The Night Shift

I had always dreamed of becoming a nurse. Helping people, being the light in their darkest times—that was my calling. When I got the job at Havenbrook General, a quiet hospital on the outskirts of town, it seemed like a fresh start. It was an older building, built in the 1920s, and had a reputation for being... strange. But I didn’t think much of it. Old buildings come with old stories.

My first day, everything seemed normal—quiet, even. A few elderly patients, some minor injuries in the ER. The usual. But it wasn’t until my first night shift that things started to feel wrong.

The hospital took on a different personality at night. The air felt heavier, and the hallways were colder than they should’ve been. The long, sterile corridors stretched out endlessly, the dim overhead lights flickering as I walked past. The floors creaked beneath my shoes, like the building itself was alive and groaning under some unseen weight.

I told myself it was just nerves. First-night jitters.

Around 2 a.m., I was assigned to the east wing—a section of the hospital that was rarely used. They called it the "long-term care" area, but most of the rooms were empty, abandoned. The patients who did stay there were often comatose or near the end of their lives. I hadn’t been told much about why it was so underused, but I figured that it was due to staffing shortages or budget cuts.

As I walked down the hallway, the lights dimmed even more, leaving me with just enough to see a few feet in front of me. The silence was suffocating. No buzz of monitors, no hum of machines, just... nothing.

And then I saw her.

A woman in an old-fashioned nurse’s uniform, her back turned to me, standing at the end of the hall. She didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge me. Just stood there, perfectly still. I felt my heart skip a beat.

"Excuse me?" I called out, my voice shaky. "Are you lost?"

She didn’t respond. My gut told me to turn around and walk the other way, but I couldn’t. I was rooted in place, some part of me desperate to figure out who she was. Maybe she was a nurse from the night shift I hadn’t met yet, though the uniform she wore looked outdated, like something from decades ago.

I took a step toward her.

And then, just as I was about to call out again, she turned.

Her face—God, her face—was wrong. It was pale, her eyes hollow, sunken so deep into her skull they looked like black holes. And her mouth... her mouth was stretched into this wide, unnatural smile that looked like it had been carved into her face. Blood trickled from her lips, staining her crisp white uniform.

I stumbled backward, my breath catching in my throat. She started to move toward me, her body jerking with each step like a marionette, limbs moving in angles that weren’t natural. The sound of her shoes scraping against the floor echoed in the empty corridor.

My fight-or-flight instincts kicked in. I turned and ran, sprinting down the hallway, my feet pounding against the cold tiles. I didn’t look back, but I could hear her behind me—her footsteps quick and erratic, getting closer and closer.

When I finally made it to the nurses’ station, the lights were on, and everything seemed... normal. I collapsed into a chair, gasping for breath. My hands shook as I grabbed the phone to call security, but before I could dial, a voice behind me spoke.

"Looking for someone?"

I turned to see Nurse Thompson, an older woman who had been working at Havenbrook for over thirty years. She was sipping her coffee, looking at me with mild concern.

"I... I saw someone in the east wing," I stammered, still trying to catch my breath. "A nurse, but... she wasn’t... she wasn’t right."

Thompson’s expression darkened. She set her coffee down and sighed. "You’re not the first to see her," she said quietly.

My heart raced. "What do you mean?"

"That wing used to be where they housed the psychiatric patients back in the '60s. Horrible things happened there. One nurse—her name was Margaret—was found dead under mysterious circumstances. She was said to be cruel to the patients, pushing them too far. Some say she was killed by one of them... others say it was something else. No one really knows for sure. But ever since then, nurses who work the night shift have seen her wandering those halls."

I stared at her, my blood running cold. "And... no one does anything about it?"

She shook her head. "What can we do? Margaret’s been dead for over fifty years. But her spirit... it’s still here, looking for something. Maybe revenge. Maybe peace. Maybe just to scare the hell out of us."

The next few nights, I tried to avoid the east wing. I stuck to the busier parts of the hospital, making sure I was never alone. But the hospital had a way of pulling you back.

One night, as I was finishing up some paperwork, the lights flickered again. I heard the unmistakable sound of shoes scraping against the floor—slow, deliberate.

I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

Margaret had found me.

And this time, I knew she wouldn’t let me escape.

