Episode 17

The sterile scent of the University of Utah Medical Center was a stark contrast to the musty, historic halls of Salt Lake Regional, yet the spectral activity seemed to follow me, a persistent shadow cast by my own experiences. I was a patient now, vulnerable and confined, the roles reversed. One afternoon, after a long-awaited shower, my nurse’s aide, a kind woman with gentle hands and a ready smile, was braiding my hair. The simple act of care was a balm to my weary spirit. Just as she was finishing, my then-fiancé, Rex, who would soon be my husband, arrived after finishing his workday.

We were chatting, my hair still damp, when a flicker of movement caught our eyes. A shadow, distinct and impossibly quick, detached itself from the dim light of the room and glided into the small bathroom attached to my private room. It wasn't a fleeting glimpse, but a deliberate movement, like a person walking. Before we could even process what we’d seen, the distinct sound of the toilet flushing echoed from within. Then, the faucet turned on, a gush of water filling the silence. My heart leaped into my throat. The aide and I exchanged a wide-eyed, disbelieving glance. But the strangeness wasn't over. The sound of water shifted, now emanating from my shower, as if it had been turned on again. And then, the bathroom door, which had been left ajar, swung shut with a soft click, only to immediately swing open again.

All of this happened in the space of a few heartbeats. We sat in stunned silence, the aide’s hands frozen in my hair. Rex, who had just settled into a chair, blinked, his brow furrowed. “What was all that?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice, clearly thinking it was some elaborate prank or a misunderstanding.