The Night Attendant’s Lullaby

My name is Clara, and I’ve worked the night shift at Maplewood Manor for three years now. Maplewood is a sprawling Victorian-style building that has been converted into a nursing home. It’s nestled in a quiet, forested area, and the nearest neighbor is a mile away. The place is divided into two wings: the ‘Lakeside’ wing, which houses residents who need full care—assistance with bathing, dressing, and feeding—and the ‘Garden’ wing, for those who are more independent, though some still need help with medication and the occasional wandering.

My first unsettling experience happened in the Lakeside wing. I was in the laundry room, folding freshly dried linens, when I heard a faint yet distinct cry for help. It was unmistakably the voice of Mrs. Alderman, a frail woman in her late eighties who suffered from dementia and had recently been moved to our wing after a fall. Her cry was so clear that I dropped the towel I was folding and rushed to her room. But when I arrived, she was sound asleep, her chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm, a soft snore escaping her lips. I stood there for a moment, baffled, then chided myself for being overly tired. I returned to my task, but a few minutes later, the same cry pierced the silence again. ‘Help! Please help!’ I ran again, my heart pounding, but once more, Mrs. Alderman was sleeping soundly. I checked her vitals—everything normal. I brushed it off as my imagination playing tricks on me, but a cold unease settled in my stomach.

The third time I heard it, I decided not to go to her room. Instead, I forced myself to stay in the laundry room, focusing on the fold. The cry was persistent, almost desperate, and it seemed to be getting closer. Then I realized it wasn’t coming from the hallway—it was coming from the intercom system that connected each room to the nurses’ station. But I hadn’t pressed any button. I walked to the station and saw that the light for Mrs. Alderman’s room was blinking, indicating an active call. I pressed the talk button and said, ‘Mrs. Alderman? Are you alright?’ There was a crackle, then a whisper that was not her voice. It was a guttural, distorted sound that seemed to speak in a language I didn’t recognize, but somehow I understood the meaning: ‘Not yet.’ I pulled my hand back as if burned. The light went off.

I tried to shake off the fear, convincing myself that the system was faulty, that it was just a static interference. But over the next few nights, I began to notice patterns. Every time I was alone with the residents—usually around 3 AM, the ‘witching hour’—I would hear soft mutterings from rooms where the residents were deeply sedated. And not just from Mrs. Alderman. There was Mr. Prescott, a former choir teacher who had Alzheimer’s, and Mrs. Bennett, who was in a coma after a stroke. I’d hear them calling out names, sometimes in unison, like a choir warming up. Their voices would blend into a dissonant harmony that made my skin crawl.

One night, I was doing my rounds, checking on Mr. Prescott, when I noticed his door was slightly ajar. He should have been asleep, but I saw his silhouette sitting upright in bed, his head tilted as if listening to something. I whispered, ‘Mr. Prescott? Are you okay?’ He turned his head slowly, his eyes gleaming in the dim light, and said, ‘They’re tuning their instruments.’ I asked, ‘Who?’ He smiled—a serene, unsettling smile—and replied, ‘The ones who wear the sheets.’ He then lay back down and closed his eyes, as if nothing had happened. I left the room, my hands trembling.

The following week, we had a new resident, a man named Mr. Thornton, who was in the late stages of ALS. He was completely immobile and could only communicate through blinks. His room was at the end of the hall. On his first night, I heard a series of loud thuds coming from his room. I rushed in and found him lying in his bed, eyes wide open, panic in his gaze. His breathing tube was intact, but the sheets were twisted around him, as if someone had tried to pull him out. I calmed him down and checked the room. There was no one else. But as I turned to leave, I saw his eyes flick to the corner of the ceiling. I looked up and saw a dark, wet patch on the plaster, shaped vaguely like a face. It was dripping a thin, dark liquid, which I assumed was water from a leak. But Mr. Thornton’s eyes were fixed on that spot with an expression of pure terror.

That night, I decided to do some digging. In the basement, I found old patient records from the 1950s, when the building was a tuberculosis sanatorium. The documents mentioned strange occurrences—patients who claimed to hear voices, who would sing lullabies in German at night, and who would sometimes be found with claw marks on their arms. The sanatorium was closed abruptly in 1959 after a fire that killed several patients. The records were vague about the cause. But there was a note from a doctor: ‘The patients complain of the presence of a woman in white who roams the halls at night. She hums a melody that seems to lure them. We have tried everything, but she cannot be seen by the staff.’

One sleepless night, I decided to investigate the basement further. I found an old piano in a storage room, covered in dust. On the music stand was a sheet of paper with a handwritten composition—a lullaby. The notes were simple, almost haunting. I played a few notes, and as I did, I heard a faint humming from the floors above. I stopped immediately, and the humming ceased. But I had the melody stuck in my head. I couldn’t get it out.

The next night, as I was doing my rounds, I heard the humming again. This time, it was clearer, and it seemed to be coming from the Garden wing. I followed it, my footsteps echoing on the old wooden floors. The humming led me to Room 212, where a woman named Mrs. Palmer, who was known for wandering, was staying. I peeked in and saw her standing at the window, looking out into the moonlit garden. She was humming the exact melody I had played on the piano. When she turned, her eyes were vacant, and she said, ‘She’s waiting for us.’ I asked, ‘Who?’ Mrs. Palmer didn’t answer. She just pointed to the window, and I saw an image on the glass—a reflection of a woman in a white gown, standing behind me. But when I spun around, there was no one there. I turned back to the window, and the reflection was gone.

After that, I became obsessed. I would hear the hum in my waking hours, even at home. I knew I had to stop it. I returned to the storage room and found the sheet music. I tore it up and burned it, hoping to break the spell. But that night, the humming was louder than ever. It seemed to come from every direction at once. The residents were all awake, sitting up in their beds, their eyes glassy, humming in unison. It was a choir of the living, but it felt like a requiem. I ran to the nurses’ station and called my supervisor, but she couldn’t hear anything. She told me I was overworked and to take a break.

I didn’t take a break. Instead, I went to the basement one more time, determined to find the source of the haunting. In a forgotten corner, I found an old furnace with a strange symbol carved into it. As I traced the symbol, the humming stopped, and a voice whispered in my ear, ‘You should not have come.’ I turned, but no one was there. I ran up the stairs, but the lights flickered and went out. I was plunged into darkness. I used my phone to light the way, but the hallways seemed longer than usual. I passed room after room, and in each one, I saw the residents staring at me, their mouths moving silently. Finally, I reached the exit, and I never looked back.

I quit the next day. But the humming still follows me. They say that Maplewood Manor was demolished in 2020, but I know that’s false. I drive by sometimes, and the building is still there, its windows dark and empty. And when I roll down my car window, I can hear the faint melody, carried by the wind, echoing through the night. I wonder if they have a new night attendant, and if they hear the call for help too. I wonder if they, like me, will find themselves humming that lullaby on their way home, unable to shake it off. I know I never will.