THE DEMON in White

Chapter Eight – Oathbreaker (Part One

The morning light slid slowly through the blinds, painting thin stripes across the nurse’s station. Kareemat barely noticed. She had been awake all night, her head on her desk, the photograph still resting between her fingers. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that unchanging smile. The same face, frozen through time.

By the time the first patients began to stir, she was on her feet again, moving through the ward with the precision of routine. But her eyes betrayed her calm. They flicked toward every shadow, every half-open door, every patient file that didn’t feel quite right.

Saint Luke Memorial looked peaceful on the surface. Morning rounds, medicine carts, the rhythmic sound of heart monitors. Yet underneath, something pulsed differently. Conversations lowered when she passed. A few colleagues gave her brief, tight smiles, as if they knew something she didn’t.

During her lunch break, she met Azeez again near the courtyard. He was leaning against the railing, coffee in hand, the morning sun softening the tired lines around his eyes.

“You didn’t sleep,” he said without looking up.

“I couldn’t,” she replied. “You said not to trust the monitors. What did you mean?”

He sipped the coffee slowly. “Some of them are delayed. The feed isn’t always live. Someone filters what we see.”

Her stomach turned. “Who?”

“Administration. Maybe Kole. Maybe no one you’ve met. All I know is, the hospital isn’t run the way you think it is.”

He set the coffee down and lowered his voice. “Did you find anything last night?”

She hesitated. “Yes. A code. NVC. And a photo. It’s old, but Kole hasn’t aged. Not a single line.”

For a long time, Azeez said nothing. Then he gave a small, almost resigned smile. “Then you’ve seen it too.”

Her heart skipped. “Seen what?”

He glanced around before speaking. “There’s a story the night staff tell. They say Kole’s been here since the hospital was built. Every decade, new staff come, new uniforms, new systems. But Kole remains. Always smiling. Always the same office. The same habits.”

“That’s impossible,” she said, half laughing to mask the unease in her voice.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “But you’ll notice he never signs with a pen that runs out of ink. He never misses a single day, no matter the weather. And no one has ever seen him outside this hospital. Not once.”

Kareemat looked at him sharply. “That’s superstition.”

He met her gaze. “Maybe. But superstition starts somewhere.”

She wanted to argue, but a voice interrupted from behind them.

“Nurse Kareemat.”

They both turned. It was the matron, her expression unreadable. “Dr Kole would like to see you in his office. Now.”

Her throat tightened slightly. “Did he say why?”

“No. But he doesn’t like to wait.”

The matron turned and walked away.

Kareemat looked at Azeez. He didn’t say anything, only nodded faintly.

She straightened her uniform and began the slow walk to Kole’s office. The corridor leading there was quiet, its white walls spotless, its air colder than the rest of the hospital. She could hear her own footsteps echoing softly.

The frosted glass door with his name on it stood slightly open.

She knocked once and stepped inside.

Kole was seated at his desk, as always. His hands were folded neatly, his posture perfect. Behind him, the window blinds were half drawn, the slant of light outlining his calm smile.

“Please sit,” he said gently.

She obeyed, trying to appear composed.

“I was told you spent time in the records room last night,” he began. “After hours.”

“I was updating transfer logs,” she replied.

He nodded slowly. “That’s admirable. But also unnecessary. Records are updated automatically now.”

There was a pause, a silence so heavy she could hear her heartbeat.

“Tell me, Kareemat,” he said finally, “do you believe in loyalty?”

She frowned slightly. “Yes, sir. I think loyalty is what keeps a place like this standing.”

“Good answer.” His smile widened just a little. “But loyalty is also dangerous when misplaced. Sometimes it blinds us to the truth.”

She swallowed, unsure how to respond.

“I like you,” Kole continued. “You remind me of someone. Someone from a long time ago. A nurse who asked too many questions.”

Her fingers tightened around her knee. “What happened to her?”

He looked at her for a moment, then turned his gaze toward the blinds. “She left. People often do when they no longer feel safe here.”

A chill ran through her.

“I hope you’ll stay,” he said softly. “Saint Luke needs people like you.”

“I will,” she managed to say.

“Good.”

He opened a drawer and brought out a form. “One more thing. The matron will hand you a new confidentiality oath. All staff are required to renew it annually. I expect your signature by tomorrow.”

