Nine credits in my second year of university. Zero credits in my third year. All passing grades, but just barely. That was my academic record. Around that time, I was raising a kitten in my apartment. I kept it strictly indoors, never letting it outside, and used to tell it things like, "You're gonna get huge. About half the size of this room. I might even stop feeding you." Despite my educational efforts, the kitten stopped growing at the exact size of a regular cat. Back then, cats became cats, dogs became dogs, and spring turned into summer. Yet my university life continued to wander aimlessly, with no destination or idea of what I wanted to become. It was that summer. I was a second-year student. Through the introduction of the upperclassman who was the root cause of my drifting, I got a part-time job at a hospital. That upperclassman was the mastermind who had dragged me down the path of the occult. Well, perhaps he was merely the catalyst, and I simply became who I was by following my own instincts. "Master, do you know of any good part-time jobs?" That single question certainly became the reason that summer was dyed entirely in the colors of the occult.
Even though they called it a hospital job, to be precise, it was clerical work at a medical facility called a "Visiting Nursing Station." A visiting nursing station is a small institution where nurses, physical therapists (PTs), and occupational therapists (OTs) are dispatched to provide nursing care and rehabilitation for people receiving medical treatment at home. Three nurses, one PT, one OT, and one clerk—a total of six people. The workplace for these six people was located inside a hospital. Of course, the parent organization was the same, so the nurses and PTs were also originally from that hospital. Even though it was an independent medical facility, it felt like nothing more than a department within the hospital. The regular clerical worker had taken a leave of absence due to illness, and since they were severely short-handed to process the medical billing claims before the employee's return, I was offered the job. One of the nurses also served as the director, and she seemed to be an acquaintance of the Master. She was close to sixty but full of energy, and apparently used to be the head nurse (though they call them chief nurses now) of this hospital. The director told me, "Make sure to go home early at night." Obviously. My shift ended at 5:30 PM anyway. According to her, the fourth floor where the station was located had originally been lined with patient rooms, but they were closed down during a period of downsizing and had been left abandoned ever since with no other use. Now, they had renovated one room that used to be the nurses' station and were using it as an office. Because of this, nothing on that floor was in use except for the station's office, and the moment you stepped outside, a dark, deserted hallway stretched on and on, even during the day, creating an intensely eerie atmosphere. That wasn't all. The nurses whispered that this ward had many beds for terminal patients, and strange things had always happened there. That was why the nurses didn't want to stay there at night. Their fear, born from actual work experience, carried a certain kind of persuasion.
I was determined to go home early, absolutely. But that was wishful thinking. The root of the problem was the monthly billing claims at the beginning of the month. There was a sort of handover manual, but it was far too difficult for an amateur with no medical administration qualifications. People receiving visiting nursing care, in particular, often fell under complicated insurance schemes, and I had no clue what percentage to bill to where, and what to do with the remainder. I struggled and wrangled with it while holding my head in my hands, but around the third day, I realized it was impossible without working overtime. To make sure I finished by the deadline on the 10th, my departure time kept getting later every day. After responding with forced smiles to the nurses who finished their work and went home saying, "Must be rough," I was left all alone in the empty office. The sun had long since set, and a cool night breeze drifted in through the windows. In the quiet room, only the sound of clicking calculator buttons echoed. Ah. I hate this. I hate this. Apparently, nurse call buttons used to ring frequently in this room late at night. Whenever they rushed to answer, it turned out to be the room of a patient who had just passed away the day before... I had been told stories like that during the day. They even said that call chimes would ring in the middle of the night on the fourth floor, which was supposed to have been completely deserted for a while. Even though the nurse call systems had been removed ages ago. True, hospitals are a treasure trove of ghost stories. But hearing them on-site is the worst. I somehow managed to finish that day's quota with a rushed, slapdash effort and prepared to leave the office. With trepidation, I opened the door, and a dead-silent hallway stretched out endlessly.
Only the light right in front of the office was on, and even that was unusually dim. Such cheapskates. This is why I hate hospitals. I walked a little down the hallway and went down the stairs. Once I reached the first floor, I felt a little relieved, but when I tried to leave through the back door, the final hurdle awaited. I had to pass right in front of the morgue along the way. I had imagined it would be in some basement or at the very end of a corridor, so it came as a surprise to me, but since it was there, what could I do? As I walked past the door with a plaque that simply read "Morgue," I inevitably found myself glancing toward the frosted glass. It made me want to ask whether they wanted people to see inside or not. It was pitch black inside, so of course, nothing was visible. Even if something were squirming in there, it surely wouldn't be noticeable from the outside. Terrified by my own imagination, I hurried past. Then one day, as the billing process was reaching its climax, one of the nurses returned to the office after finishing her evening visits. The moment she opened the door, I instinctively closed my eyes. I didn't know why, but I felt like it was better not to see. The nurse walked past me as I sat hunched over, swallowing hard, went over to the director's desk, and said in a heavy voice, "Mr./Ms. XX has passed away." The director said, "I see," and comforted the nurse in a calm voice. After listening to the details of the person's final moments and pausing as if putting her hands together in prayer, she said just one word: "Thank you for your hard work." Unlike PTs and OTs whose visits focus on rehabilitation, nurses frequently visit terminal patients. These were people who chose to die in their own homes rather than in a hospital, whether by their family's choice or their own. During busy times, they might witness a dozen deaths or more in a year. Moments like that made me realize, all over again, that a hospital is a place that deals with human death. Although I had a vague premonition given the high frequency of multiple visits, the shock was immense, especially since I had just finished processing that person's billing claims only moments ago.
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