He smiled and put his finger to his lips. It felt like a cold fist closed around my throat, and I reached up to feel if it was real. I couldn’t speak. I could breathe fine, but I couldn’t make a single damned sound. I panicked and drew my sidearm on him. He cocked his head to the side, tapped his ear, and kept on coming.

 My boots clacked loud in the hospital halls as I took a step back, and he mimed a wince as though I’d made a terrible noise, and hurt his ears. That’s when my foot wouldn’t move quickly anymore. It felt like I was wading through tar. At that point, I just lost it. I know they pay me to keep my head when things go to shit, but this was too much. I started squeezing the trigger on my Glock, but nothing happened. I tried to work the slide, but it was frozen in place. I tried to throw the gun at the smiling guy, and it stuck to my hand like it was glued there.

He kept on walking. As he went by me, I made to grab him, but when my hand should have slapped against his chest, it slowed, stuck in the same tarry drag as my feet. He moseyed on into the room where Mr. Simkin was laid out, all hooked up to machines and tubes. The thin smiling guy pulled up the chair next to him, and gave him a gentle shake.

My boss opened his eyes, and looked at the faintly smiling newcomer.
“Son?” The smiling man nodded, “I’m finally going to listen to you, Dad. And you don’t even have to burn me this time.”

He laid his ear on the old man’s chest, as if to hear his heartbeat. Every monitor in the room started to flash and blink, but none of them made a sound, not a damned sound. Then they all went dark. The old man shook for a moment, and then, was still.