The Red Button at Ward D

The night shift at St. Jude’s long-term care facility was always quiet, but tonight the silence felt thicker, like the air before a storm. I was the only aide on Ward D, a long corridor lined with rooms that housed the elderly and the forgotten. My shift was almost over, and I was tidying the dayroom, stacking magazines and straightening the floral-patterned chairs, when the emergency buzzer overhead blared a sharp, insistent tone. My heart jumped. I checked the panel: Room 108, at the far end of the hall.

I hurried down the corridor, my sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. The door to Room 108 was ajar, the dim nightlight casting a sickly yellow glow. Inside, the emergency pull-cord swayed slightly, but Mr. Albright lay in his bed, sound asleep, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. The red button on the wall was still lit, indicating an active alarm. I turned to leave, but the buzzer stopped just as I reached the door. I assumed he’d rolled over in his sleep and caught the cord. I reset the alarm and headed back.

I was halfway to the dayroom when the buzzer went off again, same room. I jogged back, a knot forming in my stomach. This time, the door was fully open, and the room was darker than before—the nightlight had flickered out. Mr. Albright was still asleep, but his position had changed slightly, his arm now hanging over the side of the bed. I checked the pull cord; it was taut, as if someone had pulled it with purpose. I looked around, half-expecting to see a nurse or another patient, but we were alone. I reset the alarm again, my hands trembling. As I left, I caught a whiff of something foul, like rotting meat, but dismissed it as a plumbing issue.

By the time I reached the dayroom, the buzzer screamed for a third time. I decided to stay and watch from the doorway. Through the small window, I saw the door to Room 108 slowly swing open by itself, as if pushed by an invisible hand. The room beyond was pitch black, but the red emergency light on the wall pulsed like a heartbeat. I found my feet moving toward it, my body disobeying my mind’s command to run. I stepped inside, and the door slammed shut behind me, plunging me into darkness. The emergency light flickered, revealing Mr. Albright’s bed—empty. The sheets were thrown back, and in the center of the mattress lay a small, black object that looked like a remote control with a single red button.

I picked it up. It was cold, and the button was sticky, as if covered in something viscous. A voice, dry and rasping, whispered from the speaker grill: ‘Press it.’ I dropped the device, stumbling backward against the wall. The emergency buzzer went off again, so loud it rattled my teeth. I pressed the button on the remote, and the buzzer stopped. But then I heard a sound like shuffling footsteps in the hallway. I peered through the window, and my blood turned to ice. A figure—Mr. Albright—was shuffling down the corridor, his movements jerky, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. He was heading toward the dayroom, where the night nurse would be doing rounds.

I threw open the door and shouted, ‘Code blue! Room 108!’ But my voice came out as a croak. The figure stopped, turned, and locked eyes with me. In the dim light, I saw that his eyes were milky white, and his mouth hung open, emitting a low, guttural moan. He started walking toward me, faster than any man his age should be able to. I ran in the opposite direction, but the corridor seemed to stretch endlessly, the cold air biting my skin. I could hear the shuffle growing closer. I ducked into the supply closet, pressing myself against the shelves, holding my breath. The shuffling passed, then stopped. I heard the door creak open, and a hand reached in, tearing the shelf down with a crash. I scrambled out from under the wreckage, but the hand grabbed my ankle, digging nails into my flesh. I screamed, kicking wildly, and suddenly the hand let go. I bolted up the corridor, past the dayroom, past the nurse’s station, until I burst through the main doors into the cool night air.

The next morning, the police found Mr. Albright’s body in his room, cold and stiff. The remote control was nowhere to be found, but on the floor, scrawled in something dark, was a single word: ‘PRESS.’ I never worked another night shift again, but sometimes, in the dead of night, I swear I hear the buzzer—a distant, insistent sound, echoing from a place I can’t locate. And I know, if I ever press that red button, something else will answer.