He pushed the form toward her.

As she glanced down, her eyes caught the bottom of the page. The signature space already had faint writing on it, almost erased but not completely. A name. Ogunleye, Joseph.

Her chest tightened. She looked up, but Kole’s expression hadn’t changed.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, voice calm, eyes kind.

She forced a smile. “No, sir. Nothing at all.”

“Excellent. You may go.”

She stood up, keeping the form close.

As she turned to leave, he said, almost casually, “By the way, Nurse Kareemat… how did you find your night shift?”

She froze at the door. “It was fine.”

He nodded, smiling again. “Good. The records room can be lonely at that hour. Some people imagine they hear voices.”

She said nothing and walked out.

The moment the door closed behind her, her knees felt weak. She gripped the paper tighter. On the back, written faintly in pencil, were the same three letters. NVC.

Kareemat spent the rest of the day pretending to be calm. She did her rounds, smiled at patients, and signed charts with a hand that trembled slightly each time. The oath form stayed folded neatly in her pocket, heavy as if it carried more than words. Every time she touched it, she felt the faint outline of the code pressed against her skin.

When evening fell, she slipped into the empty cafeteria. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and burnt toast. Eniola sat by the window, scrolling through her phone. She looked up when Kareemat entered.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Eniola said lightly.

Kareemat forced a small smile. “Maybe I have.”

“Again?” Eniola frowned. “You’ve been off lately. Is it Kole? Did he say something?”

Kareemat hesitated. “He gave me a new oath form to sign.”

Eniola laughed softly. “They give those out every year. Nothing new.”

“This one had a name on it,” Kareemat said quietly. “Ogunleye. And something written behind it.”

That made Eniola pause. “Ogunleye? The patient from the closed ward?”

Kareemat nodded.

Eniola’s expression changed, the amusement fading. “You shouldn’t say that name out loud here. People act strange when they hear it. Like it means something more than a patient.”

Kareemat leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

Eniola looked toward the hallway before speaking again. “Do you know Azeez works part time in archives? If anyone can find out what NVC means, it’s him. But don’t mention Kole’s name.”

They waited until the shift changed, then slipped quietly through the service corridor that led to the basement. The hospital’s hum faded as they descended. Down there, the lights buzzed faintly and the air felt thick.

Azeez was already waiting near the archive room, sorting through stacks of outdated reports. When he saw them, he gave a weary smile. “I thought you might come back.”

Kareemat pulled out the folded oath form and laid it on the table. “This was already signed. Look at the name.”

He adjusted his glasses, reading the faint writing. “Ogunleye, Joseph. Same as before.”

“And on the back,” she added, turning the paper, “NVC again.”

Azeez’s brow furrowed. He opened one of the drawers and began flipping through a folder labeled Special Records 1994. The paper smelled old, edges yellowed from time. He stopped halfway and tapped a page gently.

“Here. Patient J. Ogunleye, admitted for cardiac observation. Doctor in charge: Kole F. Abiodun.”

Kareemat froze. “Nineteen ninety-four? That’s impossible.”

Azeez didn’t answer. He reached for another file from 1981. The handwriting was the same. Slanted, elegant, unmistakably Kole’s.

Eniola whispered, “He couldn’t have been practicing then. He’d have to be over seventy.”

The basement lights flickered. For a second, everything dimmed, and in the brief silence, Kareemat heard it again — the faint sound of a monitor beeping somewhere it shouldn’t.

Azeez looked up sharply. “Did you hear that?”

They all went still.

Then the power snapped off completely. The room plunged into darkness.

Kareemat’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. She reached for the wall, her hand brushing cold metal. “Azeez?” she called softly.

“I’m here,” came his whisper.

“Stay close,” Eniola murmured.

Somewhere down the hall, a soft tapping echoed, slow and deliberate.

Kareemat held her breath. The sound drew nearer, then stopped right outside the archive door. She felt the air shift slightly, as if someone was standing there.

After a long moment, the emergency lights flickered on, casting a dim red glow through the corridor.

The door was slightly open now.

Azeez moved toward it cautiously. “Hello?”

Silence.

He opened the door wider. The hallway beyond was empty. Only a single paper lay on the floor.

