The Polished Floor

My first week at Cedar Hills Assisted Living, I was told about the ghost. It was a running joke among the staff, how it would follow you down the long, circular hallway, how you’d feel a cold breath on your neck or a tug on your sleeve. I laughed it off, blamed it on old pipes and drafty windows. The building was new, a gleaming crescent of glass and steel, but the land it sat on had a history I knew nothing about, and maybe that was the problem.

I was a night CNA, the ‘NOC shift’ we called it. My rounds started at eleven, a loop through the two wings, front and back, each with its own nurses’ station. The floors were polished linoleum, our shoes squeaking on them like mice. One night, about two in the morning, I was at the front station doing my charting. The only sounds were the hum of the fridge in the med room and the occasional snore from down the hall. Then, without warning, a violent THUD slammed against the wall behind me, so loud it rattled the glass of the medication cart. I jumped, my heart hammering. When I turned, nothing. Just the cold air that seemed to seep from the vents more than usual. I chalked it up to the building settling.

But it didn’t stop. Every night, like clockwork, that thud would come. Sometimes from the east wall, sometimes the west, always when I was alone at the desk, always so hard it shook the floor. I started to dread my paperwork. My coworkers, veterans of the place, gave me knowing looks. ‘It likes you,’ one said. ‘It doesn’t touch everyone like that.’ I tried to ignore them, but the thud became a heartbeat of its own, a constant presence that followed me through my rounds.

One night, the storm came. The sky went green, and the wind howled like a wild animal. My supervisor, Donna, radioed me to bring all the residents from the back wing into the main hallway for safety. I moved as fast as I could, knocking on doors, coaxing sleepy elders into wheelchairs and walkers. The lights flickered. The hail started, a deafening drum against the roof. I came to Room 214, old Mr. Higgins. He was a sweet man, mostly bedridden. I turned the handle and something on the other side caught. I pushed harder, and the door flew open so violently it nearly tore from its hinges. A gust of icy wind rushed out, so cold it stole my breath, and in that wind I heard a voice, low and guttural, whisper my name: ‘…Marie.’

I stood frozen, the sound echoing in my skull. There was no one in the room, no window open, no vent that could produce that much air. Mr. Higgins was fast asleep, but his room felt empty of warmth, as if the life had been sucked out of it. I backed away, my heart pounding, and for a moment, the storm outside was silent. Then the lights went out completely.

The emergency bulbs kicked in, casting a sickly yellow glow. I turned to run, but the floor was slick under my shoes, and I slipped, crashing to the ground. As I looked up, I saw my reflection in the polished linoleum—but it wasn’t me. The person in the floor was wearing a nurse’s uniform, but her face was hollow, her eyes black pits. She was reaching out, her fingers stretching toward my face. I scrambled to my feet, and as I did, she was gone. But the thud came again, right beneath me, so hard the floor vibrated, and I knew then that it wasn’t a ghost that liked to follow. It was something that had been waiting, something that had found a way in, and it was using me as its gate.

The storm passed that night, but I didn’t finish my rounds. I quit the next day. I never found out what the building was built on, but I know it wasn’t just land. I know that ghost isn’t a playful prankster. It’s a guardian of something, and it doesn’t want anyone to leave. Some nights, I still feel that cold breath on my neck, and I know it followed me home. Its reflection grows clearer in my bathroom mirror every morning, and I’m starting to see its face in mine.