The Long Way Back

I had been working nights at the clinic on the edge of the desert for about three months when I finally decided to see what was behind the steel door at the end of the west corridor. The place was a converted mining infirmary, a relic from the 1950s, with a single long hallway branching into two short wings that formed an L. The nurse’s station sat at the joint, a glassed-in box with a cracked linoleum floor. The door I was interested in was at the end of the west wing, marked ‘RADIOLOGY’ in faded lettering, but I knew from the floor plan that it had once been the morgue. It was locked, of course, but the lock was old and I had a set of skeleton keys from the janitor’s closet.

One slow shift, after the last of the patients had settled and the desert wind had died down, I found myself standing in front of that door with a flashlight in one hand and the keys in the other. The corridor lights hummed a low frequency that made my teeth feel loose. I inserted the key and turned. The lock clicked, and the door swung inward with a dry groan. The air that rushed out was cold and smelled of copper and dust. I stepped inside.

The room was small and square, with a concrete floor and a drain in the center. Along the back wall were three large drawers, the kind used to hold bodies. They were shut, their handles gleaming dully in my flashlight beam. To my left, a rusted surgical light hung from the ceiling, its cord frayed. On the counter, a dusty ledger lay open, as if someone had left in a hurry. I walked over and shone my light on it. The pages were yellowed, but the handwriting was clear. It was a log of bodies, with dates and cause of death. The last entry was from 1962. The name was ‘Enapay’, and the cause was listed as ‘Unknown’. There was a note in the margin: ‘Came back two days later. Not alive.’

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. I closed the ledger and turned to examine the drawers. I pulled the first one open. It was empty, but there were scratches on the stainless steel surface, deep gouges as if made by fingernails. The second drawer contained a torn piece of white cloth, stained brown. The third drawer was different. It had been sealed with thick chains and a padlock. The lock was rusted, but I noticed that the chains were new, gleaming silver. I had never seen them before, and I had been in the hospital for months. I reached out to touch them, and the drawer rattled, as if something inside had shifted.

I stumbled back, heart pounding. The rattling stopped. I told myself it was just the wind, but the building was sealed. I decided I had seen enough. I turned to leave, but the door was shut. I had not heard it close. I pushed on it, but it was stuck. I threw my shoulder against it, but it wouldn’t budge. I was locked in.

I tried to stay calm. I had my walkie-talkie on my belt, but when I pressed the button, I got only static. I called for the night nurse, but there was no response. I knew I had to find another way out. I looked around the room. There were no windows. The ceiling was solid. The only other opening was a metal grate near the floor, leading to a ventilation shaft. It was just large enough for a person to squeeze through. I pried it off with my bare hands, cutting my palm on a sharp edge. I crawled inside, the shaft dark and dusty. I had to go forward, hoping it would lead to the main hallway.

The shaft twisted and turned. I could hear my own breathing, too loud. Then I heard something else: a dragging sound behind me, like fabric on metal. I froze. The sound stopped. I continued, faster now, my flashlight beam shaking. The shaft opened into a larger duct, and I saw light ahead. I scrambled toward it and emerged into a storeroom, filled with old beds and IV stands. I was in the basement, but I knew there was a staircase leading up to the main floor.

I ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the top, the door was ajar. I pushed through and found myself in the operational wing, which was empty. The lights were on, but there was no one around. I checked my watch: it was 3 a.m. I was due for rounds in half an hour. I walked to the nurse’s station, but there was no one there. The chairs were pulled out, as if everyone had left in a hurry. On the desk, there was a note under a coffee mug. It said: ‘We don’t go near the old morgue. If you go, you need to know: it takes them seven days to come back. You have five.’

I dropped the note, my hands shaking. I looked down the west corridor. The door to the morgue was open, the chain and padlock lying on the floor. And at the far end of the corridor, something was standing, too tall, too thin, wearing a hospital gown that was not quite opaque. It looked at me, and in the dim light, I saw that its eyes were not there. Instead, there were just two dark sockets, and from them, something like dust streamed out.

I turned to run, but the hallway behind me was now filled with a fine, grey powder that seemed to be falling from the ceiling. I ran through it, coughing, my eyes tearing. I pushed through the emergency exit, out into the desert night. The cold air hit me, and I leaned against the building, gasping. When I looked back, the door was shut, and the lights were off. I walked around to the front of the clinic, but it was dark and locked. I had no keys, no phone. I started walking the three miles to the main highway, and I did not look back.

When I reached the highway, the sun was rising. I flagged down a rancher in a truck, and he drove me to the nearest town. He asked me how I had ended up out there. I told him I had gotten lost on a hike. He looked at me strangely and said, ‘You’re the third one this month. They all say that. But they all come back with that grey dust on their shoes.’ I looked down. My shoes were covered. I tried to brush it off, but it clung, like iron filings to a magnet.

I never went back to that clinic. I moved to the city, changed my name, tried to forget. But sometimes, late at night, when the wind rattles my apartment windows, I hear a faint scratching sound from inside the walls. And when I close my eyes, I see the hallway, and the thing in the hospital gown, waiting for me at the end of the west wing. I know now that some doors should remain locked. And some drawers should never be opened.