Kareemat bent to pick it up. It was a page from the visitor’s log — the missing one. At the top, written in precise cursive, were the words No Visitor List.

And below, a column of names, each neatly crossed out.

Her own name was the last on the list.

The lights returned one by one, humming faintly overhead. The sudden brightness made Kareemat blink hard. The air in the archive room felt heavier, charged, as if something invisible had passed through it and left a trace behind.

Azeez quickly took the visitor log from her hand and slid it inside his lab coat. Eniola exhaled, rubbing her palms together. “We shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. “If someone sees us, we’re done.”

Before Kareemat could respond, footsteps echoed down the hall. Slow, deliberate, unhurried.

The matron appeared in the doorway. Her face was calm, too calm, and her tone sounded almost kind. “What are you three doing here? The archives are not for nurses, especially not at this hour.”

Kareemat stepped forward, trying to stay composed. “We came to check a missing form. Dr Kole asked for it.”

The matron’s eyes lingered on her, sharp beneath her glasses. “Did he?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She didn’t move for a moment, only scanned their faces one after another. Then she smiled faintly. “Then I suppose I’ll confirm that in the morning.”

Her shoes clicked softly as she turned to leave, her voice floating back to them. “Lock the door when you’re done. We wouldn’t want any more files going missing.”

When she was gone, the three of them stood in silence. The air-conditioning had stopped working, and the stillness made every small sound feel amplified.

Azeez finally said, “She knows.”

“Of course she knows,” Eniola replied quietly. “Everyone here knows something. They just don’t speak about it.”

Kareemat touched the pocket where the oath form rested. “We can’t stop now. We have proof. These records go back decades. The handwriting doesn’t change. The hospital has been erasing people.”

Azeez shook his head. “Proof means nothing if no one’s alive to speak it. Be careful, Kareemat.”

They left the archives and split in different directions. Kareemat climbed the stairs back to the ward. It was close to midnight, yet the corridors were busy. Orderlies moved stretchers, nurses whispered in corners, and the faint hum of machinery filled the background. Everything looked ordinary, but she could feel the tension rising like a storm pressing against the windows.

At the nurses’ desk, she noticed a new memo pinned to the board. It read: Emergency Staff Meeting – Conference Room 2, 8 AM. Attendance Mandatory.

Her pulse quickened.

The next morning, the meeting room was packed. Doctors, nurses, technicians, even security guards stood along the walls. Kole entered last, his white coat perfectly pressed, his smile calm. He didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.

“Good morning,” he said. “There’s been some confusion about records and access permissions. Some of you may have noticed changes in protocols. This is a reminder that patient privacy is sacred. Breaches, accidental or otherwise, will be addressed.”

His gaze swept slowly across the room. It lingered on Kareemat for just a second, no longer than necessary, but enough to make her throat tighten.

He continued, “We trust each other here. Saint Luke Memorial has always been a family. Families protect their own. Families keep secrets when they must.”

A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd.

Kareemat tried not to look at him, but she felt his eyes again, steady and unreadable.

After the meeting, as people filed out, Kole spoke softly to the matron near the door. He didn’t look at Kareemat, but she knew he was talking about her. The matron nodded, smiling in that way that never reached her eyes.

Outside the room, Eniola caught up to her. “He knows everything,” she whispered. “We need to stop looking. Just act normal.”

Kareemat nodded, but she knew it was too late to turn back. The truth was already crawling beneath her skin.

That evening, she went home exhausted. Her apartment felt colder than usual. She dropped her bag by the couch and pulled the oath form from her pocket. The faint name and the letters NVC still showed, pressed like scars into the paper.

She set it on the table, then poured herself a glass of water. For a moment, everything was quiet except the soft hum of the refrigerator.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

She hesitated, then answered.

The line was silent for a few seconds. Then, in a calm voice she recognized immediately, someone said, “You signed the oath.”

She froze.

“Who is this?” she whispered.

The line crackled faintly, then went dead.

Her hand trembled as she lowered the phone. The screen reflected her face, pale under the single light. Behind her, through the darkened window, she thought she saw movement in the reflection — a faint figure standing perfectly still, watching.

When she turned around, there was nothing there.

Only silence, and the folded oath form, lying open on the table.

This time, the faint pencil marks had changed.

Next to the letters NVC, there was now a date.

December 17.