The Midnight Shift

A seasoned doctor was working the night shift at St. Mercy Hospital, a place known for its strange, old traditions. Every patient was tagged with colored wristbands:

• Green: Alive.
• Red: Deceased.

The hospital staff followed the system religiously.

Late one night, the doctor was instructed to retrieve supplies from the hospital's basement storage—a place he always found unsettling. Its dimly lit corridors stretched endlessly, and shadows seemed to dance in the flickering fluorescent lights. He tried to dismiss the creeping unease and headed toward the elevator.

The metal doors slid open with a dull chime. Inside, a woman in a hospital gown stood silently, staring at the wall. Her expression was blank, her hands resting by her sides. Patients were sometimes allowed to wander the halls for exercise, but only until 10 PM. The clock above the elevator read 11:13 PM.

“Strange,” he thought, but he offered her a polite nod before stepping in and pressing the button for the basement. Oddly, she hadn’t pressed any button herself. Was she lost?

The elevator hummed softly as it descended. The doctor’s gaze drifted toward the woman, who remained eerily still, eyes fixed on the elevator doors. He couldn’t shake the sense of being watched—though she never turned toward him.

The elevator jolted slightly as it reached the basement. The doors opened with a mechanical groan, revealing a dimly lit, empty hallway... almost empty.

In the distance, a man was stumbling toward the elevator. His hospital gown dragged against the floor, stained with dark patches. His face was pale, hollow. He limped awkwardly, his head tilted at a disturbing angle, as though his neck couldn’t support it.

The doctor’s pulse spiked. He frantically jabbed the Close Door button.

The doors struggled but finally slid shut just as the man reached the threshold, his dead eyes locking with the doctor’s before disappearing behind the closing metal barrier.

Breathing heavily, the doctor leaned against the wall, his hands trembling.

“Why did you do that?” the woman beside him asked coldly, her voice sharp and accusatory. “He needed the elevator.”

The doctor’s eyes widened. “Did you see his wrist?” he gasped. “It was red... He died last night. I know because—I...I did his surgery.”

The woman slowly turned to face him. For the first time, she lifted her arm, extending her wrist toward him.

A crimson band glinted under the harsh elevator lights.

“Like this one?” she whispered, her lips twisting into a grotesque smile.

The elevator continued its silent ascent... but it was no longer going up.