The orderly heard screams coming from Room No. 7 every night whenever an unknown man visited the elderly patient: One day, unable to endure it any longer, she hid under the bed to find out what was really going on there 
What she saw filled her with true horror 
For several days, the orderly had been hearing strange sounds coming from Room No. 7. They were screams. Not loud—on the contrary, muffled, suppressed, as if someone was afraid of being heard. Each time they appeared at roughly the same hour—toward evening, when the corridors emptied and the lights grew dimmer.
She would stop in the middle of the corridor with her bucket and listen. The hospital was unsettling enough as it was, but this crying seemed to cling to her nerves. It did not sound like an ordinary groan of pain.
The orderly had worked there for a long time. The job was hard and poorly paid, but she endured it. She was used to the smells, the night shifts, and other people’s suffering. But Room 7 began to disturb her more and more.
An elderly patient lay there—quiet, neat, always grateful for help. A broken hip, confined to bed. She rarely complained, but increasingly stared at the floor and flinched at sudden noises.
Then a strange visitor appeared.
The man came in the evenings. Always alone. Well dressed, confident, speaking calmly and politely. He introduced himself as a relative.
After his visits, the elderly patient changed: her eyes became red, her lips began to tremble, her hands grew cold. Once, the orderly even noticed a bruise on her wrist.
She tried to ask questions, but the patient immediately looked away and whispered that everything was fine.
Her colleagues advised her not to interfere.
— It’s not your business. He’s a relative, so he has the right, — they told her.
But the crying returned again and again.
One evening, the orderly heard footsteps outside the room. Then muffled voices. He was speaking harshly. The elderly patient murmured something, as if making excuses. There was a dull sound. And a short scream.
That night, the orderly could not sleep.
And she came up with a plan to find out the truth. If no one wanted to see—it would be her.
The next time, she entered the room early. The light was dim, the patient was asleep. The orderly lowered herself to the floor and with difficulty crawled under the bed. Dust, cold linoleum, rusty springs above her head. She was terrified.
Footsteps in the corridor. The door creaked. He entered.
The orderly could see only his shoes and the edge of the bed. At first—silence. Then his voice. He spoke to the elderly patient slowly, insistently. She began to cry.
And then something happened that took the orderly’s breath away. 
Continued in the first comment 
At first, he spoke calmly. Very calmly. He explained to the elderly patient that the house would “be lost anyway,” that she did not need it on her own, and that she had to sign the papers. He said that if she did not do it willingly, he would “help” her.
The elderly patient cried. She begged him to leave her alone. She said she would not sign anything.
Then his tone changed.
He leaned over the bed and began to threaten her. He said there were medications she was required to take. That he knew how to make sure the doctors would not notice anything. That if she remained stubborn, her condition would get worse. Much worse.
The orderly held her breath.
She saw him take out a syringe. Not a hospital one. Another kind. Dark, unmarked. He began to give the injection despite her resistance. The elderly patient screamed, and her hand fell limply onto the sheet.
The orderly was overwhelmed with terror.
She burst out from under the bed, screamed, and flung the door open. A commotion erupted; nurses and the on-duty doctor rushed in. The man was detained on the spot. The syringe was confiscated. In his bag, they found the documents—prepared in advance, with a space for a signature.
Later, it was discovered that the injections were not medication at all. It was precisely because of them that the elderly patient’s condition had deteriorated so sharply.
