THE DEMON in White

The hospital woke before the city did. The corridors were still wrapped in a faint blue light, the kind that made every reflection on the metal doors look like a ghost trying to escape. Dr. Kole walked through them with his stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck, his white coat whispering with each step. The badge on his chest read his name in clear letters, but no one ever looked long enough to read it. They only saw the smile. The smile was his armor. Nurses said it could calm even the most anxious patients. Orderlies whispered that it lingered too long, like a shadow that refused to leave. He smiled at everyone because it was easier that way. He smiled at the guard who nodded him in at the main gate, at the janitor mopping the tiled floor, and at the flickering elevator mirror where his own reflection smiled back, practiced and perfect. On the fifth floor, the night shift was winding down. Kareemat sat at the nurse’s station, her head drooping toward a pile of reports. She jolted awake when she heard his footsteps. Her lips parted in a soft sigh of relief. “Morning, Doctor,” she said. “Good morning, Kareemat.” His voice was smooth, warm, and unhurried. “Busy night?” She hesitated before replying. “Two admissions. One cardiac, one gunshot. The one in room thirteen didn’t make it.” He nodded, taking the file she handed him. His eyes scanned the details like a man reading poetry. “And Eniola?” “She’s in the isolation ward. Said she’d wait until you came.” He smiled again and set the file down. “She’s dedicated. You all are.” His tone carried gratitude but not warmth. It was the sort of voice that made people unsure whether he meant what he said. When he turned to go, Kareemat called softly after him. “Doctor, did you ever sleep?” Kole paused, looked at her with that same practiced grin, and said, “Sleep wastes the living hours.” The corridor beyond was long and sterile. As he walked, the hum of machines became a rhythm under his breath. He liked the sound. It reminded him of control, of the predictable patterns of the human body before he disrupted them. Inside the isolation ward, Eniola stood beside a patient’s bed. Her face mask couldn’t hide her exhaustion. Kole watched her for a moment before speaking. “You stayed through the night again?” She turned and smiled faintly. “I wanted to make sure he stabilizes. His blood pressure kept dropping.” He approached the bed, adjusted the IV, and leaned over the patient. The man’s breathing was shallow, his skin pale. Kole’s gloved fingers brushed against the patient’s wrist, feeling the pulse. He counted silently, his lips barely moving. Then he reached for a syringe from the tray. Eniola watched closely. “Are you changing his meds?” Kole didn’t answer right away. He drew the clear liquid into the syringe, flicked it lightly, and injected it into the line. “Just correcting a mistake,” he said softly. Minutes later, the monitor flattened. Eniola gasped and reached for the call button, but Kole stopped her with a calm gesture. “It’s alright,” he said. “He was gone long before the medicine reached him. Sometimes we can’t save everyone.” Her eyes searched his face for something human. His expression was still, almost reverent. “But he was talking an hour ago,” she said, voice trembling. Kole touched her shoulder gently. “Go get some rest, Eniola. You’ve done enough for today.” She left, dazed and unsure, while Kole stood by the bed watching the lifeless body as if studying a work of art. He reached out, closed the man’s eyes, and whispered, “Peace at last.” When he left the room, he bumped into Azeez, one of the orderlies. The young man greeted him cheerfully. “Doctor Kole! You’re early today.” “I prefer to see the morning before it forgets to breathe,” Kole replied. Azeez laughed. “You talk like a poet, sir.” Kole smiled, his eyes glinting. “Medicine is poetry, Azeez. Except our verses bleed.” He continued toward his office. The hospital buzzed now as the day shift began. Mariam was arguing with the pharmacist about a missing prescription form. Adunni was taking inventory in the supply room. Agbeke, new and nervous, hovered by the counter with a clipboard too big for her hands. Anike trailed behind her, whispering explanations that made little sense. They all froze when Kole entered the hallway. “Good morning, Doctor,” they chorused, almost in unison. “Good morning, ladies.” He moved through them like a current. They relaxed only when he was gone. In his office, the blinds were half closed, slicing the light into narrow strips. Kole sat at his desk, opened a small notebook, and wrote a single line. Patient 237 terminated. No complications. He underlined the words once, then closed the notebook and locked it in the bottom drawer. The key hung from a chain around his neck. The phone rang. He picked it up. “Dr. Kole speaking.” A male voice answered, thick with authority. “Kole, it’s Dr. Oyewale. The board’s asking for your quarterly report. We need to address those mortality statistics before the press starts sniffing around.” Kole leaned back in his chair, his lips curving into