"His Grip, His Words":
It was nearly 4 a.m., and I was wrapping up my last patrol of the night. The university campus stretched out before me, silent and empty. Streetlights cast long, flickering shadows across the grassy quads, and the only sounds were the faint hum of a distant highway and the rustle of leaves skittering across the pavement. I’d been working the night shift as a security guard for six months, taking the job because it paid better than the day shift and I needed the money to cover rent. Most nights were quiet—just checking locked doors, shining my flashlight into dark corners, and occasionally shooing away a stray cat or a drunk student. But tonight felt different. There was a heaviness in the air, a prickling at the back of my neck that made me walk a little faster.
As I rounded the corner of the old administration building, its brick facade looming in the dim light, I spotted a figure slumped on a bench near the entrance. It was a man, his body hunched over, dressed in tattered clothes that hung loosely on his frame. At first, I thought he was asleep, maybe a homeless person seeking shelter. But as I got closer, I saw his shoulders shaking, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps that echoed in the stillness.
“Hey, are you okay?” I called out, keeping my distance. My hand hovered near the pepper spray on my belt, just in case.
He lifted his head, and my stomach twisted. His face was pale, almost gray, with deep, dark circles under his eyes. His hair was matted, streaked with dirt, and a sour smell—sweat mixed with something sharper, like alcohol or worse—hit me. He looked sick, like he might collapse any second.
“I… I don’t feel good,” he stammered, his voice thin and trembling. “My heart… it’s racing. I think I’m dying.”
I knelt a few feet away, trying to stay calm. “Do you need help? I can call an ambulance.”
He nodded weakly, his hands clutching his chest. “Yes, please. I think it’s a heart attack.”
I fumbled for my phone, my fingers cold and clumsy as I dialed 911. The operator’s voice was calm, almost too calm, as I explained the situation. “There’s a man here, he says his heart’s racing, thinks he’s having a heart attack. He’s on a bench near the administration building.”
“Stay with him,” the operator said. “Keep him calm. Help is on the way.”
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, but before I could say anything, the man grabbed my arm. His grip was strong, his fingers digging into my skin through my jacket. “Wait,” he said, his voice suddenly sharp, almost lucid. “I need to tell you something.”
I froze, my heart pounding. “What is it?”
He leaned closer, his eyes wide and wild, glinting in the dim light. “I’ve done terrible things,” he whispered, his breath hot and sour. “Murder. Rape. Arson. I’ve hurt so many people. I’m a monster.”
The words hit me like a punch. My mouth went dry, and I felt a chill crawl up my spine. Was he serious? Or was he delirious, his mind unraveling from pain or drugs? I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, his nails pressing into my arm.
“I… I don’t know what you mean,” I said, my voice shaking. “Just try to stay calm, okay? Help is coming.”
But he shook his head, his eyes locked on mine. “You don’t understand. I was abused as a kid. My family… they were monsters. Beat me, locked me in closets. I grew up angry, broken. Then I started using—crack, anything to make it stop. But it made me worse. I killed people. I burned their houses. I… I hurt women.”
My stomach churned. I wanted to run, to get as far away from him as possible, but I was rooted to the spot. What if he was telling the truth? What if he was dangerous? My eyes darted to his hands, searching for a weapon, but all I saw were his trembling fingers, still clutching my arm.
“Please,” he said, his voice breaking. “I need to confess. I need someone to know before I die.”
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “The ambulance is almost here. They’ll help you. Just… just hold on.”
But he wasn’t listening. His words came faster, tumbling out in a frantic rush. “I didn’t mean to become this. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. But the voices, they told me to do it. They wouldn’t stop.”
My heart was racing now, my palms sweaty despite the cold. I glanced around, hoping to see the ambulance lights, but the campus was still dark, the sirens faint in the distance. I was alone with him, just me and this man who might be a murderer, a predator. My hand inched toward my pepper spray, but I didn’t want to provoke him.
