Epilogue:

The sun hung low in the sky over Ravenswood, casting long shadows across the hospital grounds. The air was crisp, still tinged with the scent of rain from the night before, but inside the sterile corridors of Ravenswood General, the atmosphere remained suffocatingly still.

Nurse Sarah Jenkins flipped through her clipboard as she made her rounds. The ICU was quieter than usual—too quiet, she thought. The rhythmic beeping of machines was the only sound, a reminder of lives hanging on by the thinnest of threads. Her footsteps echoed softly as she moved from room to room, adjusting IVs, checking vitals, her mind already wandering to the end of her shift.

She paused as she approached the last room at the end of the hall. Room 23.

Dr. Elliot Thompson had been a permanent fixture in that room for what felt like an eternity. No one talked much about him anymore. He had become the medical mystery no one could solve. Most of the staff saw him as just another body hooked up to machines, another fading heartbeat in the endless cycle of patients who drifted in and out of the ICU.

But Sarah had always felt uneasy about him.

As she reached the door, a chill ran down her spine, the same one she felt every time she neared this room. She couldn't explain it, but something about Dr. Thompson's case didn't sit right. Now, standing at the threshold, that faint, nagging feeling tugged at the back of her mind, stronger than ever.

She hesitated, her hand hovering over the door handle.

The room was dim, the light muted by drawn blinds. Elliot lay as he always did—pale, still, his eyes closed. The machines beside him beeped steadily, the soft glow from the monitors casting a sickly glow over his face. Everything seemed normal. Quiet. But the sense of unease lingered.

Sarah checked the chart, frowning as she noted there had been no change in months. Stagnant.

Sighing, she leaned over to adjust the IV, her fingers brushing the cold metal frame of the bed. She had done this a thousand times, but today, something felt different. As she adjusted the lines, she noticed a faint sound. Barely perceptible at first, it was so soft she almost missed it.

Tap… tap… tap.

Sarah froze, her hand still resting on the bedrail. She glanced down, her breath catching in her throat. Elliot's fingers twitched, tapping gently against the metal frame in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Her pulse quickened as she straightened up, her eyes wide. Reflex, she told herself. It's just a reflex. But the pattern was too perfect, too measured. It wasn't random.

Tap… tap… tap.

She backed away, her mind racing. Elliot's face remained slack, his eyes closed, but the tapping continued, soft and relentless. Her heart pounded as she took another step back, trying to rationalize it, but the growing sense of dread was undeniable.

The nurses whispered about this room. About Elliot. How, late at night, strange sounds could be heard coming from Room 23. Sarah had always dismissed the rumors, chalking them up to hospital gossip, but now, standing here, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

Her eyes drifted to her own hand. Her fingers were trembling. The soft, rhythmic pulse of the tapping seemed to be spreading, crawling up her arm, her chest tightening with each beat. And then, without warning, her fingers moved.

Tap… tap… tap.

Panic surged in her chest as she stared at her hand, watching it tap against the doorframe. She hadn't meant to do it—she hadn't even realized she was doing it—but now she couldn't stop. The tapping wasn't just a sound. It was a pulse, an invisible force, burrowing into her, claiming her body inch by inch.

She backed away, her heart racing. It's inside me.

The room seemed to close in around her, the air thick and suffocating. She could still hear the faint beeping of the machines, but the sound was drowned out by the relentless tapping that echoed in her ears, in her mind. She needed to get out.

Without a second thought, Sarah turned and fled down the hallway, the sound of her footsteps drowned out by the tap… tap… tap that followed her like a shadow. When she reached the nurse's station, she stopped, breathless, shaking. But even in the safety of the brightly lit room, the tapping lingered in the back of her mind—quiet but persistent.

For the next few days, Sarah's demeanor changed. She became withdrawn, her once-cheerful nature replaced by a growing detachment. Her colleagues noticed how often her fingers fidgeted, tapping out rhythms on her clipboard, the desk, the walls. When asked about it, she would offer only a faint smile and say nothing.

The night staff whispered among themselves, spinning tales about Room 23. About the nurse who had once been so bright, now distant and strange. Some said they heard her muttering to herself near Elliot's bed, though no one dared check.

And then, one night, Sarah didn't show up for her shift.

At first, no one thought much of it—nurses sometimes called in sick. But when her absence stretched into days, and her phone calls went unanswered, her colleagues began to worry. No one had seen her leave. It was as if she had simply vanished.

Whispers spread throughout the hospital, but life continued. A new nurse arrived to fill Sarah's shifts—a fresh face eager to make a good impression. She hadn't heard the rumors. To her, Room 23 was just another room, and Dr. Elliot Thompson was just another patient.

One evening, as she made her rounds, she paused outside Room 23. She checked the chart, her mind already wandering to her weekend plans. Then, she heard it.

Tap… tap… tap.

She frowned, her ears straining for the sound. It was soft, almost imperceptible, but it was there. She glanced through the small window, her gaze falling on Elliot's still form, the machines beeping steadily beside him. Everything appeared normal.

But the sound lingered.

Tap… tap… tap.

Curiosity drew her closer. Slowly, she opened the door and stepped inside. The room was quiet, dimly lit by the machines, but the tapping continued, growing louder. She approached the bed, her pulse quickening as her eyes landed on Elliot's hand.

His fingers were tapping.

Tap… tap… tap.

Her breath caught in her throat. She stared down at him, her heart pounding as the sound filled the room. It was rhythmic, deliberate, like a heartbeat. And then, without realizing it, her own hand began to move.

Tap… tap… tap.

Some say that late at night, when the hospital is at its quietest, you can still hear it—the faint, deliberate rhythm of something that never truly left.

And somewhere deep within his mind, Elliot Thompson's consciousness stirred, trapped and aware, as the tapping continued.

Waiting for the next one.

Tap… tap… tap.