Note: This is the guy's POV of the short story Mortal from The Definition of Dysania.
This shows what is in the second floor, and what happened to him.
It is readable without the added context, but I highly suggest you read the first Mortal beforehand. Enjoy!
———————————————————————

My consciousness feels like it got stuck with allergy shots. Lingering ache and numbness rolled into one.

I am not alert in any sense of the word. My mind is stuck in the tar of emotions, and my eyes are glassy with held tears.

I told her that I used the excuse of us going to a school dance to escape from under the lazy eyes of my parents.

The familiar unease that accompanies my lies twists my stomach into knots.
She would help me; so why didn't I tell her the truth?

I was late because I had a fight with them.
I am now homeless.

I have nothing to return to.

I feel alone even though she is right next to me; dreamily staring up into the night.
I glanced up, myself; and I caught a couple stars.

I wouldn't entertain the thought that they could merely be airplanes.

In the periphery; I spotted the infamous hospital. It was in the middle of nowhere—surrounded by an ominous crop of woods.

The parking lot had so few spaces, and a small sidewalk surrounded the building.

Where would people walk from?

I shrugged off the thought and pulled to the left, into the front of the place.

I try to focus now: parking smoothly is not my strong suit. The headlights is the only form of light, besides the moon.
I see a shadow swiftly dart in front of the car, and I jerk to a stop.

I blink a couple times, notice that we are already in a spot, and I take the steps to turn the car off.

Should we really be doing this?

"Ready?" She said.

"Let's just get this over with, I guess."
I reach behind my seat and grab the flashlights.

When I glanced to her, she just looked a bit lost in her head. I let her be, and I climbed out my door.
I saw her start to move inside, and so I looked out to our latest adventure.

An abandoned and decayed hospital.
Windows dotted the walls in a uniform grid.
Some of them were shattered, and all were dirty.

I think I saw something move in a top window, but it's too far away to see anything concrete from here.

I glance over to the other side of the car, her door still wasn't open.
Shit, did I forget to tell her I got the flashlights?

I opened the door and turned hers on to shine it in her face—to liven things up. The atmosphere here was thick enough as is.
"What are you doing? I've already got them."

I saw a flash of panic as she turned around, then it was all amused annoyance as she wordlessly took the gadget.

I shut the drivers door again gently, and a few seconds later, I could hear her emerge from the passenger door.

Hell would freeze over before she asked for help; sometimes I misguidedly admired this in her, but others, I was just frustrated because I had the answer all along.

I hate seeing her kill herself for something that she could get help with.

But now; I am glad she asked me to come with her here. No one should go here alone.

I can't see her expression well in the darkness, so I glance to the beam of her flashlight.

It's shaky.

She starts forward, and I follow her in.
Through the fractured plastic of the front doors, and into the depressing corpse of what once was a place for health.
Now it looks like somewhere people would get Tetanus.

She starts exploring the wrap around counter desk, and it's many messy papers, and I start looking at the faded and torn art that's on the floors or even on the walls.

There seems to have been a cute little infographic for those waiting on visiting a loved one, and then general prints of generic paintings.

I get enraptured by a painting on the wall, on the strip of wall in between the front 'doors' and the upstairs steps; spray painting, actually.

It is a pair of strange almond shaped things. They are completely black, and they are on their side right next to each other.

My eye follows a fracture in the faded light green wall as it flows upward.
To the moldy ceiling, dotted by off-white and somehow dusty tiles.

The fissure worries me, but not to the extreme. I think I'll check out the upstairs.
She's busy inspecting the chairs in the waiting area.

I call out to her to let her know I'm exploring more, and I head up.

The stairs are rickety and slightly unstable, but functional.
When I reach the floor, in front of me is another flight of stairs. An easy way to go upstairs directly; without even facing the rest of the floor.
I stand in front of the stairs, and look out.

In front of me is a long hallway with checkered floors like downstairs. Doors are a bit spread out throughout the walls in an uneven pattern.
Some are just rotting on the hinges, and others aren't even on their hinges anymore.
At the end of the hallway seems to be an elevator—for the patients that can't walk, I presume.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up; like I'm being watched, and when I turn my head to look at the top of the stairs, I see a small head with a mane of hair swish back around.
Like she's hiding.