Finally, I heard the sirens grow louder, and red and blue lights flashed at the edge of the quad. Relief flooded through me, but it was short-lived. As the paramedics approached, the man’s demeanor changed. He let go of my arm and started thrashing, his voice rising to a scream.
“You think you can save me?” he shouted, his eyes wild as the paramedics tried to restrain him. “I’m beyond saving! I’m a monster!”
One of the paramedics, a woman with a calm but firm voice, spoke to him. “Sir, we’re here to help. Just try to relax.”
But he kept yelling, cursing them, his words slurring as they administered something to calm him down. They loaded him onto a stretcher and into the ambulance, his shouts fading as the doors closed. I stood there, my legs shaky, watching the vehicle disappear into the night.
For days, I couldn’t shake the memory of his words, his wild eyes, the way his grip felt like a trap. I kept wondering if he’d really done those things or if it was all in his head. Either way, the fear lingered, creeping into my dreams, making me jump at shadows.
A week later, I was on the day shift—I’d begged my supervisor to switch me after that night. As I walked past the administration building, I saw him again, sitting on the same bench. He looked different—cleaner, his clothes less ragged, his face less gaunt. He was staring at the ground, lost in thought.
I hesitated, then approached. “Hey, are you okay now?”
He looked up, and for a moment, I thought he didn’t recognize me. Then he smiled, a small, tired smile. “Yeah, I’m better. They put me on meds, got me seeing a shrink. I’m… I’m gonna be okay.”
I nodded, relieved but still uneasy. “That’s good to hear.”
He shifted on the bench, his eyes dropping. “About that night… I was out of my mind. I don’t know why I said those things. I’ve never hurt anyone, I swear. It was just… the drugs, the pain. I was in a bad place.”
I wanted to believe him, but a part of me still wondered. “Take care of yourself,” I said, turning to leave.
As I walked away, I felt the weight of that night settle over me again. I’d seen something dark, something raw and human, and it changed me. I was more cautious now, more aware of the shadows people carry. I kept my pepper spray close, and I never worked the night shift again.
"Eyes in the Snow: A Night Shift at the Edge of the Wild":
I worked the night shift as a security guard at a ski resort nestled deep in the mountains. My hours ran from 10 pm to 6 am, when the resort was deserted, and the only sounds were the creaks of the buildings and the wind whistling through the pines.
Earlier that evening, as I clocked in, I chatted with my colleague, John, who was finishing his day shift. We stood in the small office, the smell of coffee lingering in the air.
“Be careful out there tonight,” John said, zipping up his jacket. “Some folks reported coyote sightings near the perimeter.”
“Coyotes?” I raised an eyebrow, trying to sound casual. “They usually steer clear, right?”
“Normally, yeah,” he replied, his face serious. “But with the snow piling up, they’re getting hungry. A pack can get bold. Just keep your eyes open.”
I nodded, forcing a smile. “Got it. I’ll be fine.”
But as I set out on my rounds at 2 am, John’s words echoed in my mind. The resort was silent, the ski lifts frozen in place, their cables swaying slightly. My boots crunched on the fresh snow, and my flashlight beam cut through the darkness. The air smelled of pine and frost, sharp and cold in my lungs.
I was checking the locks on the equipment shed near the edge of the property when I heard it—a low, mournful howl. I froze, my breath catching. Just a dog, I told myself. But then another howl answered, closer this time, followed by a rustling in the bushes.
I swung my flashlight toward the sound, and my heart skipped a beat. Eyes glinted back at me, low to the ground, glowing like embers in the dark. Coyotes. At least four of them, their silhouettes barely visible against the trees. They weren’t running away. They were watching me.
I remembered what I’d read about coyotes—they rarely attack humans. But a pack? That was different. These ones looked lean, their ribs faintly visible under matted fur. Hunger made them bold.