that quiet, unreadable smile. “Of course, sir. I’ll prepare it.” “Good. And Kole, try to get some rest. You’re starting to look pale.” He ended the call without replying, staring instead at the faint reflection of himself in the glass cabinet. His face looked clean, perfect, harmless. Beneath that image, his thoughts twisted in silence. Later that afternoon, the hospital cafeteria buzzed with low conversations. Kole sat alone by the window, stirring his coffee even after it had gone cold. Across the room, Eniola and Kareemat whispered over their trays. “He’s strange,” Eniola said quietly. “Did you see how calm he was this morning? Like he knew that man wouldn’t make it.” Kareemat frowned. “Don’t say that. He’s the best doctor we have. Maybe he’s just used to it.” “Used to death?” “Used to saving people,” Kareemat said, though she didn’t sound convinced. They didn’t notice Kole watching them in the reflection of the window. His lips twitched into that same thin smile. It was always interesting to hear how people interpreted silence. When he stood to leave, Mariam approached him with a stack of folders. “Sir, these are the autopsy reports you requested.” He took them gently, his fingers brushing hers. “Thank you, Mariam. You’re efficient as always.” She flushed slightly and smiled. “Just doing my job.” He watched her walk away before glancing at the folders. Three names. Three accidents. All patients from his ward. He carried them to the archive room, a small, dim space lined with metal cabinets. The air smelled of dust and paper. He opened the drawer labeled with last month’s date and slid the folders in. Then he paused, looking at a small photograph pinned to the wall above the filing desk. It was an old group photo of the hospital staff. Everyone smiling. Everyone except him. In the picture, his expression was almost unreadable. Not angry, not sad, just empty. He touched the edge of the photo and whispered something only he could hear. Behind him, the door creaked. He turned sharply, but no one was there. He waited a few seconds, then locked the cabinet and left. Evening came faster than it should have. The hospital windows turned bronze, the halls dimmed, and Kole’s white coat gleamed under the artificial lights like a flag of false purity. He was on his way to the surgical theater when he found Oyewale waiting by the elevator, his hands folded behind him. “Busy day, Kole,” Oyewale said, his tone half friendly, half warning. “They’re all busy, sir,” Kole replied, pressing the elevator button. “You’ve been getting attention from the board,” Oyewale continued. “Your recovery rates are excellent, but the death count… it’s starting to look strange. Too many sudden arrests. No witnesses. No patterns. You’re aware, right?” Kole’s smile was gentle. “You know how hospitals work. We treat hundreds every week. Statistics fluctuate.” “Still, be careful. The press likes patterns.” The elevator doors opened. Kole gestured politely for Oyewale to step in first, then followed. The ride was silent except for the soft hum of the cables. Oyewale adjusted his glasses. “We’re lucky to have you, Kole. Don’t let people make stories out of nothing.” When the doors slid open, Kole stepped out without answering. His eyes glowed faintly under the fluorescent light. The surgical theater was empty. He liked it that way. He walked to the stainless-steel table, ran his hand across its smooth surface, and imagined it covered in red. He thought of the patient that morning, the look in Eniola’s eyes when the monitor went flat. There was always that moment between life and death when silence grew thick enough to taste. He washed his hands even though there was no surgery scheduled. The smell of antiseptic filled the air, clean and sharp. He stared at his reflection in the glass cabinet. For a moment, he didn’t recognize the face staring back. The eyes looked colder, the smile thinner. The door creaked open behind him. Adunni peeked in, holding a stack of sterilized tools. “Sir, I didn’t know you were here. I was just dropping these off.” He turned, his voice calm. “That’s alright, Adunni. You’re new, aren’t you?” “Yes, sir. Just two weeks now.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the faint trace of disinfectant on his coat. “How are you finding it here?” She smiled nervously. “It’s… busy. People talk a lot, but it’s fine.” “People always talk,” Kole said softly. “What do they say?” Her fingers tightened around the tray. “Just… stories. About the ward. About patients who die without warning.” He reached out, took one of the tools from the tray, a scalpel that gleamed under the light. “Stories are dangerous, Adunni. Especially in places built on secrets.” She nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.” “Go on, then.” After she left, he placed the scalpel down carefully and stared at it for a long time. The hospital was full of instruments like that—small, precise, merciless. Just like him. Hours passed. Kole moved through the corridors as quietly as a ghost. The night shift began again, and the hum of machines returned to its steady rhythm. In the corner of