I worked as an intern
in the psychiatric wing of a hospital when I was younger. I had spent
years studying to be a doctor, but I was still deciding on which area
would be my expertise. Having known many people -- both family and
friends -- with mental health struggles, I thought I'd give it a shot
when this psychiatry internship came up. At very least, it would be
one more experience to add to my growing resume.
On the first day, I was
in the outpatient area -- it was mostly a collection of private rooms
for therapy sessions, fronted by a reception desk. As I wasn't
legally able to sit in on private sessions yet, my supervisor had me
sitting in a room adjacent to reception, going over basic procedures
expected for dealing with long-term outpatient clients. Pretty
run-of-the-mill stuff, really, but it never hurts to refresh your
memory on such things -- especially as a physician.
The room itself struck
me as perfectly ordinary. Perhaps ten by fifteen feet, the door to
the reception office to my left, and another door on the facing wall
at the opposite end. I sat at a large, oblong conference table, with
the receptionists clearly visible through the open door beside me.
The other door was shut. Along the same wall as the closed door was a
square, dark window. Must be a two-way, I thought. There must be an
observation room on the other side, though I couldn't see it since
the lights were off. I didn't think they used those anymore, except
in cop dramas.
Anyway, I got down to
work, reading through the manuals and policies and various other
forms my supervisor kept piling on over the next two hours or so. He
was one of those people who would bound in, half-dazed, saying "Oh
yeah -- I almost forgot --" and list off another encyclopedia's
worth of information you needed -- absolutely needed -- to know
immediately. I was beginning to suspect he was actually an escaped
patient from another area of the psychiatric wing. Finally, though, I
hadn't seen him for a good half an hour or so.
I could hear the soft
chatter of the staff in the office as I scanned the text in front of
me. It soothed me to a point that I nearly jumped out of my chair
when I saw a flash of -- something -- from the direction of the
window. I stared at it for a moment, not sure if my mind was playing
tricks on me. Coffee. I probably need coffee. I yawned widely, and
made myself another cup from the Keurig on the trolley behind me.
Back to work, and not
five minutes later I saw something out of the corner of my eye again.
This time it looked less like a flash, and more of a streak. Like
someone with a light-coloured shirt walking past the window in the
other room. I hesitated for a moment, then stood up.
"Hey, is anyone
using the observation room?" The question was directed into the
reception office. One of the ladies answered.
"No, it
hasn't been used in years."
I was going to ask if
there was another entrance into the room, but she had already picked
up the phone to answer another call. It was pretty busy there, I'll
admit. Lots of clients and patients to keep anyone on their toes.
Instead of bothering another receptionist, I did the next simplest
thing: I walked across the room to the other door, opened it, and
switched on the light. Apart from a play mat, and a few toys in one
corner, the observation room was deserted. There was no other door. I
stepped in two paces and glanced at the window -- a mirror on this
side. Nothing seemed out of place, and there was nothing which could
have made what I saw. What I thought I saw.
I turned off the light,
closed the door, and went back to my reading, feeling a little...
weirded out.
Tap, tap, tap.
This was stupid. Now I
was hearing things. I got up again and closed the door to the
conference room, hoping to drown out any noise coming from the chaos
of the reception office.
Tap, tap, tap.
It was definitely
coming from the two-way mirror. At this point, I really didn't want
to turn around to face it. Part of me, more than I'd like to admit,
believed I was going to see something... something out of a horror
movie. I was in the middle of a busy hospital, in the middle of the
day, in a bright room... and I was scared. I can't even tell you why
I was scared -- it was like the feeling was injected into me, against
my will. I turned.
Nothing. Everything was
normal, including the dark window on the other wall.
Tap, tap, tap.
I went over to the
window and put my ear against it. You're an idiot if you believe that
last sentence. I didn't move an inch, and neither would any sane
person with an ounce of self-preservation. I stared at the window
from across the room, the conference table providing a
much-appreciated barrier between me, and whatever was making that
sound. Without realizing what I was doing, I reached out to the table
and tapped it three times. What the hell was I doing?! My breath
caught in my throat as I waited, but there was no response. I was
concentrating so hard on listening, that it startled me to realize
that faint words had materialized on the window. I could only read
one word.
help
I ran over to door of
the observation room, flinging it open and slamming on the lights.
This time I found myself in the middle of the room, on the play mat,
looking all around. No one. Nothing. Not even the mirror had anything
on it -- no dust, no fingerprints. Nothing at all. My heart was
pounding like mad. It didn't make any sense! What could possibly--?
No. That was it. I was going to find somewhere else to sit and work.
That was the answer, and the only one I needed. Any other answers...
well, I no intention of sticking around to investigate.
I turned off the light,
and shut the door for a second time. I gathered my materials quickly,
carefully keeping my back to the window, despite another round of
tapping. I had to ignore it.
BANG, BANG, BANG!
I spun around, almost
knocking myself off-balance. The once faint words had become
distinct.
let
me help you
Three feet away from
me, these words formed, thicker and thicker, as though some viscous
substance was trying to give them life. I was paralysed. A small,
spindly, ash-grey hand pressed itself against the window from the
other room.
I don't know if you've
ever heard a grown man scream, but it's not a pleasant experience for
anyone. The receptionists next door rushed in, obviously alarmed, and
I crashed into them on my way out. One of them fell, and I think
another grabbed his nose in pain. I hadn't even grabbed my stuff --
in fact, I didn't stop until I was in at my car, in the parking lot,
five minutes later.
Needless to say, I
didn't go back. Embarrassed hardly describes how I felt. I know it's
incredibly unprofessional, but I resigned from the internship
immediately, with a thinly-worded email to the university, hospital,
and my supervisor. Oddly enough, it didn't cause any trouble. I
suppose that was incredibly lucky.
I did continue on to
other internships, and eventually a residence at the same hospital.
But I never stepped foot into the the psychiatric wing again, nor did
I continue to take any interest in psychiatry at all. Today, I'm a
obstetrician with my own private practice, far away from the hospital
with the square, two-way mirror.
