Room 402 Does Not Exist
In nursing school, they warn you about strange things that happen in hospitals, but nobody ever really tells you what the night shift in the elderly ward feels like. I work from 11 PM to 7 AM. Those are the hours when the whole building gets quiet, almost too quiet, and everything feels a little eerie, like the walls are holding their breath. My floor has thirty rooms. They run from 401 all the way to 430. Most of them are full of older patients who sleep early and need checks every couple of hours. The hallway lights are always dimmed at night to help people rest, so you walk around mostly in shadows, with just the glow from the nurses' station behind you. Everyone on my floor knows about room 402. It has been closed for six years, ever since there was some kind of water damage or electrical problem, depending on who you ask. The door is sealed with old yellow tape that has gone soft and curled at the edges. Behind it, someone pushed a heavy metal cabinet right up against the entrance so nobody could even open the door if they tried. We joke about it sometimes during slow shifts. New nurses get told the story like a warning, half laughing, half serious. "Don't worry about 402," the older nurses say. "It's just storage. Ignore it." I had ignored it for almost two years. Until that night. It was close to 2 AM, the deadest part of the shift, when most patients are finally asleep and the only sounds are machines humming and the soft squeak of my shoes on the floor. I was charting at the station when I noticed one of the call light bulbs on the board blinking. I looked closer and felt my stomach drop a little. It said 402. At first I thought it had to be a wiring mistake. The room isn't even supposed to be hooked up to the system anymore. I figured maybe some old circuit got crossed during an inspection. But the blinking light did not stop. It kept going, faster and faster, and the little buzzer that comes with it got louder than I had ever heard it, like it was trying to get my attention on purpose. I got up and walked down the hall toward the room, telling myself it was just a technical problem I needed to check for the report. The hallway felt colder with every step. By the time I got close to the door, I could actually see my own breath in little clouds in front of my face. That part scared me more than anything, because the heat on our floor is always kept high for the older patients. It should not have been that cold. The call light above the door was flashing bright red now, which is strange because our system only uses amber and white lights. Red is not even a color we use. I stood there, my hand half raised toward the door, my heart pounding in my ears. That is when I heard it. A voice, dry and raspy, like it hadn't been used in years, came from somewhere behind that welded door. It said my name. Not shouted, just said, calm and clear, like we knew each other. It asked me to come in and help with the pillows, because, it said, the shadows were getting too heavy. I do not remember deciding to run, but I backed away so fast I almost tripped over my own feet. I did not stop until I was back at the station, sitting down, gripping the edge of the desk like it could keep me steady. I did not tell anyone. Who would believe me? I just sat there for the rest of the night, listening. The buzzing from 402 kept going, low and steady, like a heartbeat down the hall. It did not stop until exactly 6:59 AM, one minute before shift change, like it knew the schedule. I told myself it was stress. I told myself it was my mind playing tricks after too many double shifts. I almost believed it, until the next night. When I walked past 402 again, I noticed the yellow tape had been peeled back at one corner, just enough to see a sliver of what was behind the door. It was not storage boxes or broken pipes like I expected. It was just darkness, deep and complete, like the room went back further than it should have. I did not stop walking. I kept my eyes forward and my pace steady, even though my hands were shaking. Then today happened, and today is the part I cannot explain away. I came in for my shift and went to grab my clipboard off the rack, the same one I use every night for patient notes. Tucked inside, folded neatly, was a small piece of paper. It was not there before; I check that rack every single day. The writing on it was in old blue ink, the kind that fades and smears, like it came from a pen nobody makes anymore. It thanked me. It said it enjoyed my company. And then it said it was time for me to join them in 402. I stood there holding that paper so long another nurse asked if I was feeling alright. I just said I was tired and shoved it into my coat pocket, where it still is right now. I tried to call in sick tonight. I really did. I dialed the unit supervisor's number, and before it even rang, I heard that same raspy voice come through my phone, clear as if someone was standing right next to me. It said the hospital needs its nurses, especially for the shifts that never end. I hung up so fast I almost dropped my phone. I am writing this now sitting in my car in the hospital parking lot. The engine is off. My hands are still cold, even with the heater running earlier. I can see the whole building from here, dark windows on every floor except one. On the fourth floor, in the far wing, there is a single light burning steady in the night. I do not need to count the windows to know which room it is. It is 402. I keep looking at that light, and some part of me, deep down, already knows the truth. If I walk through those front doors tonight, if I go up to that floor and down that hallway one more time, I will not be coming back out. Not as myself. Not ever. My shift starts in ten minutes. I can hear the automatic doors of the entrance sliding open and closed as other staff walk in and out, laughing about nothing, carrying coffee cups, completely unaware. I envy them so much right now. I am still sitting here. The light in 402 has not flickered once. It is just waiting, steady and patient, like it has all the time in the world. And somehow, I think it does.