Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I work night shift at a nursing home and this is the worst night of my life

Episode Date: March 1, 2023

🎉 Get ad-free episodes + over 50 bonus episodes here: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎧 Check out The SCP Experience podcast here: https://spoti.fi/3juM1og 🎥 YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep ✅ Send all advertising inquiries to: [e-mail] Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Veononimimimmed to $10 pay to be a way responsible. The conditions We'll apply. The buzz of the call-light notification system snaps me out of my stupor. I sense movement from the hall. Maybe one of the residents needs something. But as I raise my head, I see nothing but an empty, dimly lit hallway.

I notice the call light above door 128 is on, wiping a bit of cold drool from my cheek. I turned toward the computer at the nurse's station. Opening up the communication system, I navigate to the right button. Navigate to the right button, then speak into the microphone. Yes? Can I help you? There's no answer. Sometimes the residents call for help getting up to use the bathroom. Sometimes they call because they're dying.

There's a range of other reasons, but you never really know what to expect in a nursing home, or a skilled nursing facility, as we like to call it. I have to assume the worst when I get a call light in the middle of the night, no matter what. So I stand up from my chair, grab my stethoscope, and flip it over my head to hang around my neck. I head out of the nurse's station, feeling like a walking zombie. Ever since going on the night shift at the sunny poem's skilled nursing facility, I've had trouble sleeping.

I've figured that my body would adjust eventually, but it's now been over three weeks. I probably haven't managed more than three or four hours of sleep each night for three weeks. for three weeks. When I get to work, it's dark, and when I leave, the sun is up. So when I get home, my body can't seem to take the hint that it's time to go to sleep,

even with the blackout curtains. Even though I take melatonin, even though I exercise five days a week, nothing seems to help. I've tried sleeping pills prescribed by a doctor, but those just seem to make me groggy. When I take them, I seemed to only half sleep through the night, which usually means I wake up even more tired than when I went to sleep.

After telling my supervisor about this issue, she said I would have to wait for a day shift position to open up. Even though I was originally hired as a day shift certified nursing assistant, I was kicked off when another CNA with more seniority came back from maternity leave. As I step up to the open door to room 128, I'm feeling a little more awake. Moving helps, a little at least. I step into the room. Mrs. Salazar and Mrs. Delmonaco are both asleep in their beds. Their crowns of white hair frame their drawn and wrinkled faces. Not wanting to wake them, I move quietly,

using my stethoscope to listen to their heartbeats and breathing. I check to make sure neither woman has soiled the bed. They're both dry. It's not yet time to turn them, but I make note of their sleeping positions so I can come back and turn them when the time comes. The system in sunny palms doesn't differentiate between the two call light switches in the room,

so I can't tell which woman made the call. Still, I pressed the button to turn the call light off, and I head back to the nurse's station. As I step out into the hall to go left, something catches my eye to the right. There's someone standing down at the end of the hall in a pool of darkness. But as I turn my head to look, I see no one there.

Still, the image of someone with long, scraggly hair and a hunched posture wearing a nightgown stays with me as I move back to the nurse's station. And as I come to the station, I glance over my shoulder at the empty hallway. Nursing homes at night are pretty creepy as is, but when you add a lack of sleep and an overactive imagination, you have a recipe for paranoia. Rubbing my eyes, I checked to make sure no other call lights have been activated before moving to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee.

I passed through the dark dining room and into the kitchen, grabbing my mug from next to the sink, where I set it after my first cup of the shift. After filling my cup and flavoring it with some sugar, I head back out the way I came. And as I moved through the kitchen doorway into the dining area, I swear I see someone standing at the side of the dining room, near the south entrance. I whip my head that way. No one there. Nothing. I really need to get some sleep, I say to myself, continuing on my way. As I turn out of the dining room, I nearly run into a stooped figure in a nightgown.

Help me! Mrs. Delmanaco screams at me. I flinch, dropping my mug under the tile floor where it shatters, splashing all over me and Mrs. Delmonaco. Even through my scrubs, I can feel the hot liquid burn me. I look down and see that Mrs. Delmonaco is barefoot, but she doesn't seem to notice the hot coffee all over her feet. In fact, as I look down, she steps forward, directly onto a sharp piece of porcelain.

She grabs my arms with her surprisingly strong hands and looks up into my face with wide eyes. There's someone in my room, she says with the trembling mouth. He's going to kill us. I stare back at her, utterly convinced that what she says is true. There's someone inside the building and they mean us harm. Then I come to my senses, my logical brain finally kicking into gear. It's nothing.

