The Curse of Room 9

I worked as a forensic nurse in a high-security hospital lock-up unit — a place where reality often felt twisted by the weight of suffering and madness. But nothing prepared me for Room 9…and Tiberius.

It started when we admitted an elderly woman, frail yet sharp-eyed, with a voice that could chill your bones. She claimed she was being tormented by a demonic entity she called “Tiberius.” At first, we dismissed it as delusions fueled by years of trauma. But Room 9 soon became a nightmare of unexplained horrors.

During routine care, she seemed stable — lucid, even. But the moment we’d step outside, her blood-curdling screams would erupt, slicing through the unit's cold silence. We’d rush back in, only to find her battered — black eyes, bloody lips, and deep scratches carved into her pale skin. It was as if she’d been in a vicious fight, yet no one ever saw her move a muscle. There was no weapon, no sharp edges, and no way she could’ve done it herself.

Desperate to keep her safe, doctors ordered full protective restraints. Ankles, wrists, chest — immobilized. But the assaults never stopped. We’d find her sobbing, bruises still forming on her restrained body. Her medical tray would be flung across the room, metal chairs overturned, despite the heavy security lock on the door.

Every time we demanded answers, she’d rasp the same reply:
“It was Tiberius.”

Her hollow, knowing eyes haunted me long after she was discharged. But the room…Room 9 stayed cursed.

Weeks later, during a graveyard shift, the night guard radioed in, his voice shaky and strained:
“Lights are flickering…again.”

I didn’t need to ask where. I already knew. Room 9.

I rushed down the corridor, my heart pounding. As I approached, the flickering light intensified, casting sinister shadows that twisted like living things. The air felt electric, heavy with an unseen presence. The door creaked slightly, though it was securely locked.

Suddenly, the monitor alarms blared — Code Blue. Someone flatlined...in Room 9.

We stormed in, prepared for a medical emergency, but found the room empty — untouched and locked from the inside. Just an eerie chill hanging in the air...and a single, deep scratch gouged into the wall.

Three words.

“It was Tiberius.”