“Hey!” I shouted, waving my flashlight, hoping to scare them off. But they didn’t flinch. One took a step forward, its head low, eyes locked on me.
My pulse quickened. The main lodge was a five-minute walk across open ground. I needed to move. Slowly, I backed away, keeping my flashlight trained on them. Their paws made soft crunching sounds as they followed, keeping pace.
I reached for my radio, my hands trembling. “Base, this is Alex. I’ve got a situation—coyotes on the perimeter. They’re following me.” Static crackled. No response. I tried again. “Base, do you copy?” Nothing. The battery must be dead, or I was out of range.
Panic clawed at my chest. I quickened my steps, and the coyotes matched me, their movements silent but deliberate. Then, one let out a sharp yip, and they broke into a trot. My heart pounded like a drum. I turned and ran.
The snow slowed me down, each step sinking into the powder. Behind me, I heard their paws, faster now, and low growls that sent chills down my spine. The lodge’s lights were a faint glow ahead, my only hope.
In my panic, the radio slipped from my hand, tumbling into the snow. I didn’t stop to grab it. I couldn’t. The coyotes were too close—I could hear their panting, feel their presence like a weight on my back.
As I neared the lodge, one coyote darted to my side, its teeth bared. I screamed, stumbling, and felt its breath hot against my leg. I kicked out, and it backed off, but the others were closing in, circling like shadows.
I reached the lodge door, my hands shaking as I fumbled with my keys. The coyotes were right behind me, their eyes glowing in the moonlight. Finally, the key turned, and I threw myself inside, slamming the door shut. My chest heaved as I leaned against it, listening to the scratching of claws outside.
I was safe, but then I noticed the lights flicker and die. The power was out. Without heat, the pipes could freeze, costing the resort thousands. The generator was in a shed across the lot. I’d have to go back out there.
I gripped my flashlight and checked my utility belt. The can of bear mace was still there. John’s voice echoed in my head: “Make yourself big, make noise. But a pack? Good luck.” I took a deep breath, my hands still shaking, and cracked the door open. The coyotes were still there, pacing about twenty feet away.
I sprayed the mace in a wide arc, the sharp smell burning my nose. The lead coyote yelped and retreated, and the others hesitated. I seized the moment and sprinted for the shed, my boots slipping on the icy path. The pack followed, their growls growing louder.
I reached the shed and dove inside, locking the door. My flashlight beam danced across the walls as I found the generator and yanked the starter cord. It roared to life, and I saw the lodge lights flicker back on through the shed’s small window.
But the coyotes were still outside, circling the shed. I was trapped. My heart raced as I scanned the tiny space for anything useful. In the corner, I spotted a box of old fireworks—leftovers from a holiday event. An idea sparked.
I grabbed a handful, lit the fuses, and tossed them out the window. The fireworks exploded in bursts of light and sound, cracking like gunshots. The coyotes howled and scattered, their shapes vanishing into the trees.
I waited, my breath shallow, until I was sure they were gone. Cautiously, I opened the shed door and ran back to the lodge, locking myself in. I spent the rest of the night in the office, watching the security cameras, my nerves on edge. The coyotes didn’t return.
When my shift ended at dawn, I reported the incident to my supervisor. “We’ll get animal control out here,” he said, shaking his head. “And maybe some better lighting.” I nodded, still shaken, knowing I’d never forget that night—the terror of being hunted, the cold air burning my lungs, and the glowing eyes in the dark.
"The Quiet Hours":
I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with the night shift at St. Mary’s Hospital. There’s a strange calm when the wards go quiet, the bustle of daytime replaced by the soft hum of machines and the occasional rustle of a patient shifting in their sleep.
It was around 11 p.m. when I started my rounds on the general ward. The air was heavy with the sterile smell of antiseptic, and the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. Among my patients was a man named John Ryan, admitted that morning for observation after a minor surgery. He was in his late thirties, quiet, with a plain face that didn’t stand out. His chart noted no major issues, just routine post-op care.
