The Night Shift at Cinder Falls

I worked the overnight shift at Cinder Falls Transitional Care, a place that was supposed to be a stepping stone between hospital and home. But most of our residents were there because no one else wanted them. They had Alzheimer’s, dementia, or were just old and forgotten. We had 44 beds, and every night I walked the halls, checking on the living and the dead.

My routine was simple: clock in at 11 PM, do a walk-through, then every two hours make my rounds, ensuring everyone was breathing and clean. I was the only one on duty, along with a nurse who stayed in her office, emerging only for emergencies. The building was old, with a generator in the basement that hummed like a dying bee, and a heating system that clanked and groaned.

One night, I was more exhausted than usual. I had a fight with my girlfriend, and I’d barely slept. After my 1 AM round, I crashed in the break room, a small space with a couch and a microwave. I set my phone alarm for 90 minutes. I must have drifted off quickly, because the next thing I knew, a loud SLAP! rang through the room. I jolted upright, heart racing. I was alone. The lights flickered. I checked the clock: 2:15 AM. My alarm wasn’t set to go off for another 45 minutes. The sound had come from the hallway, maybe from Room 17, the one they called ‘The Harp Room’ because the old lady who lived there played a harp before she died. She’d been a concert performer, and her fingers still twitched as if plucking strings.

I grabbed my flashlight and stepped out. The corridor was dim, lit only by the emergency lights. The door to Room 17 was ajar. I pushed it open. The resident, Mrs. Holloway, lay in her bed, her mouth open, eyes fixed on the ceiling. But she was breathing. On the floor beside her bed lay a Bible, pages open, spine broken. I picked it up and placed it on the nightstand. She didn’t stir. I left, checking my watch. 2:30. I would do my regular round early.

As I moved from room to room, I noticed an odd pattern. In every room, the residents who were asleep had their hands folded over their chests, as if in a coffin. But I had placed their hands at their sides earlier. I remembered distinctly positioning each one. I shook it off. Maybe they moved in their sleep. But one thing stayed in my mind: the smell. A faint, sickly sweet odor, like rotting flowers, that seemed to follow me.

At 4 AM, I was in the supply closet, stocking linens. The door to the basement stairs was there, a heavy metal door with a sign: ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY. KEEP CLOSED.’ I saw it move, just a crack. I thought it was the draft. But then I heard a sound from below: a rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat. I put my ear to the door. It was coming from the generator room. I hadn’t been down there for months. I decided to check it out.

I descended the concrete stairs, the air getting colder. The generator was a huge behemoth, covered in rust. It was off. But the thumping was louder. I traced it to a storage alcove behind the tanks. There, I found a panel in the wall, slightly ajar. I pulled it open. Behind it was a tiny room, just big enough to stand in. In the middle was a metal ladder leading down into darkness. I shone my flashlight, but the beam only went so far. The thumping was coming from below.

I climbed down, my steps echoing. The shaft opened into a narrow tunnel, brick walls, old pipes overhead. The smell was stronger here. I followed the thumping until I reached a dead end. On the floor was a small wooden box, ornate, carved with symbols. The thumping was coming from inside. I knelt down. The box was warm. I touched the lid, and it swung open. Inside lay a music box, but it was playing a lullaby I didn’t recognize. And it was the source of the heartbeat. I wound it back up, but it kept playing, as if it had an endless mechanism. I took it upstairs.

That morning, as the day shift came, a woman resident in Room 33 died. She had no prior issues. The nurse said it was ‘unexpected’. But when I went in to help prepare her body, I saw her hands were folded on her chest, and her face held a serene smile. The music box was on the nightstand, though I had left it in the break room. I stared at it for a long time.

I continued working there, but the events escalated. One night, I found the male residents all sitting up in bed, eyes open, but unseeing. They were chanting in unison, a word I didn’t understand. The nurse was nowhere to be found. I tried to wake them, but they wouldn’t respond. I rushed to the nurse’s office, but it was empty. I called my supervisor, but the line was dead.

I went back to the hallway. The lights flickered. The music box was playing, its melody echoing through the empty corridor. I found the broken panel in the wall again, and descended. In the tunnel, I saw figures shuffling in the shadows. They were residents, moving toward a faint light. I followed them. They led me to a cavern, where an ancient altar stood. On it was a book, bound in leather, with a single word on the cover: ‘CINDER’.

I opened it. The pages were blank, except for the final page, which had a list of names. My name was at the bottom. Below it was written: ‘Guardian of the Door.’ I slammed the book shut. The residents turned to me, their eyes black orbs. The music box played faster. The heartbeat became a drum.

I ran. I stumbled up the stairs, out of the tunnel, and into the dawn. The next day, I quit. I never returned to Cinder Falls. But sometimes, when I’m alone at night, I hear that heartbeat, and the faint chiming of a music box. And I wonder if I ever truly left, or if part of me is still down there, in the dark, watching over the door.