Good Nurses Never Quit

In the summer of 2008, I had finished school and moved back home. Six years of city life left me feeling worn down and insignificant. I missed the freedom and familiarity of Northern Ontario, my close-knit family, and, most of all, the prospect of steady work and affordable housing. There were a number of suitable opportunities for my girlfriend and I close to my home town, so we packed up and left.

The cost of living was low. Good jobs were available in our fields, and Amy adapted to small town life quickly. We were lucky enough to sign a lease on a two bedroom in a repurposed hospital. The building opened in 1930. There had been a large addition constructed in 1932 to serve as a tuberculosis ward and it became a training hospital for nurses before closing in the early 1970s. Our unit was on the top storey with a high, ten-foot ceiling and beautiful hardwood floors. The windows looked out over the parking lot and one of the busier streets. It was cheap, spacious and ideal for a young couple starting their lives together.

As the months went by, we settled in, got to know a few other tenants and made friends with the superintendent. People talked casually about paranormal experiences. They claimed to hear voices and footsteps in the stairwells, said the elevator would randomly bring you down to the basement when you hadn’t pushed the button, and repeated all the typical haunted building things. This became a bit annoying because I never experienced anything. Climbing the stairs in the evenings for exercise, going down to the basement to dig through the storage locker after dark, even walking the hallways out of boredom proved fruitless in terms of encounters. The superintendent even set up a pool table, dart board and mini fridge in the former morgue. Everyone laughed, played games, and drank in there, but the scariest thing we had to endure was the bullshit stories from other residents. 

The months turned into years. We built a life together and had so much fun in that place, but eventually found ourselves wanting more. Starting a family required a back yard, privacy and space that our apartment couldn’t offer. After years of saving, in the winter of 2016, things were looking good for us. The holidays were spent with my parents and with them came the announcement that we would be looking at houses come summer. 

Every Friday night was a party for two. However, one stands out for me in particular. Everything started as a somewhat regular afternoon in February. It was a Snow Day. The kind where people in the North officially admit they’re beat, stay home and let the weather happen. Given an early start to the weekend, Amy and I soon found ourselves sipping drinks and dancing, albeit poorly, in the living room by 3:00 p.m. We laughed, sang, had a wonderful dinner, then just sat and watched the snow fall in each other’s arms while a movie played in the background. 

At around 11:00 p.m. she led me off to bed. We had that wonderful kind of frantic sex that just happens, quickly and honestly, full of passion and desperate energy. I don’t know how, but that energy lingered in me. Amy was drifting off. Wide awake and still a bit drunk, I tried to keep her up with pillow talk and gentle touches. Both failed miserably. In a final, desperate attempt to start another conversation, I said, “Hey, do you think this place is really haunted?” 

“Nooooo…” Amy groaned.

Still under the influence of cheap beer, I decided it would be a good idea to try a technique used by a then popular ghost hunting show and said, “If there’s anyone in the room with us, please tap the wall three times.” I then tapped the wall beside the headboard three times myself without waiting. Amy rolled on to her side, facing away from me and pulled the comforter over her head. Empathy and acceptance that the night was over finally sunk in. Leaning close, I put my hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Go to sleep. I love you.”

“I love you too… Now please be quiet,” she mumbled, already fading fast. A few minutes later, her breathing deepened and she was asleep. I went back out to the couch to watch TV. After an hour, feeling myself fading too, I made another trip to the washroom. I took one last look at the snow falling in the glow of the streetlights, turned off the TV and flopped down on the couch. Laying on my side, facing the back, with the throw blanket barely covering my naked ass, proved to be the best position. This was a restless sleep, but despite the dizziness and hot flashes, it took hold. 

At some point I stirred. My head rolled on the couch cushion. I kept my eyes closed, fighting consciousness as it attempted to creep back in. A faint whimper slipped out of my mouth and the room changed. Relief, in the form of coolness, washed over me. The nausea lifted, my heart rate slowed. There was a definite presence near my upper body. It was instantly comforting yet wrong somehow. Pleased by the assumption that Amy was back out and looking for fun, a smile began to form on my lips. There was a clearly audible but delicate inhale close to my right ear. A woman’s voice, calm and slowly paced, whispered, “Shhhh… It’s okay sweetheart. You just get some rest now.” This was followed by the sensation of fingertips carefully brushing my hair back in two strokes. Next, a faint pressure was applied to my forehead and the presence began to fade along with the tingling feeling of my face having been touched. From further above me, in a more authoritative tone, the voice added, “Drink a glass of water when you wake up, please.” Then, a subtle, amused little snort. 

Something suddenly clicked in my head and I woke fully. The realization that I hadn’t heard footsteps, a door open, or any movement in the washroom hit me hard. My eyes opened wide and fixed on the pale whiteness of the plaster ceiling illuminated by the streetlights below. I was still lying on the couch, now flat on my back, legs straight, with my hands at my sides. The throw blanket was pulled up to my shoulders and neatly tucked in around my body. I listened intently, terrified to turn my head toward the open room, and held my breath for what felt like an eternity. There was no sound at all. “Amy?” I hissed, knowing damn well the voice had sounded nothing like hers. There was no reply. “Amy!” I said out loud, now with more conviction. No answer. A rush of adrenaline and anger hit me. I threw the blanket off, swung my feet around and sat up, ready to greet who, or whatever was in my living room with a stream of profanity. Nobody was there. It was 3:10 a.m. The world outside and the building itself were deathly still. 

After sitting there for a moment, in that oppressive lack of sound, my sanity was given a much-needed boost in the form of a snow plow on the street below. Its blade angrily scraped the pavement as it went by. I stood up and watched it go, thankful for the distraction. As silence fell upon me again, I broke, ran for our bedroom, and opened the door. Amy became visible. She was still lying on her side in bed. The sight of her silhouette was so comforting I dove under the covers and pressed myself against her. It was painfully obvious that she hadn’t moved an inch since I left the bedroom to watch TV.

That fall we bought a house just down the hill from the old hospital. You can see it from the kitchen window whenever you’re standing at the sink. We’ve been here for eight years now and have a beautiful daughter who just turned six. Our lives go on. Every now and then Amy catches me staring up at that old, red brick building and asks me what I’m looking at. “Aren’t you glad we’re not still living up there?” She’ll ask. I haven’t told her about that night because I’m too embarrassed. Laughing at people who can talk about hearing or seeing strange things no longer seems appropriate to me because I still don’t have the courage to do it. The world has a way of humbling us when we need it most. Sometimes, without warning, that feeling of vulnerability and raw terror returns to me when I’m alone. I have learned how to work through it, but can’t help thinking it will stay with me for the rest of my life.