As I moved through the ward, I noticed John wasn’t sleeping. Every time I passed his bed, he was sitting upright, staring at the wall. His eyes were fixed, unblinking, like he was lost in some private world. It wasn’t unusual for patients to have trouble sleeping, so I didn’t think much of it at first. But something about his stillness made my stomach twist, a nagging feeling I couldn’t shake.
Around midnight, I was at the nurses’ station, scribbling notes on a chart, when I heard a faint thud from the ward. I froze, pen hovering over the paper. The sound came again, softer this time, followed by a low murmur, like someone talking to themselves. The other nurse on duty, Lisa, was on her break, leaving me alone on the floor. I told myself it was probably nothing—a patient dropping something or muttering in their sleep. Still, I had to check.
I stood and walked down the hallway, my shoes squeaking faintly on the polished linoleum. The ward was bathed in a pale glow, the lights dimmed to let patients rest. As I neared John’s bed, I saw him standing beside it, facing the wall. His back was to me, his shoulders rigid, and he was whispering something I couldn’t make out.
“John?” I called softly, keeping my voice calm. “Is everything okay?”
He didn’t move. The whispering stopped, but he stayed rooted to the spot, staring at the blank wall. My pulse quickened. I took a step closer, gripping the pen in my pocket like it could protect me.
“John, do you need something? Are you in pain?” I asked, trying to sound steady.
Silence. Then, slowly, he turned his head, just enough for me to see the side of his face. His expression was blank, but his eyes—they were wrong. Wide and glassy, like he wasn’t seeing me at all.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said, his voice low and sharp, cutting through the quiet.
I blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean, John? I’m just here to help.”
He turned fully now, facing me, and my breath caught. His hands were clenched at his sides, and his gaze bore into me, intense and unhinged. “You’re trying to poison me,” he said, his voice rising. “I see you, sneaking around, putting things in my food.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. This wasn’t right. I’d heard stories from other nurses about patients acting out, especially during the night shift when the hospital felt like a different world. There was even a rumor about a nurse attacked years ago on this very ward, though no one liked to talk about it. I pushed the thought away and focused on de-escalating.
“John, that’s not true,” I said, keeping my tone gentle but firm. “I’m your nurse. My job is to take care of you. Let’s get you back to bed, okay?”
He didn’t move. His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward me. Instinctively, I stepped back, my hand brushing the call button on my belt. I should’ve pressed it right then, but I didn’t want to overreact. Maybe he was just confused, I told myself.
“You can’t fool me,” he hissed, taking another step. “I know what you are.”
“John, please,” I said, my voice trembling now. “Let’s calm down and—”
Before I could finish, he lunged. His hand shot out, grabbing my arm with a grip like iron. I gasped as he yanked my arm behind my back, twisting it until pain seared through my shoulder. I tried to pull away, but he was too strong.
“Let go!” I shouted, panic flooding my chest.
He didn’t listen. His other hand swung, and a fist slammed into my back, then another to the side of my head. The blows were hard, relentless, each one sending a jolt of pain through me. I stumbled, trying to keep my balance, but he kept hitting, his face twisted with rage.
“Stop!” I screamed, my voice echoing in the empty ward. “Somebody help!”
I clawed at his hand, but he only tightened his grip, muttering something incoherent about poison and betrayal. My vision blurred from the pain, and I realized with a sickening dread that I was alone. Lisa was still on break, and the nearest security guard was floors away. The ward, so quiet and safe just moments ago, now felt like a trap.
Just as I thought I couldn’t hold on, a voice broke through the chaos. “Hey! What’s happening?” It was Mr. Thompson, an elderly patient recovering from hip surgery. He was struggling out of bed, leaning on his walker, his face pale with shock.