I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles turning white as the sound of shoes drew closer, the scraping relentless and chilling. The lights above flickered violently, casting ominous shadows on the walls. I forced myself to breathe, each inhale a battle against the rising tide of panic.

I could feel her presence, cold and suffocating, wrapping around me like a noose. A low, guttural whisper slithered through the air, a jumble of incoherent words that sent chills racing down my spine. It was a language I didn’t recognize, yet I understood the malice behind it—anger, despair, and a hunger that felt ancient.

“Why are you here?” I finally managed to call out, my voice trembling. “What do you want from me?”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, the only sound being the relentless flicker of the lights. Then, in the shadowy corner of the room, I saw her emerge—the spectral figure of Margaret. Her pale skin glowed in the dim light, her dark hair hanging in disheveled strands around her gaunt face. The unnatural smile remained fixed on her lips, stretching wide and grotesque, revealing teeth that were sharp and yellowed.

“I need you,” she hissed, her voice a haunting melody that made my skin crawl. “You’re just like me—one of them.”

I took a step back, my heart racing. “I’m not like you!” I shouted, my voice filled with defiance, though I knew deep down it was a lie. I felt her energy, a connection that went beyond fear. Something in me resonated with her, and it terrified me.

She stepped closer, her movements jerky yet graceful, as if she were gliding rather than walking. “You wear the uniform, but you don’t understand. You’re blind to the truth. This place... it feeds on us. It takes our souls and leaves us hollow.”

I shook my head, my thoughts racing. “What happened to you? Why are you still here?”

Margaret’s eyes darkened, and the smile faded into a grimace. “I cared for the lost. The broken. They took my kindness for weakness. I was punished for my compassion.”

The air grew colder, and I could see my breath misting in front of me. I felt the walls closing in, the horror of her story sinking in like ice. I knew I had to escape, but deep down, a part of me wanted to stay and understand her, to help her find peace.

“You don’t have to be like this,” I whispered, desperate to reach her. “You can find peace. You don’t have to linger here.”

For a brief moment, a flicker of humanity crossed her hollow features. “Peace?” she echoed, her voice trembling. “I was never given peace.”

In that instant, I felt a surge of determination. I couldn’t let this continue. I had to confront the darkness. I stepped forward, closing the distance between us, willing to face whatever truth lay ahead.

“Tell me what you need,” I urged, my voice steady. “I can help you.”

She hesitated, and for a moment, the shadows around her flickered, revealing glimpses of her past—a glimpse of her kindness, the patients she cared for, the love she once had. “Find the truth,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Uncover the lies they’ve hidden. The pain… it must be acknowledged.”

With that, her form began to dissolve into the shadows, her haunting smile fading as she whispered, “Help me remember.”

As she disappeared, the lights flickered one last time and then steadied. I stood in the room, the oppressive weight lifting, but I knew my fight was far from over. I had to delve deeper into the hospital’s dark past, uncover the secrets buried within its walls, and help Margaret find the closure she had never received.

Over the following weeks, I immersed myself in the hospital's history, digging through dusty archives and talking to old staff. The tales I uncovered were horrifying—abuse, neglect, and a systemic culture that had driven Margaret to her tragic end.

Finally, during a particularly stormy night, I returned to Room 13, armed with the truth I had uncovered. I stood in the center of the room, took a deep breath, and called out, “Margaret! I know your story. I know what happened to you!”

The air shifted, and the temperature dropped. Slowly, she materialized, her form clearer than before, her eyes reflecting an emotion I had never seen—hope.

“Do you see me?” she asked, her voice softening. “Do you understand now?”

“Yes,” I replied, tears welling in my eyes. “You were wronged. But you are not forgotten. You are remembered.”

With those words, I felt a wave of warmth wash over me. Margaret’s expression softened, the haunted look in her eyes fading as her smile returned, no longer twisted but genuine. “Thank you,” she said, her voice like a whisper in the wind.

In that moment, the weight of decades of sorrow lifted. The flickering lights steadied, and the chill in the air receded. Margaret’s spirit began to fade, but not before she whispered, “I’m free.”

And just like that, she was gone.

As I left Room 13, I felt a sense of peace that I had never experienced before. I had confronted the darkness, not just for myself, but for a soul that had been trapped for far too long. I knew I would carry her story with me, a reminder of the light that could emerge even from the deepest shadows.