The Red Phone on the Wall

Florence Frightengale

Welcome back, dear listeners, to another shadow-draped episode of the Frightengale Files. I’m Florence Frightengale, your spectral nurse for the evening, and as always, I’m joined by the ever-curious Dr. Elijah Blackwood.

Unknown Speaker

Indeed, Florence. Good evening, or perhaps good morning, depending on when you find yourself listening. I’m Dr. Elijah Blackwood, and tonight, we’re delving into a tale that’s haunted the staff of Hollow Hill for decades—a tale about a phone that should not ring, and yet, it does.

Florence Frightengale

Ah, the infamous red phone. Not just any phone, mind you. This one’s bolted to the wall in the old maintenance corridor, unwired, forgotten by time and, supposedly, by reason. Yet every few nights, it rings. Just once. Never twice. And always loud enough to echo down the linoleum halls.

Unknown Speaker

And the rule—unspoken, but ironclad—is simple: you do not answer the red phone. No one quite remembers when the rule began, or who first uttered it. But everyone abides by it. Tonight, we’ll unravel why.

Florence Frightengale

It’s odd, isn’t it, Elijah? How a thing can become so feared, so ritualized, that no one even questions it anymore. The red phone’s been there longer than most of the staff, and yet, the dread it inspires is as fresh as ever. I remember one stormy night—quiet, the sort of quiet that makes you listen for things you shouldn’t. I was making my rounds, and there it was. That single, shrill ring. My hand reached out, almost of its own accord, and I swear, I felt the air thicken. I stopped, inches away. Couldn’t move forward, couldn’t quite step back. It was as if something was warning me, or maybe daring me.

Unknown Speaker

You know, Florence, I’ve always wondered about that. The compulsion, the hesitation. It’s as if the phone itself is aware—testing who will break the rule. And yet, no one can recall who first said, “Don’t answer.” It’s just… there. Like the hospital’s own immune response to something it can’t quite expel.

Florence Frightengale

And yet, every so often, someone new comes along. Someone who doesn’t know, or doesn’t believe. And that’s when things get… interesting.

Unknown Speaker

Take the float nurse, for example. She was covering a night shift, unfamiliar with the old stories. The phone rang at 2:11 a.m.—I always mix up if it was 2:10 or 2:11, but let’s say 2:11. She picked up. And all she heard was a voice, raspy, unfamiliar, saying, “Too late.” Then nothing. Silence. The next night, she was found wandering the sub-basement, eyes wide open but utterly vacant. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even recognize her own name. The staff still whisper about her, as if saying her name might bring the same fate.

Florence Frightengale

It’s the phrase, isn’t it? “Too late.” What does it mean? Is it a warning, a pronouncement, or something else entirely? I’ve always wondered if these voices are echoes from another realm, or perhaps warnings meant for the living. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the hospital itself, speaking through whatever means it can find.

Unknown Speaker

Or perhaps it’s a test. A way to see who listens, and who obeys. The consequences, as we’ve seen, are never quite the same, but always… unsettling.

Florence Frightengale

Over time, the voices from the red phone have changed. Sometimes they whisper, sometimes they cry, sometimes they laugh—a sound that’s far worse, if you ask me. There was one night, I remember, when the phone mimicked a nurse’s voice, calling for help. But that nurse was upstairs, fast asleep. It’s as if the phone collects voices, memories, and then spits them back out, twisted and wrong.

Unknown Speaker

Modern technology hasn’t helped much, either. Someone tried recording the line with a pocket mic. On playback, there were thirteen voices, all overlapping, none repeating. One of them—a technician confirmed—was a patient who died in that very hallway in the 1970s. The voices never repeat, Florence. Never. It’s as if each call is a new message, or a new warning, from somewhere we’re not meant to hear.

Florence Frightengale

And after every ring, there’s always a red fingerprint left on the receiver. Not blood, not ink—something else entirely. It flakes away like dust, as if the memory itself is fading. I can’t help but wonder, Elijah, if we keep ignoring these warnings, what else might cross over?

Unknown Speaker

That’s the question, isn’t it? The more we try to understand, the more the hospital seems to resist. Like it’s protecting its secrets, or perhaps, protecting us from them.

Florence Frightengale

Well, that’s all for tonight’s tale of the red phone on the wall. If you find yourself wandering the corridors of Hollow Hill, and you hear a single ring in the dark—remember the rule. Some calls are better left unanswered.

Unknown Speaker

Indeed, Florence. And before we vanish into the ether for the week, a quick note—we’re taking a brief holiday, so there’ll only be this one episode. Apologies to those who crave a double dose of dread, but even the haunted need a vacation.

Florence Frightengale

We’ll be back soon, with more tales from the shadowed wards. Until then, have a delightfully spooky weekend, and don’t answer any mysterious calls. Elijah, try not to pick up any strange phones while we’re away, will you?

Unknown Speaker

No promises, Florence. Goodnight, everyone.

Florence Frightengale

Goodnight, all. Stay haunted.