Nights

I step through the iron gates of St Enodoc’s as the sky turns a thin, bruised gray. The night air is cool, the smell of damp stone and old plaster rising from the cracked pathway. A lone streetlamp flickers above the entrance, casting a thin halo on the cracked tiles. I pull my coat tighter, feeling the weight of the bag at my side – a worn leather satchel that holds my badge, a spare set of keys, and the thin stack of pay slips I keep for my sister’s care home fees. I think of her in that small, cramped room, the way she folds her hands each evening, waiting for the next bill.

The building looms ahead, a former infirmary turned mixed-use complex. Its façade is a patchwork of faded stone and rusted iron, the name “St Enodoc’s” still etched above the main doors in letters that have long lost their luster. Inside, the lobby is a cavern of high ceilings, the echo of my footsteps sounding too loud in the emptiness. The carpet is a faded green, threadbare at the edges, and the air smells faintly of disinfectant and old wood. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, a constant low buzz that seems to vibrate through the floorboards.

I head to the security office on the first floor, a small room with a battered wooden desk and a wall of monitors that show the empty corridors beyond. The night shift manager, a thin man with tired eyes, slides a badge across the desk. “Welcome to the night, Ruth,” he says, his voice flat. “You’ll be covering the upper floors. No patients, just the occasional maintenance call. The seventh floor is closed off – fire damage. Stay clear of the stairwell there.” He points to a locked door with a rusted sign that reads “SEVENTH FLOOR – DECOMMISSIONED.” I nod, feeling the weight of his words settle like dust on the back of my mind.

I take the badge, feel the plastic press against my palm, and turn the key in the lock. The door opens with a soft sigh, revealing a narrow hallway lit by a single, flickering bulb. The walls are lined with faded yellow paint, the numbers on each door barely legible. I walk past rooms that have been emptied of patients for years, their doors ajar, the curtains hanging limp like tired drapes. The silence is thick, broken only by the occasional creak of the building settling.

My first stop is the nurse’s station on the second floor. The desk is a slab of oak, scarred by years of use, a stack of patient charts piled haphazardly in one corner. I flip through a few, noting the names – all long ago, none that matter now. The phone sits on the edge, a small black box with a red light that blinks intermittently. I test it, hearing only the quiet click of the receiver being placed back. The station feels like a ghost of its former self, a place where voices once hurried, now still.

I move upward, the stairs groaning under my weight. The stairwell is narrow, its walls covered in a thin film of grime. As I ascend, the air grows cooler, the smell of old carpet mixing with a faint metallic tang. I reach the third floor, where the corridor stretches long and empty, the doors on either side bearing numbers that have long since been removed from the hospital’s active roster. I pause at the end of the hall, listening to the low hum of the building’s ventilation system, a steady whoosh that feels like a breath.

The fourth floor is similar – a series of rooms with cracked windows, blinds that hang limp, the occasional flicker of a fluorescent tube sputtering before steadying. I check the call-bell board on the wall, a metal panel with a row of tiny red lights, each labeled with a room number. The board is quiet, the lights off, save for one that glows faintly in the corner. I glance at it, then look away, thinking it’s a stray flicker.

The night passes in a slow rhythm. I walk the corridors, check the doors, listen for any unusual sounds. The building seems to exhale with each passing hour, the wind outside rattling the old windows, the building’s own sighs echoing in the empty halls. I keep my mind on the numbers – the fees, the rent, the medication for my sister. I think of the extra shift, the extra money, the way the extra cash will ease the pressure on her small, cramped room. The thought steadies me, like a quiet river beneath a stone.

At 3:40 a.m., the fluorescent lights above the hallway flicker once, then settle. I am standing near the end of the fifth floor, near the stairwell that leads down to the basement. The call-bell board, tucked away in a metal cabinet in the hallway, flashes a small red light. It is the light for room 714. The panel is old, the numbers worn, but I can see the tiny bulb glow steadily, a pulse in the darkness.

I glance around, half-expecting to see someone – a patient, a nurse, a maintenance worker – but the hallway is empty. The doors are closed, the lights above them dim and steady. The building is silent except for the low hum of the ventilation and the distant drip of water somewhere in the walls. I feel a small tightening in my chest, a quiet dread that settles like a cold hand on my shoulder. I press my hand to the board, feeling the cool metal under my fingertips.

“It’s probably a fault,” I say to the empty corridor, my voice sounding small and thin. I think of the old wiring, the way the building’s systems are patched together with duct tape and hope. I pull the cord from the board, expecting the light to go out. It stays lit, a steady red bead that refuses to dim. I wait a moment, watching it, the silence stretching around me like a blanket.

The hallway lights flicker again, this time a soft, amber glow as the building’s old wiring shifts. I step back, my shoes making a soft thud on the carpeted floor. The sound seems louder than it should, echoing off the walls. I glance at the stairwell, the metal doors at the top of it, the sign that warns of the seventh floor’s closure. I do not want to think about that floor; the fire that forced its closure is a story I have heard in passing, a rumor about smoke and ash, about a night when the building itself seemed to breathe fire.

I turn my back to the board and walk toward the exit, my mind trying to rationalize the light. Perhaps a stray wire, perhaps a system glitch. I tell myself the building is old, the maintenance crew is small, the night shift is thin. I have seen more than enough to know that lights flicker, that doors lock and unlock on their own, that old buildings have a way of remembering. I feel the weight of the night settle deeper, a quiet pressure that does not push but stays, like a low tide.

I reach the elevator, its doors opening with a soft chime. I step inside, the metal walls cold against my skin, the lights inside dim but functional. The panel shows the floors, each number illuminated in a soft green. I press the button for the ground floor, the numbers flashing as the elevator begins its slow descent. The motion is gentle, the cables humming faintly as they pull the car down. I stare at the polished metal walls, seeing my reflection – a tired face, dark circles under my eyes, a thin scar of worry along my jaw.

The doors open onto the lobby, the same cracked tiles, the same faded green carpet. The night manager is still there, his eyes half-closed, his coffee mug steaming in the low light. He looks up as I step out, his gaze lingering on my badge. “All good?” he asks, voice low. I nod, feeling the words catch in my throat. “Just a little glitch on the board,” I say, trying to keep my tone even.

He raises an eyebrow, then returns his gaze to the monitor. “Sometimes the old system has a mind of its own,” he says, as if he’s heard this before. He doesn’t ask for more, doesn’t press. The hallway behind him is dark, the shadows deep, the building’s silence pressing against the walls.

I step out onto the street, the night air colder now, the sky a deeper shade of black. The streetlamp casts a pale circle of light, the wind rustling the leaves of a lone oak nearby. I pull my coat tighter, feeling the chill seep into my bones. My thoughts drift back to the red light, to the number 714, to the quiet dread that sits in my stomach like a stone. I try not to think about the seventh floor, about the fire, about what might have been left behind.

I walk to the bus stop, the gravel crunching under my shoes, the bus arriving with a sigh of brakes. I board, the driver nodding at me, his eyes tired. I find a seat near the back, the window fogged with the breath of the night. The bus pulls away, the building receding behind me, its windows dark, its corridors silent.

I stare out at the street, the streetlights flickering in the distance, the world moving slowly, a quiet hum of traffic far away. I think of my sister, of the money I will bring home, of the next shift. The night is long, the building is quiet, and the red light on the board still glows somewhere deep below, a small beacon in the dark that I cannot yet explain. I keep my hands folded in my lap, my mind steady, waiting for the next call, the next night, the next quiet dread.