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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ImmediateFruitSalad on 2024-11-02 23:35:23+00:00.
I’ll start by saying I didn’t think I’d ever write something like this, but a friend told me there’s a community here that might be interested in some… strange experiences I’ve had at work. I’m not one for sharing much online, but I guess writing it out is better than nothing since I don't have time for therapy.
I work the night shift at a small, rural emergency vet clinic, wedged between three tiny towns that most people haven’t even heard of. The clinic is out on a stretch of country road, surrounded by empty fields that turn to thick woods about a half-mile down. There’s no streetlight for at least a mile in either direction, and by the time I clock in around 4 p.m., the place is already sinking into that eerie twilight.
The clinic itself is a squat, old brick building—two stories if you count the attic, which I don’t, because no one goes up there unless they have to. It was built in the ’60s, back when it was just a regular vet’s office. These days, we’re one of the few 24-hour emergency clinics around, so we get a steady trickle of folks coming in from all over. Sometimes it’s just routine stuff, but other nights, we’re the last stop for animals in bad shape.
If it sounds grim, it’s because it is. But I need the money. Badly. I started here when I’d just finished school, with a mountain of debt to show for it, and there wasn’t exactly a line of clinics eager to hire a brand-new grad. On top of that, my mom—who isn’t exactly young anymore—had moved out to this area a few months ago. The rent is cheaper out here, and it’s quiet enough that she doesn’t mind the isolation. But there’s no way I’d let her live out here alone, especially now that she’s older and has some health issues. So, when I found this job listing at a dusty coffee shop in town, I jumped at it, even if it meant working the graveyard shift.
But pretty soon after I started, I realized the clinic had a bit of a reputation. I mentioned my job to some locals, and I got more than a few strange looks. A couple of older folks told me, in lowered voices, about a girl who went missing back in the ’70s. Supposedly, she’d last been seen outside the clinic, waiting for her dog, which the vet had kept overnight for treatment. No one ever found her. Officially, they said she’d run away, but people around here have their own theories.
The vet was questioned but never charged. The clinic eventually shut down, citing “financial issues,” but everyone around here thinks that was just a cover-up. It stayed empty for decades, too—no one wanted to touch it. When they finally reopened it as an emergency clinic in the early 2000s, the townspeople still kept their distance. If they bring their pets here, they’re in and out, like they don’t want to be around any longer than they have to.
And, honestly, they’re right.
During the day, it’s just an old clinic with too many fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic in the air. But when the sun goes down, there’s something off about this place. The silence becomes overwhelming and there’s a heaviness that settles over the whole place once the sun sets.
I work the 4 p.m. to midnight shift, which means I’m there to watch the light drain from the windows and that eerie darkness settle in. By now, I’ve gotten used to the sounds—the hum of the AC in the summer, the clicking of the radiators in the winter, the strange creaks from upstairs, the way the lights sometimes flicker like they’re about to die. I’ve learned to ignore the noises, the weird cold spots, the way some of the animals refuse to go near certain rooms, no matter how badly they’re hurt.
It’s not like the place is haunted, but every now and then, something happens that’s hard to ignore. Little things, mostly. Strange enough to notice, but not enough to make me quit—at least, not yet.
I’ve been here over a year now, and I’ve got a handful of stories that still make the hairs on my arms stand up when I think about them. So, if you’re reading this, settle in. I can’t promise you ghosts, but I’ve got more than a few tales that might make you think twice about that late-night trip to the vet.
To start, I guess I’ll tell you all something that happened about three months into the job.
It was a Friday night, around 11 p.m., I was finishing up with a dog that had come in after being hit by a car. The poor thing had a broken leg and some nasty scrapes, but he was stable. His owner had left, planning to come back first thing in the morning, so it was just me and the dog in the back exam room, the only sounds the faint hum of the fluorescent lights and the quiet beep of the heart monitor.