I smile—I'm glad she's having fun, but I'm not going to be jump scared that easily.

I turn and head down the hallway; I'm curious about the old elevator.
This hospital was made in the 50's I think?
Closed for reasons not stated.
Likely to save money: I don't blame them. This is why hospitals are always in the centers of cities instead of in the middle of the woods.

When people are dying, usually they are nearest to the city—to hell with insurance restrictions if a life is on the line.

When I get to the rusted metal box, I notice the numbers outside the door.
First floor.
Second floor.
Third floor.

Fourth floor.

The last one perplexes me—there were only three horizontal rows of windows from outside.
The longer I think about it, it seems more ridiculous.

There was no fourth floor possible on top of the building.
And it doesn't look like there was a basement anywhere; but maybe she'll find it if she gives up on scaring me.

Anxiety gnaws on my throat as I trace the dreaded 'four' button.
It's not merely a sticker.

"Please! Help me—someone please! Please! Please!"
A voice raspy with fear echoes throughout the hallway and I jump.
That was not her voice.
It was a girl—but not her.

My mind flashed to the girl that dove behind the stair curve.
Did someone else go here tonight?

It's possible—but still very unlikely.
And wouldn't we have seen their car in the lot?

We're the only ones who drove here, and so this person would have had to walked miles to reach here.
At midnight.
Along the woods.
On a school night!

"PLEASE! HELP! N-"

Her shrill cries of fear and pain cut through my fog.
It sounds like she's in a room here.
I quickly run to each, looking for the hurt girl.
She sounds younger than me.

I finally see her, cowering in the dusty corner of a doctor's office.
There are moldy and broken-spined books splayed around the room. Like a tornado of looters passed across the decades until the books became outdated and too moldy to read.

There was a mahogany desk and no chair, there was a dark green rugged floor that was stained and torn up.

And there was the girl. In the corner, next to the window.

The moonlight couldn't illuminate her well, so I shined the flashlight on her.
She had dark short hair that fell on her shoulders.
And she was wearing a long, dusty pink dress that looks like it would have fallen to her calves if she was standing up.
Her shoes were black leather, but old and torn up with life.

"Please..no..." she squeaked out, pitifully, yet guttural. Like I was the one to introduce the reaper.

It looked like blood was pouring from an unknown wound onto the rug. Maybe on her back?

I walked slowly to her, cautiously.

"Hey, hey! What happened? Are you-" I whispered in a gentle tone—like I was comforting a scared wild animal.
She was shaking like a leaf in a tornado, and softly crying.

I heard the patter of feet running behind us in the hall, and my head whipped around to see nothing.

What is going on here?

I felt a hand slip around mine, gripping for dear life.

I turned again, and the girl stopped shaking, but her head was still buried in the crevice of her knees.

"Did you see it too?" I urged. Surely she saw someone else? Maybe she has a little sister here?

She was silent. Her grip never faltered though.

We sat there in silence for a few more seconds; my unease reached new heights.
Even my heart knew something was wrong—so it was trying to escape through my ribs.

Then she shifted her body.

And a breath came from right next to my head. I turned around again, seeing nothing but the same now-terrifyingly mundane room.

I heard the grating cracking of bone where the girl was, and I turned around to meet a malformed, blurred, version of...

me.

It has pitch black eyes—it's like looking into a black hole.
Or the deep ocean.

The cracking sound was from it trying to adjust its frame to mine from a small girl.

Its grip was bruising, then claws emerged when I tried to rip away.
My arm was getting shredded as I fought for my life.

I slipped from my crouch and started kicking at the monstrosity.
Anything to get away.

I screamed, I fought.

And I lost.

The thing's other arm pinned me down and ripped my organs out, tearing through my jacket and shirt and getting a good grip on my intestines before flinging them out like a child excitedly opening a gift.
Through adrenaline and shock alone I felt nothing.

I tried to keep quiet. I don't want her to come up here to see this gore.

My fresh blood joined with the dried and old maroon on the carpet.

When the creature was satisfied with my ensured death, it let up.

To let me bleed out.

It completed its transformation.

It had my blood on its jacket.

My eyes blurred with everything left unsaid to her.

It walked away.

As the darkness encroached, and as my blood escaped from me, I used my last strength to turn me over to the window.

Where I could see the moon.