Speaker 1: My great grandfather was the kind of man who always
seemed unshakable. He had lived through a World war, raised
four kids of his own after his wife passed, and
ran a small town diner until arthritis stole his grip.
He was a figure of quiet strength, with the eyes
of someone who'd seen the world and survived. Growing up,
I knew he'd served as a nurse during the war,
but that was about all I knew. Most of his
stories gathered dust in his memories, just like the medals
that stood on the living room shelf. He'd sometimes joke
about trading cigarettes for coffee or patching up cowdly soldiers
who shot themselves in the foot, but there was a
line he would never cross. He always kept their heavy
memories locked out of sight. It was late past midnight
and the house was quiet except for the harm of
the old refrigerator in the kitchen. Accompanied by grandfather, clock,
Great Grandpa and eyes sat at the table, the dim
yellow light above us casting long shadows across his worn,
withered face. He poured himself a whiskey, the one indulgence
that remained, and handed me a coke, a gesture that
made me feel much older than I was. He was
quiet at first, staring into his glass like it held
something he'd been trying to figure out. Then, without looking
up at me, he spoke, you have a wonder why
something stick with you? Boy? He asked with a low
and steady voice. I blinked and adjusted my posture, caught
off guard. What do you mean? He took a sip
from his glass and set it back down carefully, his
hand lingering on it. The war. I've seen a lot
of things fixed, a lot of people up better rid
more than my share too. He paused and glanced at
me before setting his gaze back down to his glass.
But there's one man I've never been able to forget.
He leaned forward, careful not to break the moment. Great
Grandpa rarely talked like this, and I respected him too
much to even think about interrupting. Private Andrew Mallory, he said,
his gray eyes sharp but distant, as if reliving the
memory in front of me. I waited, letting him find
his words. He came to us in the winter of
forty four, Grandpa began. We were stationed at the hospital
just behind the front lines. It was freezing, the kind
of cold that would kill you if you stopped moving
for too long. The air stank of smoke, blood, mud,
and gunpowder. He paused his jaw, visibly tightening. The hospital
wasn't even much of a hospital, he said, with a
dry chuckle. A few canvas, tents and a whole lot
of desperation. We worked with no brakes, patching up the
ones we could, and making the others comfortable until they
no longer needed the comfort. He picked up his glass
again and took a slow sip. That's where I first
met Mallory. They brought him in late one night, carried
on a stretcher by two boys who didn't look much
older than he was. Shrapped, no wound to the gut.
It was bad, son, real bad. We tried to save him,
but his voice trailed off and his hand tightened around
the glass. He died on the table. I was holding
his hand when it happened. I remember clear as day,
the way his grip loosened, the look in his eyes
when he realized he wasn't going to make it. He
was just a kid, scared, alone, dying in the middle
of a frozen hell. He fell silent for a moment,
his gaze fixed on the table between us. What happened
after that? I asked quietly. Great Grandpa exiled slowly, his
shoulders slumping as he leaned back in his chair. The
same thing as always. Rig cleaned him up as well
as we could, tagged him, and sent him to the
morgue tent. Then we moved on. There wasn't time to
dwell on anything back then. Too many men coming in
and not enough hands to save 'em all. We had
no time to mourn. We just did what we could
and hoped it was enough. I nodded, even though I
couldn't imagine what sort of pressure he must have felt.
The next morning, he continued, his voice softer, now almost ghostly.
I walked into the tree arched tent, same as always,
and there he was. I frowned. Who Mallory, my great
grandfather said, his eyes meeting mine, standing there like nothing
had ever happened. It was fine, better than fine, even,
no wounds, no blood, not a scratch on him, just
standing there, confused as hell, but in better condition than
any one in that hospital. A slight chill ran down
my spine. I never heard my great grandfather tell a
story like that. I didn't even think he believed in
anything supernatural, and what did you do? What could I?
He said, I thought I was losing my mind. I
went over to him, my eyes wide as dinner plate.
I clearly scared the kid with the way I walked
up to him, but I half expected him to collapse
or disappear into thin air the second I touched him.
But he didn't. He was solid, as real as the
kid i'd watched die the night before. He rubbed his
hand over his face. The other nurses thought it had
to be a mistake, that we'd misidentified the body or
mixed up the tags. It wasn't too uncommon, but I
knew I held his hand when he died. What did
Malory say, I asked, curiosity, gripping me tightly. Not much.
He admitted he was confused, disoriented, said he didn't remember
anything after the explosion. The doctors checked him over and
he was fine, with no wounds or signs of trauma.
They got him ready and sent him back to the front.
