If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul will take.

But if I wake, then I must feed.

I pray he sends me all I need.

You're listening to Spooked.

Stay tuned.

I get to the hospital emergency ward. Run through the side door, I tell the lady at the desk the code name, exactly as someone told it to me not 32 minutes prior.

She types it in, types it in again, then straightens herself up.

Officious, stern, tells me I'm sorry.

That is not a valid code.

I cannot grant you admittance.

I look at her.

I say very deliberately.

That is the code someone just decided to me. Whatever it is that you're doing, this is not the time.

Please tell me the room number, the floor, and how to get there right now.

Another woman older, walks up behind the first, gently presses her to the side, nods at me, clicks a few keys,

then hands me a badge. The elevator is right there, she says, pointing. Get off on the third floor.

A nurse will call you in. I get off on the third floor. And it's a family reception type of area, the worst

reception area of all time. Garish hospital carpet, rows of linked plastic and metal chairs lined

up against the walls, this sad box of children's toys.

A few other people sit in some of the chairs.

None of us look at each other.

We look nowhere.

...