John froze, his head snapping toward the sound. His grip loosened just enough for me to wrench my arm free. I didn’t think—I ran, my legs shaky, toward the nurses’ station. Behind me, John shouted something I couldn’t understand, his voice raw and unhinged.
I reached the station and slammed my hand on the emergency button. The alarm blared, a piercing wail that cut through the silence. I ducked behind the desk, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and peeked out to see if John was following. To my surprise, he was back at his bed, sitting down, his head in his hands, looking lost.
Minutes later, security guards burst into the ward, their heavy footsteps echoing. Lisa followed, her eyes wide with worry. “Emily, are you okay?” she asked, kneeling beside me.
I nodded, though my hands were shaking. “He… he attacked me,” I managed to say. “Out of nowhere.”
The guards approached John, who didn’t resist as they restrained him. He looked confused, like he didn’t know where he was. Later, I learned he’d had a psychotic episode, triggered by a lapse in his medication. He was moved to the psychiatric ward for treatment.
Lisa stayed with me as I sat in the break room, a cold pack pressed to my bruised arm. “I should’ve been there,” she said, her voice heavy with guilt. “I didn’t think… I mean, he seemed fine earlier.”
“It’s not your fault,” I told her, though my voice was shaky. “No one could’ve known.”
She shook her head. “This place at night… it’s different. You hear things, see things. I’ve always felt it.”
I didn’t answer, but I knew what she meant. The night shift had always carried an edge, a sense that anything could happen in those quiet hours. I’d just never thought it would happen to me.
"Flatline":
It was the summer of 1992, and I was working the night shift at Truman Memorial Veterans Hospital in Columbia, Missouri. The hospital was a sprawling brick building, its corridors lined with faded linoleum and fluorescent lights that flickered just enough to make you question your eyes. Ward 4 East, where I was assigned, was home to veterans recovering from ailments like pneumonia, heart issues, or diabetes. The night shift was quieter than the day, with only the hum of machines and the occasional cough breaking the silence. I’d been a nurse here for three years, long enough to know every creak of the floorboards and every patient’s story.
That night started like any other. I was checking charts at the nurses’ station, the clock ticking past midnight. The air was thick with the sterile smell of antiseptic, and the dim lights cast long shadows down the hall. I was used to the routine: check vitals, administer meds, and keep an eye on the patients. But something felt off when the code blue alarm shattered the quiet.
I sprinted to Room 412, where Mr. Thompson, a sixty-something veteran with pneumonia, was lying still. His face was pale, his chest unmoving. “Come on, Mr. Thompson,” I whispered, starting CPR. The doctor on call, Dr. Evans, rushed in, but despite our efforts, we lost him. Dr. Evans shook his head, muttering about unexpected complications. I stood there, my hands shaking, replaying the day. Mr. Thompson had been joking with me that morning, talking about his grandkids. He was supposed to go home soon.
A few nights later, it happened again. Mrs. Garcia, a kind woman in her fifties with diabetes, coded around 2 a.m. She’d been stable, her chart showing steady improvement. I was in the room when the monitor flatlined, and again, we couldn’t save her. As I left her room, I noticed Richard Williams, another nurse, slipping out of the adjacent room. Richard was quiet, always keeping to himself. He had a way of moving silently, his tall frame blending into the shadows. I didn’t think much of it then, but a knot formed in my stomach.
Over the next few weeks, the deaths piled up. Each one was a patient who’d been on the mend, only to die suddenly during the night shift. Mr. Lee, a heart patient, coded after a routine check. Mrs. Peterson, recovering from surgery, was gone before dawn. Every time, Richard was on duty. I started keeping track, jotting down names and times in a small notebook I kept in my pocket. Five deaths in two months, all unexpected, all when Richard was working.
One night, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I found Jamie, a fellow nurse, in the supply closet, restocking bandages. “Jamie, have you noticed how many patients have died lately?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “And it’s always when Richard’s on shift.”
Jamie paused, his hands full of gauze. “What are you getting at, Alex?”
