The Door That Slams

I’d only been at St. Dymphna’s for two weeks when they moved me to the east wing. That’s the old part, the one they’d been meaning to renovate for a decade but never had the budget for. The floors creaked under the worn linoleum, and the air carried a faint, sweet smell of decay, like old flowers pressed between the pages of a forgotten hymnbook.

My first morning, I was helping Mr. Petrov, a man with a face like crumpled paper, from his bed to his chair. He was a quiet man, speaking only in the short, sharp bursts of a long-term stroke survivor. As I wheeled him toward the breakfast hall, he suddenly pointed a trembling finger at the far end of the hall, his eyes wide. I turned, but saw nothing. He just muttered something in his native tongue, something that sounded like a prayer.

I finished with him and headed back to his room to strip the sheets. The room was at the end of a long corridor, past a window that looked out onto a brick wall. Halfway there, I heard a soft click. I froze. It was the sound of a door unlatching. I looked down the hall to my left; all the doors were closed. To my right, toward Mr. Petrov’s room, a door I hadn’t passed was slowly swinging open. It wasn’t a draft; the building was sealed tight against the October chill. I watched, my heart hammering, as the door swung fully open with a slow, deliberate creak, revealing a dark room beyond. Then, as if a sudden wind had caught it, it slammed shut with a force that rattled the picture frames on the walls.

The sound echoed down the empty corridor. I stood there, frozen, my hand gripping the handle of the supply cart so tightly my knuckles went white. I fumbled for my walkie-talkie and called my supervisor, Brenda. She was a stout woman with a comforting, no-nonsense manner. ‘Brenda, I think I just saw a door slam on its own,’ I said, my voice trembling.

There was a crackle of static, then Brenda’s voice, calm and amused. ‘Oh, that’s just Martha. She’s our resident ghost.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. ‘Martha?’ I repeated.

‘She was a patient here in the sixties,’ Brenda said. ‘She never left. She likes to slam doors, especially when she’s feeling playful. And she has a thing for hiding the remote controls. You’ll get used to it.’

I stared at the closed door. Get used to it? I thought. My heart was still racing. I wanted to ask more, but Brenda was already moving on. ‘Oh, and if you ever hear a cat purring from room 214, it’s just Mrs. Patterson’s old tabby, Tinker. She passed about five years ago, but she still comes around for the afternoon sun.’

I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. That night, as I was making my rounds, checking on the residents, I entered room 214 to check on old Mrs. Albright, who had dementia and often wandered. The room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. I heard it then: a low, rumbling purr, like the sound of a contented cat. It seemed to come from the direction of the armchair by the window. But the chair was empty. I flicked the light switch; the light clicked on, and the purring stopped. A moment later, the light flickered once, then went out, plunging the room back into gloom.

I stood in the darkness, my flashlight shaking in my hand. I felt a Presence, a weight in the air, as if something was watching me. I backed out of the room, my hand on the doorframe, and bumped into something solid behind me. I spun around, a scream caught in my throat. It was just the cleaning cart, but I could have sworn it hadn’t been there a moment ago.

From that day on, I was on high alert. I started to notice other things. In the laundry room, the washing machine would start on its own, even when it was unplugged. One day, I found a set of dentures in the medicine cabinet, neatly arranged on the top shelf, when I knew for a fact I’d put them back in Mr. Wexler’s drawer. The other nurses just shrugged. ‘It’s just the spirits,’ they said. ‘They’re not evil. They’re just… here.’

But the fear never left me. It was a shadow that followed me from room to room, a prickling at the back of my neck whenever I walked down that east wing corridor. I started to dread going to work. I’d find excuses to stay in the newer part of the building, but every time I had to cross into the east wing, my heart would pound in my chest.

Then, one afternoon, I was cleaning room 206, a room that had been empty for weeks. The door was ajar. I went in, my keys in my hand, ready to lock the door behind me. As I stepped inside, the door clicked shut behind me. I turned, but my hand was already on the handle, and I pulled. It didn’t budge. I pushed. Nothing. It was locked. But I hadn’t locked it. I jiggled the handle, panic rising. And then I heard it: a low, mocking laugh, barely a whisper, right by my ear. I spun around, but the room was empty. The laugh seemed to hang in the air, fading like a tired echo.

I stood there, my back against the door, tears streaming down my face. I was trapped. The light flickered. The sink tap turned on, then off. A drawer in the nightstand slid open, revealing a small, folded piece of paper. My hands trembling, I picked it up and unfolded it. It was a hand-drawn smiley face, crudely sketched in pencil, with the words ‘Just kidding!’ scrawled beneath it.

The door clicked unlocked. I didn’t stay to clean. I ran out, straight to Brenda’s office, and told her I was quitting. She looked at me with pity. ‘I know it’s scary, dear,’ she said. ‘But they’re just lonely. They want someone to know they’re still here.’

I didn’t care. I handed in my notice that day. But as I was leaving, walking through the east wing for the last time, I saw a gray form slide out of one of the rooms and, with a gentle click, shut a door that had been open. It was just a flicker of movement, a suggestion of a shape, but I knew it was Martha. And for a moment, I thought I heard her sigh.

I walked out into the crisp autumn air, and I never looked back. But that night, lying in my own bed, I heard it again: the soft click of a door unlatching, then the slam of a door closing. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that Martha had followed me home.

I haven’t slept with a closed door since.