maggots wriggling in its eyes.
Emma’s nose wrinkles, but she bursts, “Hi Grams!” and steps in to kiss her grandmother’s withered cheek. Squeezes a wrinkled hand. “How are you doing?”
“Emma! Oh, how nice of you to visit!” Darlene coos.
What? No. No! None of this is nice. Does Emma really not see? “Hey Darlene!” I step forward, big smile. “It’s Jack. Remember you asked for help with the cats? I’m here to pick up Mickles.”
“Oh! That’s right.” Darlene’s withered fingers caress thebrown fur. “I don’t think he needs the vet anymore… he hasn’t been throwing up.”
“Yeah, he looks… great.” Technically she’s not wrong. He definitely does not need the vet. “Even so,” I say, bracing myself, “better safe than sorry!” Then, I scoop the dead cat into my arms.
“Oh! But—” Darlene reaches out, distressed.
“Hey!” Emma rounds on me. “Give him back—"
“Gladly!” I expel the breath I’m holding and let her take him, but I keep one hand on that very dead, very decaying cat, grip her arm and hiss, “Look at him. Emma, really look at him. Look at Mickles. Is he warm? Look at his eyes!”
“Of course! He’s…” She feels his paws. Soft, rotting paws. Touches his stiff whiskers, his face frozen in a grimace, lips pulled back over bared teeth. Her finger grazes one of the larvae wriggling in his eyes. Darlene, behind us from the chair, is crying out in dismay, but I keep my grip on Emma’s arm.
Suddenly, Emma shudders and drops Mickles. He thuds to the floor. Emma’s breathing is hard, her eyes on the phone, which she points at the dead cat as I scoop the body up and give it to Darlene. The old woman cradles that bloated dead thing to her chest.
“H-How…” Emma’s voice shakes. “H-how did Grams get here? I can’t remember how she… how she even came to be here…”
“I told you, it’s like a dust jacket over your mind. ‘Caring, Compassionate, Harmonious Senior Living,’” I quote the care home’s slogan to Emma. “That’s what it makes you think while this place consumes your loved ones. The same unnatural forces that made Mickles sick are making her sick, too. Sucking away her life.” I study Darlene, softly whispering her love to the dead cat. She looks more like a woman in her seventies than her fifties. Who knows if it’s too late to restore her even if we DO get her out. “Gonna need a wheelchair,” I decide, turning for the door. I really doubt the care home will let us just walk outta here, but we can try—
“Jack…”
“What?”
“Jack, the cat,” says Emma. Her grip on the phone trembles, still trained on her grandmother. “H-he was NOT sick…”
“Huh? Of course he was sick—“ But then I look back and realize what Emma is seeing on her screen. The dead cat’s fur is darkly stained from several puncture wounds. And I look at the tiny woolen hat in Darlene’s lap, resting on the end of those darkly stained needles. Ice shoots through my veins. Darlene looks up, her eyes widening at my expression of dawning horror, as if the same appalling revelation is cascading through her, too. And then suddenly, the old woman’s face contorts in a scream.
And she stabs me with her fucking knitting needles.
***
Out at my car, I wince as Emma disinfects and cleans the punctures.
We couldn’t bring out Darlene. As soon as she stabbed me—I’m lucky she didn’t hit an artery—Lolita and a couple of nurses burst in and yelled at us, claiming we’d induced a fit and shooing us out because the resident had to be medicated. Afterward, Emma wanted to bust back in and demand her grandmother be released, but those nurses—even if we weren’t outnumbered, there’s no possible way we could fight the nurses. Besides, even if we’d tried—Darlene obviously wasn’t willing to COME. Whatever sickened her body also corrupted her mind, and later when she calmed down, she kept telling Emma over the phone that she “wants to stay.”
So, Emma called the police.
IT went about how I expected. In the end, the cops threatened to arrest us if we continued to cause a disturbance to the residents and staff, and escorted us away from the premises.
It’s taken Emma awhile to cool off from all of that.
“I just can’t believe… how can they get away with this??”