the ward, Anike sat filling out reports. She looked up when he passed. “Long day, Doctor?” she asked, forcing a smile. “Days don’t end here,” he replied. “They only change color.” She laughed awkwardly. “You sound like a writer.” “Maybe I am,” he said, “but my pen uses blood.” Her laughter faltered, unsure if he was joking. Kareemat appeared beside her. “Doctor, there’s a family waiting to see you. Room nine.” Kole nodded and walked off. The women exchanged glances. The family in room nine was grieving. A mother, a father, and a small boy clutching a stuffed bear. The patient on the bed was already gone, the sheet pulled to the chin. Kole entered quietly. “I’m Dr. Kole,” he said. “I treated your son.” The mother’s eyes were red from crying. “He was getting better,” she whispered. “You said he was getting better.” Kole stood beside the bed, his hands folded in front of him. “Sometimes recovery lies,” he said. “The body can deceive even the best of us.” The father clenched his fists. “He was fine yesterday.” Kole nodded solemnly. “Grief makes yesterday seem closer than it was.” The boy with the stuffed bear looked up at him. “You smiled at him,” the child said softly. “Before he stopped breathing.” Kole’s expression didn’t change. “I smile at all my patients.” The family left in silence, but the boy looked back once, as if he sensed something he couldn’t explain. Kole watched them go, then turned to the still body on the bed. He whispered, “You were lucky. You didn’t feel it.” In the hallway, he found Eniola waiting again. She looked pale. “Doctor, can we talk?” He nodded. They walked to his office. Once inside, she closed the door behind her. “That man this morning… something was wrong. I checked his chart after you left. The dosage wasn’t what you said.” He met her gaze. “Are you accusing me of negligence?” “No, I just—” “Then don’t finish that sentence.” His tone was quiet but it cut through her words like a blade. She swallowed hard. “I’m just saying it doesn’t add up.” Kole leaned back in his chair. “You’re young, Eniola. Medicine teaches patience. We make mistakes, we learn, and we move on. Don’t dwell on things you don’t understand.” Her eyes filled with frustration. “Maybe you’re right, but I’ll double-check everything from now on.” He smiled. “Good. Caution keeps you alive.” She left, the sound of her footsteps fading down the corridor. Kole sat still, staring at the empty chair she had occupied. He opened the bottom drawer, took out his hidden notebook, and wrote again. Eniola suspects. Monitor her behavior. He closed it and stood. Outside, the hospital lights flickered once, then steadied. A cleaner pushed a trolley past him. The smell of bleach mixed with something metallic. He walked toward the morgue, drawn by habit more than purpose. The morgue was cold. Metal tables lined the room. Under one of the sheets lay the man from that morning. Kole lifted the edge and looked at the still face. There was something peaceful about it. Death didn’t lie. It was pure, simple, honest. He spoke softly, as if to an old friend. “You see, they think I kill for pleasure. But I don’t. I kill for balance.” The sound of a door opening startled him. He turned, but no one was there. The air felt heavier. He replaced the sheet and left quietly. By the time he returned to his office, it was past midnight. The hospital was asleep except for the machines. He sat down, looked at his reflection in the glass window, and almost smiled again. Then his phone buzzed on the desk. A single message appeared. No name. No number. Just four words. I saw what you did. He stared at the screen, the glow lighting up his face. For the first time in years, his smile disappeared. For a long time, Kole didn’t move. The screen dimmed, but the words burned into his vision as if etched behind his eyelids. He leaned back slowly, feeling the weight of the message in his chest. Someone had seen him. Someone had been close enough. He unlocked the phone again, stared at the message, and checked the details. No contact name, no number. Just the words. His thumb hovered over the delete button but he didn’t press it. He needed to see it, to remember it. Fear was a kind of clarity. He opened his office door and stepped into the corridor. The lights flickered faintly as if unsure whether to stay on. From the far end, he heard laughter — faint, echoing, wrong for the hour. He walked toward it, his shoes clicking softly against the tiles. The sound vanished halfway down the hall. At the nurse’s station, Kareemat was dozing again, her head on the desk. A half-empty cup of coffee sat beside her. Kole stood silently for a moment, watching her breathe. Then he turned and started toward the staircase. The building at night felt like another world entirely. Every corridor stretched longer than it should. Every reflection seemed delayed. He reached the basement level, where the walls sweated moisture and the air was heavy with the smell of chemicals. The morgue door was ajar. He pushed it open. The lights hummed weakly above. The sheet on the nearest table had slipped halfway off, revealing the pale shoulder of