Category
75 stories.
It was 3 AM, and the sleep clinic should have been empty, especially Bed 4, which was officially offline for repair. But for the third night in a row, a patient in Bed 4 was waving at me, their voice asking about a humming sound through a disconnected intercom.
Working the quiet night shift at the Marsh View Motel, I found a fresh entry in the register with my own initials, for Room 9. But Room 9 has been sealed since the spring flood, its key hanging untouched on the wall. Inside, a half-empty glass of water and a second, mud-encrusted key lay on the bed.
My graveyard night shift means quiet hours watching the CCTV monitors. For weeks, a woman has appeared, always stopping at an unused plot before walking towards the west gate. I just watched her walk straight through the locked, chained gate, but my own shift log now shows *my* name on a gate check I never made.