She rants as she cleans the puncture wounds in my chest and shoulder. Even now, she’s still under the sway of the illusion—looks at me funny when I tell her the nurses were rotting corpses. That one of them had the I.D. tag for Kendra Jones, and her eyes were gaping sockets and her teeth were falling out of her decomposing face. Emma KNOWS I’m not lying, yet doesn’t quite believe me about the horrors simmering under the surface of reality. The only thing she knows she saw for certain is that her grandmother is severely ill, and that her cat is dead. Finally, she sighs and glumly finishes applying the bandages. “You know, you should really go to a hospital…”
“Yeah, and if we lived in a fantasy world where health care was free, I would.”
She frowns, delicate brow wrinkling as if this never would have occurred to her. “What are these scars on your chest, anyway?”
“Top surgery.”
“Huh? What is… oh—” A lightbulb flickers on, then dims. “Wait, so you’re… But if you’re… then… what exactly do you have down…”
Really, Emma? Going right to the personal stuff, huh? But I just smile and say, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“What? No! No, I’m not—no!” Her face goes scarlet, and she smacks my shoulder. “Jesus, I’m not flirting with you, asshole!”
“Ow! Come on. If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t even know about Darlene. In fact, you won’t know... Which is why we’re going to have to do this…”
I ask to borrow her phone and then lean in for a selfie, urging, “It’ll be better if you smile.” Emma side-eyes me, but gives the angriest little smile (omg, so cute), and I take a selfie of the pair of us, before setting the pic as her phone’s background. This, I explain, along with some calendar alerts and messages I’m sending, should be enough of a trigger to get her here tomorrow. “… you won’t remember what’s going on at the care home, but you’ll see my picture and be mad about it. And you’ll be all ‘Oooh, Jack, that terrible awful scammer, what a jackhole, Oh-em-gee gonna eXpOsE yOu!’”
She’s glaring at me for the falsetto voice. “… I don’t sound like that.”
“Totally do!”
“—But, fine. Not a bad plan. Why’d you ask me to smile?”
“’Cause you’re cute when you—Ow!”
“God, it’s like being stuck in a group project with the class clown!”
I get down to business: “I’ve got a list here of all the recent residents and visitors…” Quickly, I outline the work we’ll have to do.
Emma’s fingers fly across her phone as I spitball ideas. She’s already organizing all my jumbled notes into spreadsheets and shared drives. Super overachiever. Definitely a straight-A student.
She’s wrong about me being the class clown though. I’m actually the class dropout. Which is exactly what she needs right now, because forces like whatever is behind Harmony Care Home do not operate according to the rules she’s accustomed to. They have their own, hidden sets of rules, in a game you have to figure out before you lose. And Emma’s such a good girl, acting as if getting those perfect grades and doing what she’s told will mean victory and success. And in her world, sure! Being brought up in a rich family and attending a celebrated university—it’s like the rules were made for girls like her.
Guy like me, I couldn’t even afford the loans (not that it matters, since I also never got my G.E.D.). But to win against something like this place, you can’t be good, can’t stay inside the lines, or you just wind up like the police and the relatives, leaving a five star reveiw.
You’ve gotta be a cheater and a liar.
Emma would tell this story the way it happened. But I’m telling it… the way I need it to happen. That’s a very important distinction you’ll understand later… if I can play my cards right.
But for now, we’re still in the planning stages, and I caution her, “Emma, whatever you do, do not come back here alone. Ever. Got it?”
“Why?” She asks. “I mean… if we need to learn about the place…”
“You asked me how Darlene became a resident. You don’t remember, right? Well. I know how. And it doesn’t bode well for us.”
Iknow because I’ve seen the names on the visitor list… I checked them against the resident list and responses from families I’ve reached out to. And if what the family members have told me is true, Lolita does not ask every visitor to sign the log. Because I have a bunch of names of family who say they’ve recently visited, but their names do not appear on the sign-in log. In fact, the most recent visitor to sign in before Darlene is a name all too familiar: Gerard Williamson.
Actually, nearly every name on the resident list was originally a visitor.
And the only two visitors not yet on the resident list?
Jack Wilde
Emma Anderson
Signing our names at the check-in desk doesn’t mean we’re safe.
No. It means that we’re next.
