I know what I saw

I Know What I Saw

© Janet Bailey 2026

Tom didn’t notice her straight away.

Night shifts blur together at Rosewood Care Home — humming radiators, soft beeps from call buttons, and corridors that always look a bit too long at three in the morning. You stop paying attention to the little things. You stop questioning shadows. You stop wondering why the lights flicker in the same places every night.

But by his second week, he’d started spotting patterns.

Who wandered.

Who slept through.

Who needed checking twice.

Who pretended to sleep so they could sneak biscuits from the kitchenette.

And then there was the old woman.

She appeared on the CCTV at 2:13 a.m.

Not 2:12.

Not 2:14.

Always 2:13.

The footage never showed her arriving. One frame: empty corridor. Next frame: her. Tall, thin, barefoot, standing dead‑centre in the hallway outside Room 12. Her nightdress hung off her like it didn’t belong to her. Her hair was long and grey, but not messy — more like it had been brushed by someone who cared.

Tom tried rewinding the clip. Same thing every time — a jump, a flicker, like the system blinked and she slipped in through the crack.

He didn’t mention it at first. New job, new people, no point sounding like the weird one. He’d already heard the jokes about “night shift ghosts” and “the Rosewood wraith.” He didn’t want to be added to the list.

But on the fourth night, he leaned closer to the monitor and muttered, “Who are you?”

The woman on the screen tilted her head, just a fraction.

And Tom felt — stupidly, impossibly — like she’d heard him.

---

The Residents Start Talking

It wasn’t the staff who noticed anything. It was the residents.

Mr. Lyle, the quiet man in Room 9, opened his door a crack as Tom passed.

“She’s back,” he whispered.

Tom froze. “Who?”

“The tall one. The one who watches.”

Tom tried to laugh it off. “You’ve been watching horror films again.”

But Mr. Lyle shook his head. “I don’t need films. I’ve got these corridors.”

Later that night, Mrs. Carter grabbed his sleeve.

“You tell her I’m not ready,” she said.

“Ready for what?”

“For leaving.”

Tom tried to smile. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Mrs. Carter blinked at him like he was thick. “Not that kind of leaving.”

She shut her door before he could ask anything else.

Even Mrs. Hargreaves, who normally slept through everything, woke up crying at 2:15 a.m. two nights in a row.

“She walks past my door,” she said. “I hear her feet. Bare feet. Slapping the floor.”

Tom checked the corridor.

Nothing.

No footprints.

No marks.

No sign of anyone.

But the CCTV still showed her.

---

The Corridor

On the eighth night, Tom finally saw her without the cameras.

He was walking past Room 12 when the corridor went cold. Not dramatic, not horror‑movie cold — just a sudden drop, like someone opened a freezer door. The kind of cold that makes your breath feel heavier.

He turned.

She stood at the far end of the hallway.

Tall.

Barefoot.

Head tilted.

Her eyes weren’t empty. They were focused — like she recognised him. Like she’d been waiting.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

She didn’t answer. But she lifted her hand and pointed at him — not accusing, not threatening. More like she was trying to remind him of something.

Something he should already know.

And then he heard it. Not out loud. Not with her mouth. But clear as if she’d whispered it into his ear:

“You’re late.”

Tom stumbled back. “Late for what?”

Her head tilted further, almost sympathetic.

“You don’t remember.”

---

The Truth Slips In

“What don’t I remember?”

She stepped closer — not walking, not gliding, just appearing a little nearer each time he blinked. The corridor lights flickered with each shift, like they were reacting to her.

“You weren’t hired,” she said softly. “You came back.”

“No. I applied. I interviewed. I—”

But the memories didn’t line up.

He remembered filling in the application.

He remembered the phone call.

He remembered walking into the building for the first time.

Except…

He also remembered walking these halls before. Years ago. Late at night. Carrying a torch. Checking doors. Laughing with Marlene when she was new. Helping Mrs. Carter find her slippers. Fixing the fire door that always stuck.

He remembered all of it.

But none of it made sense.

The woman stepped right up to him now, close enough that he could see the faint shimmer around her edges — like she wasn’t fully here.

“You were here,” she said. “Before the fire.”

Tom’s stomach dropped. “What fire?”

She looked at him with something like pity.

“You died in it.”

---

The Fire

The corridor flickered.

The lights buzzed.

The smell of smoke drifted in — faint, like a memory.

Tom felt the world tilt.

He remembered alarms screaming.

He remembered flames licking the ceiling.

He remembered running toward Room 12, trying to get Mrs. Carter out.

He remembered shouting for help.

He remembered the ceiling collapsing.

He remembered pain.

Then nothing.

Until he woke up on a night shift that never really started.

---

2:13 a.m.

The CCTV monitors in the office jumped to 2:13 a.m.

Every screen showed the same thing:

Tom.

Standing in the hallway.

Head tilted.

Barefoot.

Watching.

The woman’s voice drifted through the static.

“You’re not supposed to stay.”

Tom felt the cold again — deeper this time, pulling at him like a tide. The corridor stretched, warped, like it was trying to push him out.

He tried to speak, but his voice didn’t come out.

He tried to step forward, but his feet didn’t move.

The woman reached out and touched his arm.

It didn’t feel like a hand.

It felt like a memory.

And suddenly he was back there — flames, smoke, shouting, the weight of the ceiling coming down. He saw himself pulling Mrs. Carter toward the exit. He saw himself fall. He saw the fire swallow him.

He saw the woman — younger then — reaching for him through the smoke.

He hadn’t saved her.

She hadn’t saved him.

They were both trapped in the same moment.

---

The Ending

“It’s time,” she said.

Tom felt himself thinning, like mist in sunlight. His hands blurred. His breath faded. The corridor looked brighter, cleaner, like it was finally letting go of something heavy.

He looked down at his feet — bare, pale, fading.

He looked once more at the corridor he’d walked a thousand times.

Then he let go.

The CCTV flickered.

The timestamp rolled to 2:14 a.m.

The corridor was empty.

Room 12’s call bell chimed softly, and Mrs. Carter whispered into the dark:

“Goodnight, Tom.”

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