Just like that, I asked, my voice rising, Just like that, boy,
great grandpa said with a bitter tone. Orders were orders,
and he was a soldier. If he could stand, he
could also fight, and that's all that mattered. He fell
silent again, his gaze drifting toward the darkened window to
our left. The kitchen felt colder than it had a
moment ago, and I realized I was holding my breath.
I couldn't let it go, he said, with a subdued tone.
After I saw man there, alive and well, I couldn't
just move on. I tried to talk about it. Hell
I had to. Who did you talk to, I asked
Mary Ellen, he said, a faint smiled tugging at the
corners of his mouth. She was one of the senior nurses.
She was hard as nails, but she had a good
head on her shoulders. A damn fine woman she was.
I figured if anyone would listen, she'd be the one.
He let out a long sigh. I caught her between shifts.
She was smoking behind the supply tent, trying to get
some minutes to herself before the next truck pulled up.
Great Grandpa's voice softened once more, and I could also
see the scene in my head as he described it.
She stood there, leaning against the tent pole, staring at
me like I told her the world was ending in
just a few minutes. What do you mean, he walked
back in. She asked, I told her everything, just as
I had told you, And what did she say? I asked,
louder than I'd meant to. She laughed, he said, flatly,
the kind you give someone when you're too tired to
deal with nonsense. I told her I wasn't crazy, and
I knew what I saw. I said, Mary, that kid
was dead. He died in front of me, but she
just shook her head and said, dead men don't walk, Harold,
maybe you tag the wrong boy. We've all made mistakes.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached for his glass,
the liquid inside never seeming to end. I asked her
if she'd at least take a look at him see
for herself. She took one last drag of a cigarette,
blew the smoke out, and said, we don't have time
for this. There's a truck coming in with twenty more boys,
and a doubt half of them will make it longer
than a night. I frowned, trying to picture the situation
in my head. That's it. She just shrugged it off
like that. War doesn't leave room for questions, kid, he said,
with a heavy voice. Not questions like that anyway, I
knew that myself. We were barely keeping up as it was,
soldiers pouring in faster than we could treat em. Supply
is running out. When you're drowning, you don't stop to
wonder where the water is rising. He set his glass
down hard, the sounds sharp in the quiet kitchen. She
told me to get back to work, and that was that.
Mallory was just another name, another body. Nobody cared where
he'd been or how he came back. They just cared
that he could hold a rifle. The bitterness in his
voice cut deep, and I didn't know what to say
for a moment. Did he come back, I asked finally,
already knowing the answer. He nodded slowly. Yeah, he came back.
He stared at the ceiling for a moment before looking
at me with kind eyes. But that's enough for to night.
I'm tired. I opened my mouth to protest, to ask
just one more question, but I realized Great Grandpa wasn't asking.
He was telling me the conversation was over for now.
I'll tell you the rest to morrow, kid, he said,
rising from his chair, followed by the faint creak of
the old wood. That night, sleep didn't come easy. I
lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, replaying great
Grandpa's words over and over. The gravity in his voice
sent shivers down my spine. I wanted to know more.
Images of a war torn hospital filled my mind. The
smell of antiseptic and blood, the groans of the dead
and dying, the frantic shuffle of nurses trying to save lives,
and then malory. The thought continued to gnaw at me
the next day at work, I tried my best to focus,
but my mind kept drifting. I ran through everything great
Grandpa had said, wondering how it could be possible. I
was still lost in thought when my phone rang. The
vibration in my pocket snapped me back to reality. The
voice on the other end was rushed and panicked. Your
great grandfather has been hospitalized. The woman and the other
end said heart attack. My stomach dropped. I barely remembered
grabbing my keys, talking to my boss, and driving to
the hospital. When I got there, he was lying in bed, pale,
and hooked up to more machines than I could count.
His eyes opened when he heard me enter, and he
gave me a weak smile. Great Grandpa's hand trembled as
he reached out, beckoning me closer. The hospital room was quiet,
save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and the
faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. His voice was
hoarse and strained, but its urgency left no room for argument.
Didn't think you could get rid of me that easily,
did you, he rasped, I laughed softly. Scared the hell
out of me. Grandpa, sit, he said, his eyes locking
unto mine. I need to finish the story, Grandpa, it's fine,
you need to rest. No, he interrupted, his tone firm unexpectedly.
So I don't know how much time I have. Just listen,
I nodded, pulling the chair closer to his bedside. His
hand gripped mine, the warmth contrasting with the cold sterility
of the hospital. I listened without saying a word, leaning
forward to catch every syllable. Something in his tone demanded
my full attention. After Mallory came back the first time,
Grandpa began once more, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
I just couldn't stop thinking about it. It made no sense.
I tried to keep going, hoping the world would explain
itself later. His fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket.
