The Night the Intercom Crackled

I had been working the overnight shift at the Meridian Peak Sanatorium for just over three months. The place was a converted tuberculosis hospital from the 1920s, now a long-term care facility for the elderly and the mentally unwell. I was a nurse’s aide, and my shift ran from 6 PM to 6 AM, three nights a week. The old building had its quirks—wandering corridors, ancient radiators that clanked, and an elevator that seemed to take forever. But I had gotten used to it, mostly.

That night, though, something felt off from the moment I clocked in. The air in the lobby was too still, and the fluorescent lights flickered with a hesitant buzz. My first round was through the Alzheimer’s wing. The residents were mostly asleep, but old Mrs. Albright, who usually dozed in her chair by the nurses’ station, was sitting upright, staring at the wall. When I asked her if she was okay, she whispered, ‘They’re in the walls, dear. They’re in the wires. Don’t let them speak.’ I dismissed it as her dementia—she often said strange things.

By midnight, the unease had grown into a knot in my stomach. The night tech, a burly guy named Marcus, had called in sick, and I was working with a new CNA, a young woman named Leah, fresh out of training. She was nice, but jumpy. We had a few smokers among the staff, but they’d all taken their breaks by ten. I needed a cigarette like I needed air, and the idea of going outside alone was suddenly terrifying. So I decided to do a quick sweep of the 4th floor, hoping to find someone to walk with.

The 4th floor was the ‘quiet’ wing—mostly vacant rooms, used for overflow storage. The lights were dim, and the air was colder than the rest of the building. I called out for Leah, but only the hum of the old electrical system answered. I was about to head back to the elevator when I noticed the intercom panel on the wall. It was an old model, with a grille and a button, used for paging residents. A red light blinked on it, though I’d never seen it do that before. I pressed the button to listen, and a crackle of static filled the hall. Then, a voice—thin, like a child’s—spoke through the speaker: ‘We can hear you in the dark.’

I yanked my hand away, heart pounding. That wasn’t a resident. Our residents couldn’t get to that floor without a key. I forced myself to laugh it off. Probably a loose wire, or feedback from a radio in the basement. But the feeling of being watched grew stronger as I hurried to the elevator. The ride down was fine, except the elevator music—which usually played a Muzak version of ‘Edelweiss’—was replaced by a low, rhythmic tapping, as if something was knocking on the roof of the cab.

When the doors opened on the first floor, the main hallway was empty. The reception desk was unmanned, and the Christmas decorations, which had been up for months, swayed slightly, though there was no draft. I pushed through the heavy front door and stepped into the night air. The parking lot was poorly lit, and the wind carried a faint, metallic smell, like rust and salt. I lit my cigarette and took a long drag, trying to calm my nerves. But the silence was wrong. The crickets weren’t singing, and the usual distant hum of the highway was absent.

That’s when I realized the intercom in my pocket—we carried small devices to call for help—had a red light blinking. I pressed the talk button and said, ‘Leah, are you there?’ A pause. Then Leah’s voice, shaking: ‘Who’s in the storage room? I heard someone whispering. They said my name.’ I dropped my cigarette and ran back inside.

The storage room was on the second floor, a converted old supply closet. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, and the light from the hallway spilled in. The room was cluttered with old IV stands, wheelchairs, and boxes of files. At the far end, the intercom panel on the wall was lit up, and from its grille came a series of clicking sounds, like a rat running through wires. Then a voice—not mine, not Leah’s, but a hollowed, crackling version of every voice I’d heard that night—said: ‘You’ve been carrying us with you. We’re in your pocket.’

I looked down. My hand was already reaching for the intercom in my pocket, but it wasn’t mine. The plastic was cold, and the speaker grill was warm, as if it had been used recently. Leah appeared behind me, her face pale. She held up her own intercom, and it too was glowing red. In unison, they both spoke: ‘We like the quiet. We’ll keep you company.’

We bolted. The elevator was too slow, so we ran down the stairs, our footsteps echoing in the stairwell. But the echoes were wrong—there were extra footsteps, soft, high-pitched, as if small feet were running just behind us. When we burst into the lobby, the power flickered and died, leaving only the dim emergency lights. The intercom in my pocket crackled again, and this time it was a choir of whispers, all speaking in different languages, all saying the same thing: ‘We will never be alone again.’

Weeks later, I still work the night shift. I threw the intercom into a lake, but the red light still blinks in my peripheral vision, and sometimes at night, the speaker in my pocket whispers to me. The others don’t hear it, but I do. I haven’t smoked since, because every time I go outside, the silence is filled with their gentle, insistent taps on the metal rails and the glass of the windows. They are always with me, waiting for the day I forget to listen, so they can finally speak in my voice.