Lena pushed the medication cart down the third-floor corridor of the old wing, because the night supervisor had asked her to check the empty rooms before the morning shift. The lights above her flickered twice, and then stayed off. She stopped at the first door and pushed it open. The bed was made, the window was closed. She wrote the room number on the clipboard and moved to the next. At the fourth door the handle was cold under her hand. She turned it and the door opened halfway and stopped. Something held it from the other side. She pushed. The door gave. A nurse stood just inside the room. The uniform was white and stained dark across the front.
The cap sat straight. The face was pale. The eyes were open and fixed on the clipboard in Lena’s hand. Blood had dried at the corners of the mouth and along the line of the jaw. Lena stepped back. The door closed. She wrote the room number and walked to the end of the corridor. She did not open the other doors.
In the morning, the supervisor asked why the fourth room had not been checked. Lena said the door would not open. The supervisor went with her. The door opened. The room was empty. The bed was made. There was a dark stain on the floor beside the bed that had not been there the night before. The supervisor wiped it with a cloth. The cloth came away red. She threw the cloth in the bin and locked the room. Lena went home. She did not sleep.
At two she woke and heard the sound of a cart rolling down the hall outside her apartment. The wheel squeaked. The sound stopped at her door. She did not open it. In the morning there was a single dark handprint on the outside of the door. The print was small. Blood had run from the bottom of it in two thin lines that reached the threshold. She wiped it away. The door stayed clean.
That night she called in sick. The supervisor answered and said another nurse had not come in. Lena asked which one. The supervisor said the name and hung up. Lena drove to the hospital. The parking lot was empty. She walked the third-floor corridor with her phone light. The fourth door was open. The nurse stood inside. The uniform was the same. The stain was darker. Blood ran from the hem and pooled on the floor. The nurse held a syringe. The needle was long. Blood dried along the barrel. Lena stopped. The nurse stepped forward. The door closed. Lena walked back to the car and drove home. She locked the door and sat with the lights on.
At two the cart rolled again. It stopped at her door. She heard the syringe drop on the floor outside. The needle clicked against the tile. She did not open the door. In the morning the syringe was gone. The handprint was back. Blood ran from the bottom of it. She wiped it away. The missing nurse did not return. The police searched the hospital and found the uniform in a laundry bin on the third floor. The front was soaked through. Blood had dried into the fabric in long, dark streaks. They found a syringe in the pocket. The needle was bent. Lena did not go back to work. She kept the lights on and the door locked.
Every night at two the cart rolled and stopped. Every morning the handprint was on the door. Blood always ran from the bottom of the print. She wiped it away. The door stayed clean until the next night. On the fifth night she opened the door. The nurse stood in the hall. The uniform was white. The stain was fresh. Blood ran from the hem and dripped onto the floor. The syringe was in her hand. The needle was long. Lena stepped back. The nurse stepped forward. The needle touched Lena’s sleeve. Blood welled where it pricked the skin. The door closed. Lena did not open it again.
In the morning the handprint was on the inside of the door. Blood ran from the bottom of the print in three thin lines that reached the floor. She wiped it away. The door stayed clean. She did not leave the apartment. She sat with the lights on and listened for the cart. It always came at two. It always stopped. She never opened the door. The missing nurse was never found. The uniform stayed in the evidence locker. The blood never dried.
On the seventh night, Lena heard the cart stop. She heard the syringe drop. She heard the needle click. She did not open the door. In the morning the handprint was on the inside of the door and the syringe was on the floor beside the door. The needle was bent. Blood dried along the barrel. She wiped the door. She did not touch the syringe. She sat in the chair by the window and waited. The cart came again the next night. It stopped. The boards outside the door creaked once. She did not open it.
In the morning the syringe was gone, the handprint remained. Blood ran from the bottom of it. She wiped it away. She did not leave the apartment. She sat with the lights on. The cart always came at two. It always stopped. She never opened the door. The blood on the door never dried.
On the ninth night the cart stopped and the boards creaked twice. She did not open the door. In the morning, the syringe was on the table beside her bed. The needle was bent. Blood dried along the barrel. The handprint was on the inside of the door. Blood ran from the bottom of it, in three thin lines. She wiped the door. She did not touch the syringe. She sat there and waited. The cart came again. It stopped. The boards creaked once. She never opened the door. The blood on the door never dried. The missing nurse was never found. The uniform stayed in the evidence locker. The blood never dried.