I tried thinking back on what Mary had said, that
he was just a mix up, a mistake, but deep
down I knew better. He paused, his chest, rising and
falling in shallow breaths. Time went by, weeks past and
I didn't see him again. I figured that was the
end of it. But then they brought him back. He
shifted slightly, wincing as he adjusted his position. I remember
the look on the Meddick's face when they carried him in.
They said he stepped on a mine. His leg was
gone blown clean off, shrapnel had ripped through his chest,
and his skin was burnt so badly he didn't even
look human. What happened? Then? I asked, my voice barely
above a whisper. Great Grandpa shook his head. We tried
to stop the bleeding, pulled the shrapnel, did everything we
could to keep him alive. But it was a losing
battle from the start. We all knew it. His heart
gave out half way through and he died again. His
voice trembled, and he turned his head to look at me.
Do you know what it feels like to fail someone twice? Boy?
To watch a kid, die in your hands, knowing there's
nothing you can do. I was unable to find the words.
We cleaned him up, tagged him again, and sent him
to the morgue tent. It had to be over, and
I hoped it was for his sake. The next morning,
Grandpa said, his voice growing quieter. I walked into the
triarche tent to start my shift, and there he was again,
his expression darkened. The first time I saw him come back,
I thought I was losing my mind. This time, I
didn't quite know what to think. He was sitting in
one of the carts, staring at the floor like he
didn't know where he was, and he looked fine, just
like before. Did you talk to him, I asked. Grandpa exailed,
his hands, clenching the blanket tighter. I froze for a moment.
I just stared at him. Part of me wanted to
run up to him and ask what the hell was
going on? But I didn't. Why not because the tent
was a madhouse, said bitterly. More men had been brought
in overnight, and there were too many fires to put out.
I didn't have time to sit and ask questions, As
much as I wanted to his eyes cladded over, his
voice turning softer. I did manage to catch his eye, though,
for just a second, and you know what I saw? Fear.
He was scared out of his mind, but confused. They
sent him back to the front line. Later that day,
Grandpa said, I could feel the frustration radiating off him
as he spoke. I wanted to stop him, he admitted,
to pull him aside and make him tell me everything.
But I didn't get the chance. I didn't even see
him for a long time after that. The war moved on, unrelenting.
He looked at me then, his eyes heavy. But I
couldn't stop thinking about him. Every time I closed my eyes,
i'd see his face, a fear, a confusion. And I
kept wondering, wondering what Grandpa hesitated, his lips pressed into
a thin line. I kept wondering where he went when
he died, what he saw, what it was that scared
him so much. The door opened suddenly, and a nurse
stepped in, her voice soft, I'm sorry, visiting hours are over, wait,
I said, turning back to Grandpa. You said there was more.
What happened next? Did he come back? Grandpa lifted her hand,
his fingers weakly waving me off. Later, he murmured, his
voice barely audible. I'll tell you the rest later, Grandpa,
go home, he said, his eyes fluttering shut. We'll finish tomorrow.
The nurse gave me a sympathetic smile as she ushered
me out, But something about Grandpa's final words left a
pit in my stomach. As I walked out of the hospital,
I couldn't shake great Grandpa's words, and a small part
of me began to question it all. His story about
Private Mallory was by all means impossible. People do not
just die and come back, let alone multiple times. Maybe
I thought it was his way of coping with his
own mortality, a metaphor for something he couldn't quite explain
to me. Or maybe he was trying to teach me
something about resilience and sacrifice. Still, the way he spoke
and the emotions in his voice all felt real. There
was a sincerity to it. The morning after, I thought
about calling the hospital to check on him. He was
old and tired and needed rest, but I planned on
seeing him after work. Given the seriousness of the story,
he would prefer to tell it in person. I had
just gotten home from work, when my phone rang. The
number was from the hospital. Your great grandfather has just
passed away. It was sudden, but peaceful. The voice on
the other end said, I'm so sorry for your loss.
She sounded comforting, but with so much unanswered. I was distraught.
I asked him to repet hoping I misunderstood, but I hadn't.
My great Grandpa was gone. I went to the hospital
to sign off documents and pick up his remaining things.
Deep down, I hoped to find some clues to the
ending of his story, or maybe even a manifesto explaining
the rest. But all he had with him was the
clothes on his back. I left the hospital feeling lost,
both emotionally and physically. One way or another, I hinted
up at the diner where great Grandpa and I used
to go when I was a kid, the one I
used to own back in the day. It was a
place that felt safe and familiar as setting to remember
him by. I slid into the booth where Grandpa and
I always sat. Then I stared at the melia chipped
lamon at table as the hum of the diner's lights
buzzed faintly in the background. I did not even notice
the waitress asking if I wanted coffee, and I just
nodded along. When two mugs hit the table, I looked
up and froze. Sitting across from me in front of
the other mug of steaming coffee was my great grandfather.
