MY SON KEPT ASKING ABOUT THE MAN WITH THE STETHOSCOPE WHO CAME LAST NIGHT
I rushed into his room, heart pounding, when I heard the low, guttural cough again, a sound like gravel in his tiny throat. The bedside lamp cast long, dancing shadows on the wall, and the air felt strangely heavy, almost metallic, chilling my skin. He was shivering violently, even under three thick blankets.
“Mommy, did the doctor leave?” he whispered, his little voice raspy and hoarse. My breath hitched. What doctor? We hadn’t had any doctors here, not since his diagnosis. He coughed again, a wet, rattling sound that turned my stomach. The cold floor seeped into my bare feet as I knelt beside his bed, trying to meet his feverish gaze.
“Who are you talking about, sweetie? No one was here last night,” I managed, my voice thin and strained. He looked at me, eyes wide and glassy, then pointed a trembling finger to the empty space beside his rocking chair. “The man with the shiny stethoscope. He said he was checking on me, making me feel better. He had a black bag.”
A chill, not from the room’s cold, ran down my spine. The faint, sharp smell of antiseptic, completely out of place in our home, hit me then, cloying and unsettling. I gripped his hand, suddenly desperate for warmth. My phone vibrated violently on the nightstand, almost knocking over a glass of water.
“Did he describe the man who visited your son last night?” the automated voice on the other end asked.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…I fumbled for the phone, my fingers clumsy with fear. The robotic voice, cold and detached, continued, “We are investigating a possible security breach. Please answer the following questions. Did he mention a specific illness?”
My gaze darted back to my son, his face flushed with fever, his breathing shallow. He was still pointing at the empty space, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. “No,” I rasped, my throat tight. “He didn’t say anything.”
“Describe his appearance,” the voice commanded. I hesitated. Could this be some elaborate prank? Some sort of sick game? But my son’s terrified gaze, the stench of antiseptic, the chilling emptiness of the room… all of it felt too real.
“He… he was tall,” I stammered. “Wearing a long coat. He had dark hair and… and a stethoscope.” Images flashed through my mind: a shadowy figure, the glint of metal, the echoing cough.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” the voice said, abruptly cutting off. Then, another automated message followed: “Medical facility lockdown initiated. Patient zero has been compromised. Repeat: Patient zero has been compromised. All personnel, report to your designated sectors. Containment protocol Alpha-7 activated.”
My blood ran cold. What was happening? Who was this man? And what had he done to my son? I had to get him out of here. Grabbing my son, I wrapped him in a blanket, and ran to the door.
I saw the hospital staff in white coats running frantically down the hallway. When they noticed me, they froze, their faces a mix of alarm and dread.
“Mom!” my son cried, clinging to me, his small body trembling.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I whispered, forcing a smile as I opened the door, looking around. The hallway appeared to be a corridor in a hospital. I must have fallen unconscious during the night.
I walked toward the emergency room and saw some of the hospital staff running around, looking panicked. One of them saw me and started to walk toward me. I knew what they were going to say.
“Ma’am! You must come with us.”
I knew what to expect. The man with the stethoscope was one of them. A doctor, a hospital employee. But then I looked at my son. He was still very pale but he didn’t have the fever anymore. His eyes were shining and he was smiling. I hugged him and kissed him.
“Mommy, I feel better now!”
I thought for a moment, looking at the staff in white coats and then at my son, full of life.
“I don’t think so. I’m leaving” I replied.
I walked past the staff and left. I never went back to that hospital, and my son never mentioned the man again. But sometimes, late at night, I still smell the faint scent of antiseptic and remember the cold terror of that night. And then I hug my son tightly, thankful that he is safe, that he is alive, and that whatever the man with the stethoscope was, he’s gone. The end.