The imaginings of an old woman creeping toward death. What's going on, Cliff? A voice calls out from the dining room. I looked that way to see Nurse Tanya moving toward us from the south side entrance. Due to staff shortages, she takes one wing of the nursing home, and I take the other. There's really supposed to be one registered nurse and one certified nursing assistant in each wing, but we have no such luck. She scared me. I dropped my coffee on her.

Oh, goodness, Mrs. Delmanaco, Tanya says, looking at the small amount of blood seeping out from under the old woman's foot. Let's get you a wheelchair and get this taken care of, shall we? Mrs. Delmanaco is still looking up into my face with that same fearful expression. Help me, she whispers. That's just what we're going to do, Tanya says, heading off to get a wheelchair. When she returns, she tells me to go back and man my station while she takes care of Mrs. Delmanaco. I gladly go, eager to get away from the woman who's starting to freak me out. As I moved down the hallway lined with day rooms,

I can't help but glance warily through the windows at the pools of darkness in each room. There are so many places to hide in a nursing home at night. It wouldn't be hard for some psycho to go unnoticed. He could slip into rooms with sleeping residents, duck into supply closets, or hunker down in the various other dark rooms. Great. Now I'm freaking myself out.

As I turn the corner, bringing the nurse's station into view, I hear a faint buzzing from the call light system. I hurry along, bringing the two resident hallways into view. There are lights on above half a dozen doors. My heart leaps into my throat as I think about the implications. What if someone is having a heart attack? What if multiple people are, and I'm too late? What if there's a serial killer in here?

I shake my head, jogging to the nearest room with the call light on above the door. I duck into the room, seeing Mr. Dietrich and Mr. Marquez asleep in their beds. I quickly shut off the call light and move to the next room. As I step inside, I see Mr. Beechler sitting up in bed, his eyes wide in his gaunt face. Mr. Beechler? I ask, thinking the worst. What's wrong? He doesn't answer.

Just stares right past me, looking at the bathroom door. I freeze, realizing my backs to the door. Suddenly, I feel as though someone is standing right behind me. They have a knife, and they're slicing it through the air directly at, I spin around, seeing nothing but the cracked bathroom door and the darkness beyond. Mr. Beechler makes a strange sound, like he's trying to talk. Looking for something to use as a weapon, I grab one of Beechler's ancient trophies from his dresser

and hold it ready over my head as I approach the door. Reaching out, I yank it open and flip the light on. There's no one in the bathroom, but there is blood in the sink. little droplets of blood. They could have come for Mr. Beechler. Maybe he had a nosebleed earlier. I put the trophy back on the dresser and quickly checked the old man's vitals,

trying to get him to lie back and get some sleep. He lies back, but his eyes are still wide open when I leave the room to check on the other four call lights. Something very strange is going on here. The most call lights I've ever had at the same time as three. days are different. Most call lights go on before and after meals. But there are more staff members during the day shifts, more people to help. Having six go on at once is not normal. Not at all.

Something or someone is spooking the residents. My suspicions are verified as I go to the next three call lights, finding nothing wrong with any of the residents. Aside from fear, Mrs. Jones, says someone came into a room and pressed the call button and then ran. out again, but she can't describe him. It was too dark, she says. Mr. Piedmont is in the last room with a call light still on. His roommate recently died, so the other bed is empty. Piedmont is up and seemingly lucid.

I got the bastard, he says when I come in. I cut him. He holds up a small Swiss Army knife. Then he points to blood on the floor, which is in a small trail leading toward the door. Who was it? I asked. Did you recognize him? Pretty dark, but he was familiar. I've seen him before. Here? I ask. Is he a resident?

No, not a resident, but I've seen him before. An employee? Peatmont shakes his head. I gotta pee, he says, setting the pocket knife down on the bedside table. I move to help him, but he brushes me off. I'm old, but I'm not that old, he says, getting up from the bed. and walking stiffly to the bathroom. I want to question him some more, but while I'm waiting for him,

I hear a scream from down the hall on the other side of the building. It sounds like Nurse Tanya. Grabbing the pocket knife, I run out of the room and down the hall, back toward the dining room. As I get to the entrance, I slow down to turn, but my feet go out from under me

as I slip on the spilled coffee. I crashed to the floor, losing the pocket knife in the process. A figure darts toward me through the dining room. It's a man with long, stringy hair and a stooped posture. He's wearing one of the nightgowns common to the nursing home, but I don't recognize him as a resident. I can't quite make out his features because it's too dark, but I can see the bloody military-style knife, clearly enough in his right hand. I scramble up to my feet as he approaches, thinking of nothing but running away. But I'm not fast enough. He slams into me,

shoulder-checking me and nearly going down in the spilled coffee himself. The impact sends me crashing into the wall before I find myself back on the ground. I expect to feel the knife piercing my skin at any moment, but I don't. I can hear his footsteps going down the hall as he runs, heading toward the wing I just came from, and I realize he's wearing boots. I noticed it before, but it didn't register. Boots and a nightgown. Strange.

