It’s located in the basement, at the end of a hall, it is always locked. None of the keys in any department can unlock it. When it does get opened, it has to be documented in a book. Officially, it’s only been opened twice. Once, when the graveyard housekeeper saw it flying off the hinges, slamming open and shut. Maintence chalked it up to a wiring issue with the wheelchair button. Everyone knows that a closet in the basement has never had a wheelchair button. Twice, when maintenance removed the door from the hinges so the fire department could check the sprinklers. When they arrived, the door was back on the frame locked up tight. They never did check those sprinklers.
Since then, many rumors, theories, and stories have come out of that closet. Just about everyone in housekeeping, kitchen, and maintenance, as well as some doctors and nurses, even a few patients, have had encounters with this closet. My first encounter happened last night.
I was working an evening shift, doing my regular routine, taking out the garbage, and recycling. I’ve done this shift a lot, so I was familiar with the hall and the closet that lived at the end of it. It never did anything strange with me, and I always thought the stories were just that. That was until I saw the door handle jiggle. I shook my head, confused. It was an ordinary closet; the handle couldn’t jiggle. But it did, this time more aggressively. The whole door started to shake in its frame while I stood there frozen. Nothing like this should be happening. Someone must be trapped inside. I reached out and grabbed the handle. The door fell silent.
“What the fuck?” I whispered and pulled the handle down. Locked. I shook my head again, trying to make any sense of this situation. “Maybe it was the wires.” I said to myself. I continued with my work duties, but I couldn’t shake what I saw with that door. I dumped the last bit of cardboard and headed back inside.
I passed the door, it was wide open. All of a sudden, from up the hall, I heard the frantic slam of footsteps rushing and the squeeking and buckling of trolley wheels. Two nurses whipped around the corner, pushing a trauma victim full speed towards me. I leaped out the way, narrowly dodging the gurney. It was like I was invisible to the nurses. They made no gestures or calls for me to move. I picked myself up and looked back. They pulled the stretcher into the closet and closed the door behind them. I put my hand on the handle, butterflies danced in my stomach, and the hairs stood on my neck. I pressed down, and the handled started to move. The door was unlocked. I flung open the door, expecting to see organs being harvested or cannibalism. I saw nothing but an empty closet. Not even a shelf in this bare room. No sign a stretcher was even in this room. I closed the door. “Whoops, left the lights on.” I squeezed the handle again. Locked.
I couldn’t believe what just happened to me, but protocol says I have to document it. I opened the basement binder and flipped to the very back where we kept the encounter sheet specifically for the door. I wrote the date and time it happened, followed by my signature. There should have been only three encounter dates, but there was a fourth. The encounter is dated a week from today. No one has signed it.