He looked tired, his face exhausted and withdrawn. For there
was no mistaking it. He raised the mug slightly like
a toast. Don't panic, son, he said, in a calming tone.
I internalized my reaction to scream and got up, slowly,
keeping my eyes on him as I slid into the
sea to cross from him. You're a light, I know,
he interrupt as he sipped his coffee. You wanted to
know what happened the third time Mallory came back, he added,
I kept staring at him, my mind the swirling pit
of confusion and disbelief. How I got the call you?
They they said you died, Grandpa said, finishing the sentence
for me. I did, son. That's the problem. It's my
second time now, so this is when things change. Before
I could press further, he leaned in. The Last time
Malory came back, he was different. They carried him into
the tent, half dead, with burns, shattered bones, and parts
of him barely held together. But he didn't die. He
should have, God knows he should have, but something did
not let him. Grandpa slumped back in his chair, his
expression turning dark, but he hung on barely. The damage
to his body was Grandpa traveled off, shaking his head.
Everyone said it and knew it. The other medics looked
at him like they were waiting for his heart to stop,
but he just never did. He laid there, breathing shallow,
his eyes wide open. I stayed quiet. They got him stable.
Eventually he continued, stable enough to move him to a
recovery tent. I had to know more, son. I couldn't
get it out of my head, the look on his
face when we were working on him. It wasn't just pain.
He scratched at his forearm, wincing slightly. I couldn't sleep
that night. I kept thinking about him, wondering if he
was still alive, still hanging on. So I broke protocol,
slipped out of my bunk, and went to see him.
Grandpa's voice dropped lower and his hands tightened around the mug.
When I got there, I saw it. His wounds. They
weren't healing. They were getting worse. But it wasn't just
blood and burns anymore. There was something else, this black
goo seeping out of his injuries, spreading over his skin
like it was alive. I felt a chill creep up
my spine. He saw me standing there, Grandpa continued, and
his eyes locked onto mine. He looked at me like
I was his last chance. He reached out, barely able
to lift his hand, and said, you have to end it. Please.
I can't go back again. I can't let it take me.
Grandpa swallowed hard, his voice trembling. Now. I told him
I couldn't, that I wouldn't. I was there to save people,
not kill them. But he kept begging, tears streaming down
his face, his voice breaking. It's in me, he said.
It's going to take everything. Please don't let me turn
into it. My chest tightened. What did you do, Grandpa?
I didn't want to do it, Grandpa admitted, but I
knew he was right. Whatever was happening to him, it
wasn't natural. He wasn't going to stop it was spreading.
I didn't have a choice. I had failed to save
the kid twice. I wouldn't fail again. Grandpa looked up
at me, then, his eyes filled with quiet, terrible guilt.
I pressed my hand over his nose and mouth and
held it there until he stopped breathing. Grandpa leaned back
in the booth, his hands trembling slightly as he rested
them on the table. I thought it was over. After that,
I thought I'd done what needed to be done. Whatever
was in him was tenacious, It didn't want to go
with him. What seeped out of him like a noose,
fizzled as Malory's heart stopped, and before I could get away,
it burst into a mist. I managed to back away
from it, but I breathed a bit of it. In
only a bit, but it was enough. A look of
defeat crossed my Grandpa's face, a rare look to see.
I was found still, declared dead on the spot when
I walked in the next day. There was too much
chaos to investigate, so it was just reported as a
clerical error. No marks were found on me, so my
medical records just show an undetected heart murmur. That was
my first Grandpa's side. Since then, I've lived carefully. I
don't know how many chances I have, but this heart
attack was the second. I can't risk you or anyone
around me. Before I was desperate to know what Malory knew,
but seeing it myself, I now know where he craved death.
He lifted his arms slightly, pulling back the sleeve of
his shirt. Just above his wrist. A small patch of
black oily substance clung to his skin. It got to me,
he said, simply. Whatever was inside Mallory passed to me,
and now it's waiting. I can feel it spreading little
by little. But I don't know what I'll turn into,
but I know it won't be me. I was stunned
hearing this story was just words, but seeing the strange
substance in person made it all too real. I'm sorry, kid,
Grandpa said, his voice breaking. I didn't want you to know, oh,
but I couldn't leave without telling you the truth. You
deserve that much. I stared at him, my pulse brounding
in my ears. That there has to be a way
to stop it, Grandpa, I pleaded. Grandpa gave me a sad,
tired smile. Maybe, son, but it's not a risk I'm
willing to take around you or anyone else. He pushed
back from the table. His movement slow. Take care of
your siblings and your mother for me was the last
thing he said. I wanted to stop him, to say something,
but the words caught in my throat. I could only
watch as he walked out of the diner, and the
weight of everything that had transpired came crashing down on
me