For several nights in a row, the nurse had been hearing strange sounds coming from room number 7. They were cries. Not loud—more muffled, suppressed, as if someone was afraid of being heard. Always around the same time—toward evening, when the corridors emptied and the lights dimmed.
She stopped in the middle of the hallway with her bucket and listened. The hospital was already eerie enough, but this whimpering cut through her nerves like a blade. It wasn’t the usual groan of pain.
The nurse had worked there for years. The job was hard, the pay low, but she endured. She was used to the smells, the night shifts, and other people’s suffering. But room number seven began to disturb her more and more.
An elderly patient lay there—quiet, tidy, always grateful for any help. A broken hip, confined to bed. She rarely complained, but more and more often she stared at the floor and flinched at sudden noises.
Then a strange visitor appeared.
A man came in the evenings. Always alone. Well-dressed, confident, speaking calmly and politely. He introduced himself as a relative.
After his visits, the elderly patient would change: her eyes turned red, her lips trembled, her hands became cold. Once, the nurse even noticed a bruise on her wrist.
She tried to find out more, but the patient immediately looked away and whispered that everything was fine.
HER COLLEAGUES ADVISED HER NOT TO GET INVOLVED.
“Not your business. He’s family—he’s allowed,” they said.
But the whimpering kept returning.
One evening, the nurse heard footsteps outside the room. Then muffled voices. He spoke sharply; the elderly woman murmured something, as if defending herself. A dull thud. A short cry.
That night, the nurse couldn’t sleep.
She made a plan to uncover the truth. If no one else would see—she would.
The next time, she entered the room early. The lights were dim, the patient asleep. The nurse got down on the floor and squeezed under the bed. Dust, cold linoleum, rusty springs above her. A deep unease settled in.
Footsteps in the hallway. The door creaked. He entered.
THE NURSE COULD ONLY SEE HIS SHOES AND THE EDGE OF THE BED AT FIRST. SILENCE—THEN HIS VOICE. HE SPOKE SLOWLY AND INTENSELY TO THE ELDERLY WOMAN. SHE WAS CRYING.
And then something happened that took her breath away.
At first, he spoke calmly. Very calmly. He explained that the house was already “lost,” that it was useless to her, that she needed to sign the papers. He said that if she didn’t agree willingly, he would “help.”
The patient cried, begging to be left alone. She said she would sign nothing.
Then his voice changed.
He leaned over the bed and began to threaten her. He said she had to take her “medication,” that he knew how to do it so the doctors wouldn’t notice, and if she remained stubborn, her condition would worsen. Much worse.
The nurse held her breath.
She saw him pull out a syringe. Not hospital-issued. A different one, dark, unmarked. He injected it despite the patient’s resistance. The elderly woman cried out, her hand falling limp onto the sheet.
HORROR TOOK HOLD OF THE NURSE.
She jumped out of hiding, screamed, and threw the door open. Chaos erupted. Nurses and the on-duty doctor rushed in. The man was restrained on the spot. The syringe was secured. In his bag, they found documents—already prepared, with signature lines.
Later, it was discovered that the injections contained no medication. Because of this, the elderly woman’s condition had deteriorated dramatically.