the dead man. Kole walked over, fixed the sheet, and stared down. The man’s face looked peaceful, but the eyes seemed just a little too open, a trick of the shadows. He leaned close and whispered again. “Who saw?” The dead didn’t answer, but something creaked in the corner of the room. He turned sharply. Nothing moved. Just the hum of the refrigerator units and the faint drip of a leaking pipe. He stayed there longer than he intended. Time didn’t matter down here. When he finally left, the hospital above was utterly quiet. He returned to his office, locked the door, and poured himself a glass of water. His hand trembled slightly for the first time in years. He sat at his desk and opened his notebook again. This time he didn’t write neatly. The words came fast, uneven. I saw what you did. He repeated them over and over, filling half a page. Then he stopped, tore the sheet out, and burned it in the small metal tray he used for discarded notes. The flames ate the paper until it curled to ash. The phone buzzed again. He froze. Another message. You smiled when he died. The glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. He stared at the phone as if it were breathing. No number again. Just those six words, glowing cold and clear. He stood up and paced the room, his thoughts racing. Only a handful of people had been present when the patient died. Eniola. Kareemat. Azeez. Maybe one of them. Or maybe someone had checked the surveillance footage — except there were no cameras in that ward. None. He had made sure of it. He stopped at the window and looked out over the city. The lights stretched endlessly, but the world below looked distant, unreal. He could see his reflection in the glass — that same gentle smile, trembling at the edges. For the first time, it looked wrong to him too. The air felt thinner. He loosened his collar and sat again. The hospital file on his desk was still open to the patient’s death report. Officially, the cause was recorded as cardiac arrest. He traced the words with a finger, thinking. Someone must have seen the syringe. Or maybe the reflection on the glass. Or maybe they had just guessed. He opened his laptop, logged into the hospital database, and pulled up the staff list for the shift. Names glowed against the dark screen: Kareemat, Eniola, Azeez, Adunni, Mariam, Agbeke, Anike, Oyewale. Eight names. Eight potential eyes. He stared at them, trying to picture each one’s face, their expressions that day. Kareemat — sleepy but harmless. Eniola — suspicious, brave in a foolish way. Azeez — eager, too talkative. Adunni — frightened easily. Mariam — curious. Agbeke and Anike — too new to be dangerous. Oyewale — clever but careless. He took a pen and circled Eniola’s name first. Then he crossed it out. He circled Azeez. Then Mariam. Then stopped again, because something in his memory flickered. When he left the isolation ward earlier, he had seen someone standing at the far end of the corridor. Just for a second. A silhouette, motionless. He hadn’t thought about it then, but now the image returned, sharper, clearer. He couldn’t see the face, but the posture was familiar — someone who worked here often enough to be comfortable in the dark. The phone buzzed again. This time, a picture appeared. Blurry, taken through a glass panel. It showed him leaning over the patient’s bed, syringe in hand. The angle was perfect. Whoever took it had been there, just beyond the door. Kole’s breath caught in his throat. The message beneath the picture read: Smile for the next one too. He looked around the office as if the walls might whisper a name. No sound came, only the ticking of the clock on the wall. He deleted the message, but the image stayed in his mind. He poured himself another glass of water, his hand steadier now, almost too steady. Fear had always been a companion; now it felt like a teacher. Someone was watching. Someone clever. He leaned back, eyes closed, thinking. The hospital was full of eyes but most of them looked without seeing. That meant whoever sent the message wasn’t ordinary staff. It had to be someone who knew where to look, what to record, when to move. He thought of the cameras. Not in the ward, but outside it — the hallway, the stairs, the entrance. He could find them, delete the files, erase everything. He could fix this. But then he smiled again, slow and deliberate. Maybe he wouldn’t delete anything yet. Maybe he wanted to see what the watcher would do next. He turned off the lights and sat in the darkness, listening to the hum of the machines beyond the walls. Somewhere down the corridor, a door opened and closed softly. Footsteps faded away. He picked up his pen and wrote in his notebook one final line before closing it. Let them watch. Everyone does eventually. Outside, the city began to wake again. The first ambulance sirens echoed faintly in the distance. Kole leaned back in his chair, eyes open, that quiet, perfect smile returning to his face. By dawn, it would look like nothing had happened at all. But something had. Someone had seen. And for the first time in his life, Dr. Kole wasn’t sure who was in control.