I get up off the ground, sharp points of pain erupting in my shoulder and side as I run through the dining room to the other wing. I see Nurse Tanya lying on the floor in front of the nurse's station, a pool of blood expanding around her. I grab a first-aid kit from the station and start tending to her stab wounds. They don't look good. As I touch her, she opens her eyes and looks up at me. Cole, she says in a weak voice.

Cole, I repeat, unsure what she means. Rachel Cole is a day shift, CNA, who used to be on the night shift. Tanya nods. Mr. Lod. Lawson, she manages. Suddenly it clicks. Mrs. Lawson was a resident of ours until she died in the middle of the night about a month ago, just before I was changed over to the night shift.

Mr. Lawson used to come visit her every day. His wife had dementia and was in very poor health. The night she died, Tanya and Cole were working together in that wing. Apparently, they had several call lights go on at once, so they didn't get to Mrs. Lawson until it was too late. She had a heart attack and died. Even if they had gotten to her right when the call light went on, they probably couldn't have saved her.

She was already a death's door. Still, Mr. Lawson made no secret of the fact that he blamed them for her death. I heard that he'd been forcibly removed from the premises by police officers two days after his wife's death. It seems he's determined to get revenge. Maybe he didn't know Cole had been transferred to the day shift. He knows where she lives, Tanya says. How? I say.

But as soon as the word comes out of my mouth, I know. That's what all the call lights were about on the other wing. Lawson was trying to keep me busy while he dealt with Tanya and searched employee records for Cole's address. I pull out my phone to dial 911 before I call to warn Cole. But as I'm dialing, a woman's voice says, Ambulance is on the way. I look over and see old Mrs. Jeffer.

Jefferson standing nearby in her pink gown and slippers, holding a phone in her hand. Thank you, I say. Putting pressure on Tanya's worst wound, I navigate to Rachel Cole's number in my phone and draft a call. It rings, and rings, and rings. If she's like me, she puts her phone on Do Not Disturb when she's sleeping. You better go, Cliff, Mrs. Jefferson says. I guess she's been standing there for a while. Rachel Cole's a good nurse. You can't let that man kill her. Let me handle Tanya. I was a nurse myself, you know, for 30 years, actually.

I look down at Tanya. She nods. Go. Mrs. Jefferson gets down on her knees and takes over. I get up and move into the nurse's station, seeing a blood-stained piece of paper on the desk with all the employee's names, phone numbers, and addresses. I punch Cole's address into my phone as I run down the hall toward the

exit. Making it outside into the chill morning air, I glance around warily, making sure Lawson didn't hang back to deal with me. The parking lot is quiet and empty. He's gone, which means he has a head start on me. I sprint to my car and throw myself in. Tires squeal as I reverse out of the parking spot. When I'm on my way, I dial 911. I give them Cole's address and tell them to send the police. Then I hang up so I can listen to the directions from my phone without distraction. I know the police won't get there in time. I might not even get there in time. Driving as fast as I can, I follow the directions my phone gives me. It says Cole's house is seven minutes away. I make it in four. There's an old beat-up minivan parked in front of the house.

I'm guessing it's Lawson's. As I come to a bouncing stop and put the car into park, I realize I have no weapons. I dropped the pocket knife when Lawson hit me, and I didn't think to pick it up again. Popping my trunk, I grabbed the L-shaped tire iron from under the floor mat and move toward the house. It's a single-story ranch-style house with a postage stamp lawn. The front door is closed and locked. Lawson must have gotten in another way, or, if I'm lucky, he hasn't found a way inside yet. Should I run up and ring the doorbell? Bang on the door? Will that scare Lassen away? No, it would only alert him to my presence. It would only make him go even faster. I blink and shake my head. I should be wide awake right now, but I'm not. I'm weary from weeks

