Creepypasta: Nightmare Fuel

112: The Patient With An Empty Diagnosis

The Patient With An Empty Diagnosis by manen_lyset

Last week, when I was taking a break in the middle of the graveyard shift at the hospital, one of the other nurses ran in looking rattled.

"Claire, I need you in room B," he said, his face as white as the walls surrounding us.

I closed my book and craned my neck to peek into the ER. Being dragged off mid-break was nothing new, but it usually happened during an emergency, when all hands were needed on deck. This time, however, the ER was empty. There was one drunk sleeping it off across a row of benches, but aside from the sounds of his snores, everything was quiet. No one was prepping for the arrival of multiple casualties, either: if we'd gotten a call, there would already have been people lined up with gurneys by the door. Still, despite all appearances, Chris wouldn't have come for me if it wasn't important. I got up and headed out of the break room.

"What's up, Chris?" I asked, as I followed him swiftly. If there was an emergency, every second counted.

Chris replied, "There's a 40-something Caucasian male that came in. Seems in distress, but won't let anyone near him."

I raised a brow. "All right. Let's have a look. Did the EMTs say anything about his condition?"

Chris shook his head. "He's a walk-in. Came alone. Looked panicked, but wouldn't say why," he hesitated for a moment, "and there was something weird about the way he walked."

I nodded. We didn't always get great work-ups on patients, especially the walk-ins. With what little information Chris gave me, I could only assume the patient had hurt his leg or something like that. If I wanted to know what was going on, I'd have to examine him myself.

I entered Emergency Room B, and found the patient standing in the corner. He was tall –but not unnaturally so–, wore a fancy suit, polished black shoes, and white silk gloves. Every single button on his dress shirt had been done up. In fact, it looked uncomfortably tight. His collar pressed against his Adam's apple so snugly I could only imagine it'd leave a mark. I could hear his strained, panicked breaths as he struggled to inhale through the constriction. Like many balding middle-aged men, his hair had gravitated to his chin, but I could still read the worry and terror through the bush hiding his tense facial features. His eyes darted side to side, like an antique cat clock.

If I had to guess based on his attire, my money would have been on a limo driver of some sort, but even then, the quality of his tailored suit seemed a few notches above their usual uniform.

"Hi sir. My name's Claire, and this is Chris. We're here to help you," I said softly.

He twitched, but didn't reply.

Chris whispered, "Hasn't said a single word since he got here. Not one."

I took a step forward, and saw the man's jaw clenching in response. I lifted my hands non-threateningly and took another cautiously slow step.

"Listen, I'm here to help you, all right?"

My hand slowly slid down to my stethoscope. He watched me with almost impossibly dilated eyes, showing barely a sliver of his green irises. He must have been on some heavy drugs, I figured.

"Sir, I need to take your vitals. It won't hurt, I promise."

He continued to stare, but made no effort to escape as I bridged the distance between us. I pressed the chest piece against him, and slipped the earpieces on. I closed my eyes and listened, expecting to hear a thrashing heartbeat, but no heartbeat came. Instead, there was a constant, shallow, droning sound like the depths of the ocean, or the cosmic hum of solar radiation. I pulled my stethoscope back and touched it to my own chest to test it. It was working fine: I could hear the pitter-patter of my heart. Now almost as unnerved as Chris, I put the stethoscope back on our speechless patient. Still, all I heard was that same otherworldly noise.