When the Clinic Went Dark
I had always wanted to run a clinic of my own in my hometown—to work in a community setting and care for people I knew and understood. The opportunity came unexpectedly when a well-known general practitioner called me.
“Would you be willing to see my patients?” he asked. “I’ll be in the United Kingdom for two years, and I’d like you to look after them while I’m away.”
I was thrilled. As a registrar in family medicine, I saw it as an excellent opportunity to strengthen my clinical skills while fulfilling a long-held dream.
The clinic stood at a busy junction in Hendala, close to the municipal council, a bakery, several tuition classes, and a three-wheeler stand. A bus stop stood directly in front of it. The clinic itself occupied an old roadside house surrounded by a few smaller homes. Its worn parapet wall and rusty gate gave it a dark, neglected appearance, but that did not discourage me.
Inside, the building showed its age. The walls were faded, the garden was overgrown with weeds, and little effort had been made to renovate the place. Yet the chairs were neatly arranged, and the consultation room was clean and tidy. The doctor’s chair even looked new. Behind the clinic was a well and a small backyard garden. There were also a dispensing area and a room for dressing wounds.
Sharon Balthazar worked as the clinic assistant. She always wore a mask and was quiet and shy. Tattoos covered parts of her arms, adding to her somewhat unusual appearance. She answered telephone calls, dispensed medicines, assisted with wound dressings, and prepared the clinic before patients arrived. I asked her to come by 5:30 in the evening so that consultations could begin at six.
On my first day, however, I arrived at 5:55 to find the clinic still locked and Sharon nowhere in sight. I waited for ten minutes before she finally appeared.
“Sorry, doctor,” she said. “There was no bus.”
I did not question her further. We opened the clinic and began work. Still, I decided that it would be wise to keep a spare key—or perhaps arrive a little later in future.
We saw the last patient at around 8:45 that night. Sharon locked the front door and escorted the patient out through the back. After counting the day’s cash, I turned to thank her and leave.
She hurried after me.
“Doctor, I’m leaving too. The work is finished. Could you wait five minutes for me?”
“All right,” I said.
She switched off the lights one by one, leaving only those along the path to the back door. Then I remembered that I had left my charger inside and turned back.
“Doctor, please don’t go back in after I switch off the lights,” she warned. “It is not good.”
There was something in her voice that made me pause.
“I’ll be quick,” I said.
I retrieved the charger and returned. When the last light was switched off, the clinic disappeared into pitch darkness.
“Good night, doctor,” Sharon said.
Her father was waiting on his motorcycle. She climbed on behind him, and they rode away. I headed home, giving her warning little thought.
Dr Nuwan soon left for the United Kingdom with his wife, and I continued running the clinic. Patients came steadily, and I enjoyed the thrill of practicing in my hometown. It felt like a fulfilling dream.
As the weeks passed, however, I noticed Sharon’s peculiar habits. She was frequently late, forcing me to open the clinic with my spare key. She was also terrified of the darkness. At closing time, she would ask me to wait until her transport arrived so that we could leave together. If her father was delayed, I had to remain with her. I tolerated it, although I could not understand why she seemed so afraid of being left alone.
I wanted to breathe new life into the clinic. I imagined freshly painted walls, brighter lights, a new carpet, an open frontage in place of the parapet wall, a proper gate and a prominent signboard.
Dr Nuwan was not enthusiastic.
“We’ll see, machan,” he told me from abroad. “Wait until I return before spending money on the place. Besides, the landowner is an odd character. You’ll have to speak to him first.”
The clinic occupied a rented house, and I knew little about the agreement governing renovations. One afternoon, I met the owner, Mr Gregory Pahalagama. He was a man in his sixties, dressed simply in a T-shirt, trousers and slippers, and appeared to have been working in the garden. He greeted me in a loud, deliberate voice, as though addressing an important gathering.
“This is the first time we are meeting, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m the new doctor.”
“Nice to meet you, doctor. Is Dr Nuwan coming back?”
“Not for another two years. I’ll be looking after the clinic until then.”
He studied me for a moment.
“And how long do you plan to remain here?”
“Hopefully, until he returns.”
“Don’t stay here, doctor,” he said abruptly. “There is no point wasting your time. Go abroad. I lived in the UK for twenty years. There are plenty of opportunities, and you can earn a great deal of money. That is my advice.”
“Thank you, Mr Gregory. I’ll think about it,” I replied, trying to change the subject. “I would like to make a few improvements to the clinic—some landscaping, fresh paint, a signboard, perhaps removing the parapet wall—”
“Stop there, doctor. I’m sorry, but I cannot allow that. It isn’t part of the agreement.”
“May I ask why?”
“I plan to demolish the house and sell the land. I want to get a better price for it.”
He said it casually, almost indifferently.
“I see,” I replied.
I was perplexed, though I tried not to show it. Perhaps my time at the clinic would end sooner than I had expected.
The months passed. I treated the familiar stream of problems seen in general practice: diabetes, hypertension, high cholesterol, wounds, coughs and colds. Occasionally, I diagnosed depression and listened as patients wept and revealed the secrets they had carried silently for years.
One evening, a talkative preschool teacher named Mrs. Roshini brought in her four-year-old daughter, who had a cough and runny nose. After examining the child, I reassured her that it was most likely a simple viral upper respiratory tract infection. I prescribed symptomatic treatment and explained what warning signs to watch for.
As she prepared to leave, Roshini looked at me curiously.
“You are the new doctor, no? I thought no one would come here again.”
“Why do you say that? I’ll be here until Dr Nuwan returns.”
She lowered her voice.
“Doctor, I want to tell you something. No one who comes here stays for long. This place has a bad omen.”