I was almost done wrapping his leg when I heard something. I froze, the bandage roll still in my hand. It was so faint I thought I might have imagined it, but a few seconds later, there it was again. Just a gentle, rhythmic tapping coming from the lobby.
After 6 p.m., we lock the doors, and there’s usually only one vet on duty until morning. Since we’re out in the middle of nowhere, anyone who shows up after hours is supposed to ring the bell outside for service. Walk-ins at that hour are rare, but occasionally, someone shows up with a sick animal, desperate for help.
So, I figured maybe someone had come by, tapped on the door, maybe even tried the handle. I left the exam room, half-expecting to see someone outside in the parking lot, but it was empty.
I checked the door—it was still locked. No sign of anyone, no car outside, and definitely no bell sound. Shrugging it off, I returned to the exam room to finish bandaging the dog. I’d just clipped the bandage in place when I heard it again. Tap. Tap. Tap. This time, it was louder, more insistent. But it wasn’t coming from the lobby. It was coming from the window in the break room, which was just a few doors down the hallway.
I’ll be honest; by that point, I was on edge. The break room window is high up, facing the back of the building, with nothing but an empty field stretching our behind it. No one would be able to reach it without a ladder or something to stand on. I started wondering if maybe some kids were messing around, trying to spook me.
Still, I had to check it out.
I crept down the hallway, my footsteps echoing in the quiet as I made my way to the break room. The tapping stopped the second I reached the door. I flicked on the light, and of course, there was nothing there. Just the empty room and the blackness of the field stretching out beyond the window.
But as I turned to leave, something caught my eye. There was a handprint on the window. Not pressed flat against it, but smeared, like someone had dragged their hand down the glass. It was a large print, too—larger than mine. I tried to tell myself it could’ve been a smudge from one of the other techs, maybe leftover from cleaning or something, but I knew it wasn’t. We never open that window.
I flicked the light off and shut the door firmly behind me.
By now, my heart was racing but I went back to the exam room, hoping I could shake it off and get through the last hour of my shift. That uneasy feeling stuck with me, though. Every sound seemed amplified and even the animals seemed tense, especially the dogs in the kennel, who’d been quiet all night but were now pacing and whining.
At 11:45, I did my last round of checks. The building was silent as I moved through the halls, checking on each of the animals, marking things down on my clipboard. Everything seemed normal—until I reached the break room again.
The light was on.
I was sure I’d turned it off when I left, but there it was, spilling yellow light into the dark hallway. I stepped closer, my heartbeat hammering in my ears as I reached for the door, but the second I stepped inside, the light flickered and went out, plunging the room into darkness. I fumbled for my phone, turning on the flashlight, my hands shaking as I shined it around. The room was empty, exactly as I’d left it, but there was a new smudge on the window. Another handprint, smeared down the glass, larger than the last one.
That was it. I grabbed my bag, went back to the front, and waited by the door until midnight, my hands trembling. I kept an eye on the break room door, half-expecting it to open on its own, but it stayed closed. When my replacement, Monica, came in, I bolted out of there without an explanation.
That morning after a fitful sleep, I sent a message in the staff group chat asking about the handprints on the break room window, asking if anyone had noticed them or had an explanation. But the responses were just confused. “What handprints?” one of my coworkers replied. Another joked that I was “seeing things” after too many night shifts.
Determined to prove that I wasn’t losing it, when I went back the next night, I made it a point to check the break room window right at the start of my shift. It was spotless. Not a single smudge or fingerprint anywhere. The rest of the night was thankfully quiet, and for a while, I managed to convince myself that maybe it was just a fluke, that maybe I’d somehow missed the smudges during the last cleaning or that it was just my mind playing tricks on me in the dark.
But a week later, it happened again. I was alone in the clinic, finishing up some paperwork, when I heard that same faint, rhythmic tapping. My stomach twisted with dread as I listened to the sound coming from the break room—exactly where the smudged handprints had been before.
For ...
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