The Graveyard Shift
The staff of a nursing home experience a strange event.
When I was 25 years old, I was a CNA (certified nursing assistant) working for the Clarkston Care Healthcare and Rehabilitation Center. I and a colleague, Mandy McKay, were the two assistants who worked third shift, the dreaded graveyard shift. I can’t say that I really enjoyed the work. A CNA is basically a primary caregiver, but I wanted to provide more advanced care. That being said, I did like working with Mandy, and at the time I didn’t mind the hours.
There were exactly six of us, including one doctor, who worked the third shift. The doctor was rarely on the premises unless something was wrong, but he was on call at all times. The other employees were June Ballard, our RN (registered nurse); two LVNs (licensed vocational nurses) named John Perkins and Heather Cowan; and then Robert (that’s me) and Mandy. We were the “low men on the totem pole,” as the cliché goes, but it wasn’t going to last forever. Mandy and I were both working toward our LVN certifications so, sooner or later, we’d probably end up working different shifts or different jobs altogether. I can’t remember for sure, but I think Mandy was about the same age as I was.
In the meantime, we were enjoying life and doing our jobs as well as we could. I liked all of my co-workers, and the LVNs, RN, and even Dr. Muhammed were good people to work with and learn from. The only thing that was ever troublesome was the residents. Often, they could be a “handful.”
None of our guests were bedridden and I always encouraged them to get up and move. They were all mobile, in some fashion. Some were on walkers and some used canes, though they occasionally forgot where they left them. Others remained mobile through the use of a wheelchair. We took pride in the fact that we had everyone moving, unless they were sick or otherwise ill.
The only problem with so many residents roaming the hallways was that sometimes they’d get lost, and occasionally they’d even get lost on purpose. Some of them had dementia and occasionally they’d hide from us, playing a little game of “hide and seek.” The ones who did this thought it was great fun.
I walked so much during my first year at the center that I was thankful that we only had a single-story building. I was also glad that the majority of the residents were manageable and that some of them had personal alarms attached to their wheelchairs, beds, or even, in some cases, to their bodies.
Right after I started working at the facility, the company had to install a keypad at the main doors because the residents kept trying to leave. We now had to buzz in and buzz out to enter or leave the building. Otherwise, we’d be hard-pressed to keep our patients indoors. We’d almost have to post a guard, for that matter.
Our building was an older structure, but it was in fantastic shape. It was made of brick and shaped like a cross—similar to a jail, honestly. The center of this “cross” held the nurses’ station. In addition to the rooms that housed our patients, a few other rooms including the break room, a chapel, a staff conference room, and a physical therapy room could be found at various locations throughout the center.
Clarkston Care Healthcare and Rehabilitation Center’s break room was just off the nurses’ station. I, Mandy, and John happened to be there together one morning. I was about to eat my lunch and I think Mandy was too. John was there reloading his coffee cup.
I can’t remember exactly what we were talking about, but at some point John asked a strange question. Had I or Mandy ever experienced anything “weird” inside the building or elsewhere on the property? “Weird,” he said, “As in paranormal.”
Mandy and I professed to have no knowledge of any weird or strange goings-on at our workplace, but John was more than happy to tell us all about it. The three large storage buildings behind our facility—haunted. There were stories of hauntings that took place in those buildings, which were single-story structures made of metal and not even all that old: Maybe 10 years old. One second-shift nurse who was out there late one evening came face to face with a “shadow person.” The mysterious shadow stood there for a few moments and then vanished. The nurse, according to John, quit soon afterward. Other staff members reported sounds like a far-off and unintelligible radio broadcast, while others claimed to hear footsteps while they were alone in one of the storage units. It had gotten to the point, John claimed, that personnel would not enter the buildings alone. Whenever something had to be retrieved from or stored in one of those rooms, two people went together for “safety” purposes.
We should not consider ourselves to be exempt from such activity, John said, for although we might not have noticed, certain things took place in the limited attic space that we had in the main building. Strange knocks and taps could be heard near the attic’s pull-down stairs, and one could also, occasionally, hear footsteps. Management, believing that an exterminator was required, hired a company to come onto the grounds and spray for pests. The exterminator sprayed the property and then went into the attic and sprayed. He may have accomplished the goal of eliminating bugs, but the effort didn’t really help. Raps, knocks, and the occasional footsteps could still be heard.
For my part, I wasn’t sure if John was being truthful or pulling my leg. Then he said, “It’s true. You probably won’t have any reason to go out to the storage areas, but the attic stairs are at the end of D-Hall. Try listening for someone walking, or rap on the stairs with a broom handle and see if someone doesn’t rap back.” Upon that, I told John that I would take him at his word and I didn’t care to investigate something that I couldn’t see. Mandy agreed with me, nodding in the affirmative.
I can’t say that I became immersed in paranormal studies or the subject of ghosts, but I found myself watching, involuntarily, the attic stairs. Every time I had the occasion to be with one of the patients near the end of D-Hall, I’d look and wonder what (if anything) was in the attic. I never stationed myself close enough to listen for footsteps, and I certainly didn’t rap on the door, but I was curious—even though I was never going to act on my curiosity.
One night something happened that would eventually turn me into a believer. We were all at the nurses’ station (sans Dr. Muhammed) when EMS pulled up to the main doors. They had their emergency lights on, with no siren activated. A Clarkston Police Department vehicle pulled in behind the ambulance.
Technician Cassidy Hopkins got out of the ambulance and opened the back doors. Noah Bowen, the driver, joined her. Both of them were well known to us, as they had transported many patients to and from the center. They removed the gurney from the truck and headed toward the building. The police officer followed behind them, and we buzzed them into the facility.
They all came inside. Cassidy and Noah parked the gurney near our front counter and greeted us. Cassidy then wanted to know the location of the patient.
Mandy and I exchanged confused glances. Patient? We had no idea what she was talking about.
The CPD officer, Carl Grand, then explained to us that a 911 call had been placed from inside of our facility. A woman named Helen called saying that she knew where she was, but she was lost inside the building and couldn’t find the staff. She was scared. She kept calling for Abigail, she said, but Abigail did not answer.
We had conducted one of our regular headcounts about half an hour earlier, but we figured someone was up out of bed and running around. It was curious that we hadn’t spotted anyone. It was then decided that everyone present would do another bed check to make sure the residents were safely in their rooms. I assumed that someone’s dementia was acting up and they probably needed our assistance to find their room.
We made it through the suites quickly and found that all of our guests were asleep. I had no idea who might have placed the call. Such behavior was out of character for our patients; I actually had never seen any of them show an interest in the phones, not even the ones suffering from neurocognitive disorders. I supposed it was possible, if extremely unusual.
Once it was determined that no one needed assistance, the ambulance departed. After this the policeman left, saying that he would look into the matter. We went back to our duties, and the rest of the night was uneventful.
Two weeks later we received a visit from Officer Grand, who gave us a report that led to a curious discovery. The phone that was used to call 911 was located in an unoccupied room. It was an older rotary-style telephone, and the phone line was disconnected.
When we went through our records, we discovered that the room had been occupied by Mrs. Helen Norton. Later we found out that she was particularly fond of nurse Abigail Durham, who worked second shift for a while until taking a position at the local hospital. Mrs. Norton had passed away three weeks before the 911 call was placed.
After these events, I became a believer in the supernatural. I’m still not inclined to become anything like a student of the paranormal or a ghost hunter, but I can no longer dismiss these pursuits out of hand. I try not to dwell on such things, but I have to admit that I’m still troubled by Helen Norton and the possibility that she may yet be lost in a place from which she cannot escape.
The End.
© 2023-2025 Ren Adama