“What makes you think that?”
“We lived here once. I ran my Montessori in this house, but we stayed for only a few months. We heard noises. Strange things happened. There was a light that switched itself on when no one was near it. We became frightened and left.” She leaned closer. “I think there is an evil spirit here.”
A chill ran across my skin, but I concealed it.
“Don’t worry, Roshini. I haven’t seen any evil spirits here. There is nothing to fear.”
“That is because you are a good person, doctor. Good people cannot see evil spirits.”
She smiled, thanked me and left with a quiet “God bless you.”
Her words stayed with me. What was wrong with this place?
A few evenings later, before closing the clinic, I asked Sharon to come into the consultation room.
“How are you?” I began casually.
“I’m fine, doctor.”
“Sit down.”
She did so, watching me cautiously.
“Have patients ever told you strange things about this house—noises, shadows or anything else unusual?”
She said nothing.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Please don’t laugh, doctor.”
“I won’t.”
“Dr Nuwan thinks I’m crazy.”
“You can tell me.”
She hesitated, then spoke in a near whisper.
“Doctor, there is an old lady here. She talks to me.”
“What old lady? I’ve never seen anyone here.”
“You cannot see her, doctor. I can. She wears a white saree, and she talks to me every day.”
My pulse quickened.
“Please don’t tell Dr Nuwan,” she added. “He will laugh at me.”
The next day, I telephoned him.
“Have patients ever mentioned strange things happening at the clinic?” I asked.
“Yes, machan,” he replied. “But it’s nothing. I don’t believe in that nonsense.”
His dismissal did little to settle my curiosity. I began trying to discover who had lived in the house and what might have happened there.
I sought out Mr Gregory again and made small talk before asking about the house.
“Who lived here before?”
“All of us,” he said. “This is my ancestral home. My parents, my two brothers, my sister and I lived here. There are many memories.”
“Where are they now?”
“One brother is in the UK. My sister is in Australia.”
“And your parents?”
His expression changed.
“They are dead and gone.”
I did not press him.
Next, I began chatting with the three-wheeler drivers at the junction. Pretending that I needed a ride, I introduced myself.
“I’m the new doctor at the clinic.”
“Yes, doctor, we know,” one of them said. “We were wondering how long you would last.”
“Why?”
“That place is haunted. An old woman died there. She was murdered.”
“When did this happen?”
“Ten or fifteen years ago. I can’t remember exactly. They say she was cruel and greedy. Perhaps she is still lingering there.” He shook his head. “My advice, doctor: don’t stay. Find another place.”
I should have been frightened. Instead, I felt a strange excitement. At last, I seemed to be uncovering something.
Yet no one could tell me exactly what had happened. Time passed, and the story remained incomplete.
Then, one afternoon, I received a telephone call.
“Doctor, could you visit my father? He has a fever, and he is too old for us to bring to the clinic.”
“Of course. I’ll come.”
The house was directly opposite the clinic—a beautiful home with a well-kept garden. A caretaker welcomed me and led me to the patient, a ninety-six-year-old man. Although blind, he was alert and well oriented. He had fever and a swollen leg. I diagnosed cellulitis, prescribed antibiotics and explained the care he would need.
His daughter arrived soon afterwards.
“Would you like tea or coffee, doctor?” she asked.
“Coffee would be lovely.”
“Thank you so much for coming. It is a blessing to have you here. Most doctors don’t make home visits now, no?”
“It’s no trouble,” I said. Then, as casually as I could, I added, “Do you know who lived in the clinic building before it became a clinic?”
“Yes, doctor. An elderly couple—Gregory’s mother and father.”
“What happened to them?”
“They died. But the mother…” She paused. “The mother was murdered. She was stabbed.”
“My goodness. How did it happen?”
“I remember it clearly. It was about fifteen years ago. We heard a scream and ran across to see what had happened. Mrs Pahalagama was lying in a pool of blood near the well. She had been stabbed.”
“Who did it?”
“I think it was a kudukaraya—a drug addict who had entered the house to steal.”
At last, the fragments came together: the old woman, the white saree, the well and the house that no one seemed willing to remain in for long.
The mystery appeared to have been solved—or at least explained as far as it could be.
Being a Catholic, I began to wonder whether a priest should bless the clinic. I contacted our parish priest, Father Jude, a kind-hearted man with a wonderful sense of humour.
“Hello, doctor putha,” he greeted me. “What brings you to me?”
“Father, would you come and bless my clinic?”
“Of course. I’ll be there tomorrow,” he replied without hesitation.
I collected him myself the following day. Everything was ready when we arrived. Father Jude brought holy water and walked slowly through the clinic, looking around and nodding from time to time as though he understood something the rest of us did not.
He sprinkled holy water into every corner, prayed over the building and blessed all of us. Afterwards, we shared some refreshments. As Father was preparing to leave, Sharon approached me with another of her unusual requests.
“Doctor, I want to speak to the priest alone.”
“Of course.”
I left them together. Their conversation lasted nearly twenty minutes. When Sharon finally emerged, the tension seemed to have lifted from her face. Father blessed us once more.
“Is everything all right?” I asked her.
“Yes, doctor. I’m fine now. Father told me not to worry. Nothing will happen to me.”
Father Jude turned to me.
“Putha, I wish you all the best. Thank you for the good you do. God will bless you abundantly.”
“Thank you, Father.”
He took a few steps, then turned back.
“And, putha—one more thing.”
I waited.
“Don’t be afraid of the dead. Be more afraid of the living. The dead cannot harm you.”
He glanced around the dim old building and smiled.
“Also, put some more lights in this darn place, man!”
This is a work of fiction written based on my experience, and any resemblance to real living people is entirely coincidental.