The Locked Ward

I’m writing this from a motel room on the outskirts of a small town in the Pacific Northwest, where I’ve been holed up for the past three days. I need to get this down, to organize my thoughts, and maybe someone out there has experienced something like this. I’m a nurse, and I took a travel assignment at a place called St. Jude’s Psychiatric Facility, a crumbling, old hospital that’s been around since the 1920s. It’s been mostly decommissioned, but there’s still a small ward for long-term, high-security patients. The pay was too good to pass up, and the town was quiet, which was what I wanted after a messy breakup.

My first odd experience happened on a night shift, about two weeks into my contract. It was around 3 AM, during my rounds. I was walking down the main corridor of the ward, which is on the second floor. The lights were dimmed, and the only sounds were the hum of the fluorescent bulbs and the distant whirr of a vending machine. As I passed Room 213, which had been empty for months, I heard a faint, rhythmic tapping from inside. I paused, thinking it might be a pipe or a mouse, but it was too regular, almost like a code. I stood there for a minute, listening, and then it stopped. I brushed it off and continued my rounds.

The next night, the tapping was louder, more insistent, coming from the same room. This time, I decided to check it out. I unlocked the door with my master key and stepped inside. The room was bare: a bed, a small nightstand, a window with a view of the river. The tapping seemed to come from the wall behind the bed. I pressed my ear to the cold plaster, and I could hear it more clearly, like a fingernail being dragged across the surface. I pulled back, and there was nothing. I chalked it up to draft or old pipes, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

A week ago, things escalated. I was doing my usual 11 PM to 7 AM shift, and I was in the staff lounge, documenting patient vitals. The TV was on, but the volume was low, and it was showing an old black-and-white horror movie. I remember the scene: a woman standing in an empty hallway, calling out for her lost child. As I glanced up, the image on the screen flickered, and for a split second, I saw a figure standing in the doorway of the lounge, a tall, gaunt shape with elongated limbs, silhouetted against the dim corridor light. I froze, my heart thumping, but when I blinked, it was gone. I turned to look, and the doorway was empty. I laughed it off, thinking the movie had gotten to me, but the rest of my shift, I felt eyes on me.

The climax happened two nights ago. I was on my way to the medication room when I passed the door to the basement stairs. It was a heavy steel door, always kept locked with a combination padlock. As I walked by, I heard a child’s muffled cry from behind it. I stopped. The sound was coming from the other side. I knew the basement was off-limits, but I was a nurse, and if someone was down there, they might be in trouble. I went to the charge nurse’s station to get the combination, explaining that I thought I heard something. She looked at me strangely, but gave it to me, warning me to be careful.

My hands were shaking as I entered the combination. The lock clicked, and I swung the heavy door open, revealing a narrow, dusty staircase that descended into blackness. The air that rushed up was cold and smelled of antiseptic and decay. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight, descending slowly. The steps were slick with moisture, and I nearly slipped twice. At the bottom, there was a long corridor lined with doors that had small, reinforced windows. They were rooms for the violent patients, long since abandoned. The floor was littered with debris and old bedpans. I called out, ‘Hello? Is anyone here?’ My voice echoed hollowly.

I walked down the corridor, checking each room. They were all empty, but in one, the mattress was stained with something dark, and the walls had deep scratches, as if a large animal had been confined there. At the end of the hall, there was a door that was slightly ajar. This one was different, made of solid iron, with a heavy sliding bolt. It was a seclusion room. I pushed the door open, and the flashlight’s beam fell on something that made my blood run cold: a small child, maybe four years old, sitting in the corner, her face buried in her hands. She wore a white hospital gown that was torn, and her flesh was pale as bone. I stepped closer, asking if she was okay, and she lifted her head. Her eyes were black, like voids, and her smile was too wide, with too many teeth.

She whispered, ‘You shouldn’t have come down here.’ And then the door slammed shut behind me. I heard the bolt slide into place. I was trapped. In a panic, I ran to the door and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. I pounded and screamed, but the silence was absolute. I turned back to face the child, but she was gone. The room was empty, except for the darkness that seemed to press in on all sides. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I spun around, but there was nothing. Then, from the corner, I heard the scraping sound again, like fingernails on stone. I shone my light, and there, etched into the wall, were the words: ‘WE REMEMBER.’

I don’t know how long I was down there, but eventually, the shift manager found me, huddled in the corner, rocking back and forth. He said I was as white as a sheet, babbling about a child. When I told him what I had seen, he went pale and pulled me out. He refused to discuss it, only saying, ‘That ward was closed for a reason.’ He told me to take a few days off, but I haven’t been back. I’m writing this from the motel, and I can’t shake the feeling that something followed me out. I see that gaunt figure in the corner of my eye, and at night, I hear the faint tapping on my window. I know this sounds crazy, but I need to know: has anyone else seen the child in the basement? Anyone who worked at St. Jude’s before? Please, if you know anything, tell me. I’m not sure how much longer I can endure this. The walls are too thin here, and the nights are too long.