Every Night After Lights Out, the Young Nurse Entered My Room — What I Discovered When I Pretended to Be Asleep Still Haunts Me.H
Hospitals are places of healing, but they are also places where death lingers close by. When I was admitted to St. Gabriel Hospital in Quezon City after a car accident fractured my leg, I thought my stay would be long, boring, and uncomfortable — nothing more.
I was wrong.
By day, the wards were filled with the noise of rushing nurses, groaning patients, and clattering medical carts. But by night, silence fell heavy like a blanket, pierced only by the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional squeak of wheels against linoleum.
That was when I noticed her.
The Nurse Who Came at Midnight
Her name was Aira Santos, a young nurse assigned to my wing. During the day, she seemed ordinary — kind, professional, almost too quiet compared to her colleagues. She checked my IV, smiled politely, and disappeared without fuss.
But when midnight came, something changed.
The first night, I thought I had dreamed it: the faint creak of the door, the shadow slipping inside. She didn’t switch on the lights. She didn’t adjust my drip. She just stood by my bed.
Her breathing was faint, measured, like someone concentrating. Then, after minutes of eerie stillness, she left.
I tried to shake it off. Maybe she was checking on me. Maybe it was routine.
But then it happened again.
And again.
Pretending to Sleep
On the fifth night, I decided to test my suspicion.
I lay motionless in bed, eyes shut, breath even. My heart hammered in my chest.
At exactly 12:00 AM, I heard the lock click.
The door creaked open.
Footsteps padded softly across the floor.
Then, the unmistakable chill of her hand touched my forehead. It wasn’t the warm, quick touch of a nurse checking for fever. It was lingering, unnatural — almost… possessive.
Aira sat down on the chair by my bed. The silence thickened. Then I heard it: whispering.
Words in the Dark
Her voice was low, rapid, almost like chanting. I strained to make sense of it. The words were in a language I couldn’t recognize — not Tagalog, not English, not even Latin from the prayers I remembered as a child.
But the tone chilled me: urgent, rhythmic, reverent.
As she whispered, the air grew colder. My skin prickled. It felt as though unseen eyes had joined us in the room.
I nearly opened my eyes — nearly confronted her — but fear nailed me to the bed.
When she finished, Aira rose, leaned so close I could feel her lips near my ear, and breathed a single, clear word:
“Soon.”
The Growing Terror
Every night it continued. Midnight. Door. Whisper. “Soon.”
During the day, Aira acted as though nothing had happened. She asked if I was comfortable. She brought medicine and adjusted pillows. Her smile never hinted at the chilling ritual I endured each night.
I began to dread darkness. I begged the day nurses to leave the hallway light brighter. I pretended to call family members just to keep myself awake. But sleep always came — and with it, Aira.
The Breaking Point
On the twelfth night, I couldn’t bear it anymore. I decided I would open my eyes.
The door creaked open. Footsteps. The touch on my forehead.
I opened my eyes.
Aira was inches away, her face half-lit by the pale glow from the hallway. Her lips moved furiously, whispering words I still didn’t understand. But her eyes — her eyes were wide, glassy, and fixed not on me, but on the ceiling.
I followed her gaze.
And froze.
On the ceiling above my bed, shadows twisted unnaturally, forming shapes that couldn’t belong to the flickering hallway bulb. They writhed, reached, and seemed to pulse in rhythm with her chant.
When I gasped, Aira’s eyes snapped to mine.
She smiled.
The Revelation
The next morning, I demanded to see the head nurse. I described everything: the midnight visits, the whispers, the shadows.
The head nurse’s face drained of color. She leaned in close and whispered:
“Aira Santos died three years ago.”
My blood ran cold.
The nurse explained that Aira had been a promising young professional assigned to night duty. But one evening, after a double shift, she collapsed in the stairwell and never woke up. She had been found dead of cardiac arrest.
Her file was closed. Her uniform retired. Yet patients occasionally whispered of seeing a quiet nurse at night. Most dismissed it as hallucinations from medication.
Until me.
The Last Night
After the revelation, I refused to stay another night. My family rushed to discharge me, broken leg or not. But before I left, I asked to see the security footage from my room.
The head nurse hesitated but agreed.
We watched the tape from midnight.
The door opened.
But no one entered.
And yet — on the recording, my blanket shifted. My hair moved as though touched by unseen hands. My own body trembled as if recoiling from something real.
But the chair by my bed remained empty.
On the audio track, faint and distorted, came the whisper:
“Soon.”
Conclusion
I left that hospital the next morning, my leg still aching, my mind in shambles.
To this day, I avoid hospitals. To this day, I dream of whispers in the dark. And though I never saw Aira again, her word still haunts me:
Soon.