“I don’t know,” I said, glancing at the door. “It’s just… it feels wrong. These patients were stable.”
He frowned, setting the gauze down. “People die in hospitals, Alex. It’s sad, but it’s part of the job. You’re seeing patterns where there aren’t any.”
“But what if there are?” I pressed. “What if something’s happening?”
“Like what? You think Richard’s doing something?” Jamie shook his head. “That’s a big accusation. You need proof.”
I nodded, but his words didn’t ease the tightness in my chest. That night, another patient died. Mr. Carter, a veteran with a lung condition, coded at 3 a.m. I was there, watching as Richard stood by the bed, his face unreadable. “What happened?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
“He just stopped breathing,” Richard said, his tone flat. He didn’t look at me as he adjusted the IV line.
I started checking patient records after that, sneaking glances at the charts when no one was around. Every deceased patient had been under Richard’s care. It wasn’t proof, but it was enough to make my skin crawl. I began watching him closer, noticing how he lingered in rooms, how he always seemed to be there when a patient took a turn.
One night, I saw him enter Mrs. Peterson’s room at 1 a.m. She was sleeping, her chart showing no need for meds until morning. I waited outside, my heart pounding. When he left, I slipped in and checked her IV line. There was a tiny puncture mark, fresh and out of place. My hands shook as I wrote it down in my notebook.
I knew I had to confront him. The next night, I found him in the break room, sipping coffee. “Richard, can I talk to you?” I asked, my voice steady despite the fear clawing at me.
He looked up, his eyes cold. “Sure, Alex. What’s up?”
“I saw you in Mrs. Peterson’s room last night. What were you doing?”
“Just checking on her,” he said, his voice calm. “Why?”
“There was a puncture in her IV line. Did you give her something?”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“No, I just… there’ve been a lot of deaths. I’m worried.”
He leaned forward, his voice low. “This is a hospital. People die. Mind your own business, Alex.”
The way he said my name sent a chill down my spine. I left the break room, my heart racing. I knew I had to tell someone. The next day, I went to Mrs. Davis, the head nurse. “I think something’s wrong on the night shift,” I said, my voice trembling. “There’s a pattern with the deaths, and I think Richard might be involved.”
Mrs. Davis listened, her face stern. “These are serious accusations, Alex. Do you have evidence?”
“Not exactly,” I admitted. “But the deaths only happen when he’s on shift.”
“We can’t act on suspicions alone,” she said. “I’ll look into it, but don’t spread rumors.”
I left her office feeling helpless. That night, I was alone on the ward. Jamie had called in sick, and the hospital felt like a maze of shadows. The lights flickered, and every sound—every creak, every beep—made me jump. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.
Around midnight, I heard a noise from Room 408. I crept down the hall, my sneakers silent on the linoleum. Inside, Richard was standing over Mr. Harris, who was gasping for breath. “What are you doing?” I demanded.
“He’s having trouble breathing,” Richard said, his voice eerily calm. He held a syringe, poised over the IV.
Mr. Harris’s eyes met mine, wide with fear. “Get him away from me,” he whispered.
I called for help, and soon the room was filled with staff. Mr. Harris was stabilized, but he kept muttering about Richard trying to hurt him. The doctor dismissed it as confusion, but I saw the truth in his eyes.
I couldn’t stay silent anymore. The next day, I went to the police, detailing everything: the deaths, the pattern, the puncture mark, Mr. Harris’s fear. They took my statement, but warned that without hard evidence, it was just suspicion.
Weeks passed, and the deaths stopped. Richard kept working, his presence a constant weight on my nerves. Then, one day, I heard the FBI was investigating. They’d found something, enough to arrest Richard and charge him with multiple murders. But a year later, the charges were dropped. The evidence wasn’t enough.
To this day, no one knows what really happened on those night shifts. I left the hospital soon after, unable to walk those halls without feeling the weight of those deaths.