of poor sleep. The adrenaline is slowing to a trickle. But if I don't do something, Cole will die. Maybe she has a husband or a boyfriend in there. Maybe he can handle it. I shake my head and start around the house, looking for signs of Lawson. Too many maybes. I became a CNA to help people. What kind of person would I be if I just stood out here and waited for the police to show up while Cole was being murdered inside? There's been no noise from the house yet, no sounds of struggle, no screams. There's still time to stop him. The windows on this side of the house are closed, but I come to an open gate about halfway down the side. I move through without touching the gate, afraid it will squeal if I do. I move into the backyard, seeing a swing set and children's

toys on the back lawn. There are kids in the house. Looking up on the back deck, I see the back door is wide open. Lawson is inside the house. My heart thrums as I move swiftly up the wooden deck stairs. My hand is sweaty on the tire iron. My eyes sting with sweat. I can't stop blinking. The space inside the open back door is dark. I can't see any. anything inside. I step over the threshold, sure that Lawson will strike out from the darkness at any moment. Shapes slowly form out of the black. There's an open doorway up ahead and to the right, another to the left. The hallway I'm in looks like it extends all the way through to the front door. I take a step forward, holding the tire iron over my shoulder. The house is eerily quiet.

Has he already killed them all? Am I in a house full of dead people? A dark, man-shaped figure emerges wraith-like from the doorway up ahead and to the left. I pull in a breath intense, ready to swing the tire iron. There's a loud bang that reverberates off the hallway walls. A flash of light illuminates the man's face. It's not Lawson. I stumble back, dropping the tire iron and looking down at my abdomen. I've been shot.

He shot me. A woman screamed somewhere back in the house. A moment later, a child cries. Tripping over a shoe rack near the back door, I fall under my butt. The man who shot me moves to flip a light switch, bringing illumination to the hall. He's clean cut and wide-eyed. His dirty brown hair musted up from sleep. He wears boxers and a white t-shirt, and he points a pistol at me.

Who the hell? His words are cut short as Lawson appears behind him, plunging the knife into his back. The man screams out, jerking forward and dropping the gun as he falls to his knees. Lawson stabs him again. The man falls to his face on the hallway floor. He says in a low whisper, trying to push himself off the floor. Then he convulses for a moment before vomiting and then going very still.

Lawson stands over him, peering down at his victim between curtains of scraggly gray hair. He's still dressed in the nightgown, which I'm sure he dawned to blend in at the nursing home. His eyes are like orbs of ice. I can see a fresh cut on his forearm from where Mr. Piedmont cut him with his sweat. Swiss Army knife. He looks up at me and those cold eyes flick to the gunshot wound in my stomach. Then he turns and heads deeper into the house. Toward the soars of the woman's scream, toward Rachel Cole. I lie my head down on the hardwood floor. My eyelids are 45 pound weights. I can't keep them open. Sleep beckons me. An escape from the pain, solace, comfort.

The child in the house cries again. Please. I hear Rachel scream. Please, Mr. Lawson. I struggle to force my eyelids open. I can't sleep. Not yet. Sitting up is excruciating, but I don't make a sound, no matter how badly I want to.

I get on my knees, holding one hand to the awful wound in my stomach. I find the gun and grip it in my right hand. The sound of something breaking comes from the bedroom. No! Cole screams, her voice now full of anger. The voice now full of anger, anger at the man who's trying to take her life. I lurched to my feet and stumble over Cole's husband or boyfriend or whatever he is to her. As I get to the bedroom door, I see Lawson standing next to a broken lamp.

Cole must have thrown it at him. Rachel stands in the corner of the room in the narrow space between the bed and the wall. A little girl stands behind her in the corner, bawling. Lawson rushes forward, knife up and ready. Leaning against the door jam, I lift the pistol and fire it. Missing Lawson by a couple of feet. The bullet punches into the bedroom wall, but the shot has the desired effect. Lawson stops moving and turns around, and he rushes toward me.

I fire again hitting him in the chest, but he keeps coming. I fire again hitting him again, but he still doesn't stop. He crashes into me. I feel the knife blade enter my body where my shoulder meets my neck. But I get the gun up and fire one more time. This time, the bullet goes into his head. His forward momentum brings his dead weight into me, and we both collapse into the hallway outside the bedroom.

I look up at the ceiling. I'm so tired. I've never been so tired in my life. I close my eyes, and I let sleep come. It's glorious as it settles on me like a heavy blanket. It brings solace, comfort. I'm so tired. I could sleep forever.