The Devil is in that Room (Column)

Published by Forumn Communications' Echo Press on Oct. 23, 2022.

Between my sophomore and junior years of college, I took some time off to work as a nursing assistant at a geriatric nursing home. For those who don't know, geriatric means elderly.

Most of the people residing in the facility are near the end of their life. Meaning it is not uncommon to check on one of them only to find that they had passed on. It is something you have to learn to stomach real quick if you are going into the line of work. But it is never easy. At least for me, it wasn't. And there is one instance that haunts me to this day.

The day began like any other, I punched in and went to meet with the morning crew for a debriefing of the day's happenings.

"Oh, and Mr. B has refused all cares so he is still in his pajamas in his room," said one of the morning nurses near the end of the meeting. "He's in his wheelchair, though. That's about all he would let us do for him."

Mr. B has dementia, which makes communication with him tough. He can also become combative real quick.

After I made my way to Mr. B's room located at the end of the hall across from the hospice room. It felt colder than usual. The blinds to his windows were closed, making the room uncomfortably dark. Mr. B was in the center of the room, sitting in his wheelchair, staring intently into a shadowy corner.

He was a tall thin man who often slid down into his chair until his shoulders came level with the top of the backrest and his legs sprawled out, which is how he was sitting now. His fingertips were pressed into their left and right counterparts. His mouth was agape and his eyes staring wide. He looked frightened and entranced. And his breathing was concerning.

With each breath came a rattle and my heart sank a bit. We call this the death rattle because it often occurs near the end.

I announced myself but he made no acknowledgment. I wasn't expecting much. Mr. B is non-verbal. The most you get out of him are grunts. Although, he can muster bellowing obscenities when mad. But, even still, he usually will turn to make eye contact but he just continued to stare into the corner.

Twice more I made an attempt to make him aware of my presence but he still gave no response. I moved closer and gently put my hand on his shoulder and called him by name. Suddenly he broke from his trance, gave out a mad howl of those familiar obscenities and looked at me with wild eyes. Gone was his frightened gaze. He was mad, real mad.

Before he became physical, I went to his radio and turned on some Hank Williams. In moments, he relaxed and began tapping his foot to the country beat.

I was able to finish his cares, got him sitting properly in his seat and then reported his breathing to the nurse.

Toward the end of my shift, when all the residents were in bed, I made one last visit to Mr. B. Unfortunately, he had passed on sometime after dinner. I felt a sickness in my stomach but also a bit of relief knowing he was finally at peace.

I stayed until the funeral home arrived, helped with transferring and made my way home.

That night I had one of the most terrifying dreams of my life.

I was back at the care center, walking down the familiar hallway I was answering call lights just hours before. But this time, it was dark, empty and cold — like Mr. B's room. Except for a golden light illuminating from the hospice room. I went to it. When I entered I saw Mr. B, lucid and standing tall with a welcoming smile.

We faced each other smiling and talked awhile. Then, in a moment, his demeanor changed. His face went pale, his eyes fearful and watery. I asked him what was wrong. At first, he didn't reply. He just raised his arm and pointed across the hall to the room where I found him deceased. Unlike the golden light from the hospice room, his room was an impenetrable darkness. I looked back at him. He had moved so close our noses were practically touching.

In a panicked whisper he said, "The Devil's in that room."

I shot straight out of bed, soaked in cold sweats, heart racing fast and breathing hard. Sleep was not easy the rest of the night.

To this day, I often think about Mr. B and that dream. Every time, a shiver runs down my spine and my hair stands on end.