The Door Handle Moved (Part 4)
And the man from the camera walked in.
At 3:26 a.m., the door handle moved.
A man entered wearing medical scrubs. Surgical cap. Mask lowered as if he’d pulled it down to talk. He carried a clipboard and moved with confidence—too much confidence for someone entering a dark room.
I sat up. “Can I help you?”
He didn’t flinch. “I’m here to check the chart.”
“Name?” My voice came out louder than I meant.
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s late. I don’t need—”
“I need your name,” I repeated, louder. “And your badge.”
He stepped forward, and the ceiling light hit his face. The cap shadowed his forehead, but I saw enough to feel ice flood my veins.
It was the same man from the camera.
I raised the phone higher, filming him clearly. “Badge,” I said again.
He took another step. His hand moved toward Mark’s wristband.
I jumped up so fast my chair scraped the floor. “DON’T TOUCH HIM.”
The shout jolted the hallway awake. Footsteps rushed in—Eric first, then Dana, then two security guards who looked like they’d been running.
The man froze for a split second, then turned for the door.
But Eric blocked him. A guard grabbed his arm. The clipboard hit the floor with a crack. The man twisted, trying to break free, and his cap fell off.
Dana stepped forward, eyes cold, voice steady.
“I’ve got you,” she said.
They escorted him away while I stood there shaking, phone still recording, stomach churning like I’d been on a boat.
Mark woke fully this time, confused and frightened. “What’s happening?”
I took a deep breath.
And I told him the truth—carefully, plainly, without drama. Just facts.