The Last Ward Round

My mother, Edith, was a woman of stubborn practicality. When the factory where she’d worked for two decades shut its doors, she didn’t mourn; she simply marched to the Job Centre and declared she’d take anything. The clerk, a tired man with a stained tie, scanned his computer and said, ‘There’s a nursing assistant position at St. Jude’s Hospital. They’re desperate.’ Edith had been a nurse’s aide years ago, so it seemed like fate. My father was away on a haulage run, so my aunt Ruth drove her to the interview in her rust-bitten Ford.

St. Jude’s sat at the edge of town, a Victorian pile of soot-blackened brick and gaping windows. The car park was a cracked expanse of tarmac with weeds thrusting through like grasping fingers. Ruth hummed a hymn as they walked to the entrance, her voice echoing in the silence. The double doors were propped open with a brick, revealing a corridor of flaking green paint and bare bulbs that buzzed. No one was there. They walked past empty reception desks, their computers dark, and turned a corner to find a figure in a white coat shuffling ahead.

‘Excuse me,’ Edith called. The man turned—he was ancient, with parchment skin and milky eyes. ‘Reception? It’s through the old mortuary, down the stairs, follow the smell of decay,’ he said, his voice a dry rasp. He gestured vaguely and shuffled on, his steps making no sound. Edith and Ruth exchanged glances but pressed on.

They descended a narrow spiral stair, the air growing cool and thick with the scent of disinfectant and something sweeter, something wrong. At the bottom, a door stood ajar. Edith pushed it open. It was a small room with padded walls and a single window, boarded up but with slivers of angry light leaking through. And there, along the walls, sat rows of old people—motionless, eyes open, mouths slack. They didn’t blink. They didn’t breathe. One woman at the end wore a nurse’s uniform, a name tag reading ‘M. Pemberton’ that had yellowed.

‘They’re waiting for Dr. Crane,’ a voice whispered. Edith spun. A young man in a janitor’s uniform stood in the doorway, his face pale. ‘He does the ward rounds at three. He’s been doing them for a century. You should go.’ He backed away, and the door swung shut with a soft click. The lock turned.

Edith rattled the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Ruth began to pray loudly. The old people began to stir. They turned their heads in unison, their necks creaking like dry reeds, and fixed their vacant gazes on Edith. The woman in the nurse’s uniform stood up, her joints popping. ‘You’re the new assistant,’ she said, her voice a hollow echo. ‘Dr. Crane will be pleased.’ The others rose, shuffling forward in a slow, relentless tide.

Just then, a bell rang—three sharp peals from above. The figures froze. A door on the far side of the room slid open, revealing a corridor lit by a single flickering bulb. A tall figure in a black coat stepped out, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. He held a clipboard. ‘Edith Marsh,’ he intoned. ‘You’re late.’ The old people parted as he approached, and Edith found her feet moving toward him, her will evaporating like a dropped ice cube.

Ruth screamed and threw a chair through the boarded window, the glass shattering. The sun poured in, and the old people wailed, recoiling. The doctor hissed and stepped back. ‘Ruth!’ Edith shouted. Ruth grabbed her wrist and hauled her through the window, the sharp edges tearing her sleeve. They scrambled across the gravel and into the Ford, the engine coughing to life just as the hospital doors slammed shut behind them, a sound like a coffin lid.

They didn’t stop until they reached the motorway. Edith’s hands were shaking. She looked down and saw a piece of paper stuck to her shoe—a leaflet for the hospital’s ‘Eternal Care Program.’ Beneath it was a photo of Dr. Crane, with the caption, ‘Providing quality care since 1889.’ She let it fly out the window, but that night she woke to the sound of three bells, and in the dim light, she saw the old people standing at the foot of her bed, their mouths moving in silent gasps. The doctor’s voice, smooth as a snake, curled in her ear: ‘Report for your shift, Edith. We never release a contract.’ And every night since, she hears the bells, and I find her sitting in the dark, whispering, ‘The last round is always the longest.’ The hospital is gone now—demolished—but on certain nights, when the wind is right, you can still smell the rot and hear the shuffle of feet on cracked linoleum, waiting for the new ones to arrive.