Tonight, we do not gather to speak of death.Perhaps not directly, Florence, but this isn't exactly a tale of life either. Is it?No, it is not. Instead, it is a tale... of what remains behind. When love——or obsession.When love refuses to leave. Imagine, if you will, a hospital room meant to celebrate new beginnings.Now frozen in time, silent, sealed, its very existence tiptoeing along memory’s edge.But something inside that room hasn’t forgotten.Ah, and here it comes—the annual overture of terror. Mother's Day, wasn't it?Yes. Every Mother's Day, Room 313... remembers you.Room 313, holding onto its memories like a predator coiled in shadow, waiting. In May of 1901, it beckoned Margaret Bell, a young mother stepping into Hollow Hill. Ah, the month for blooming flowers and, evidently, blooming mysteries.But not a bloom free of thorns. Her labor came early, and her husband... well, war kept him far away. She was alone, Elijah, facing a birth as cruel as it was tragic.And then there was death. All too common in that era, but here—odd. You say her body was cold before the declaration?Yes, her arms cradling... air, as though she refused to let go. Even after her passing, they couldn’t close her eyes. Or keep them closed, I should say.Disturbing. Even for your standards, Florence.Her love—if that's what it was—didn't leave that room. When they returned hours later, expecting only the stillness of loss... they found her presence instead. The bed had been made. Fresh flowers adorned the windowsill. And on the bedside table—a note.The infamous "Don't wake the baby" message. Written in handwriting no one recognized, yes?Precisely. And caused its fair share of chills among the staff. Even the nurses grew wary to approach 313. Every time they locked the door, something—or someone—unlocked it.And it became... *The Mother’s Room.* A sanctuary, or perhaps, a trap. Funny, isn’t it? How a room meant for new life now welcomes an entirely different kind of residency.Each year, on Mother's Day, the story stirs again. Fingerprints pressed against the inside of sealed glass. Tiny ones, belonging to no living child. Tell me, Elijah, what do you make of such a mournful vigil?Mournful? I think not, Florence. Her so-called vigil has warped into something else entirely. Love turned immovable—that's the first sign it's gone rotten. Margaret did not move on, nor did she simply wait. She... adapted.Exactly. Her bond with the child remains unbroken, yet time has twisted her into something more relentless—more *hungry,* even.Hungry, yes. Longing turned to obsession. But for what? To hold? To replace? Or to wield over others, luring them into her domain?Perhaps all of them. Room 313 is no nursery—it’s a shadowy cage of grief. She's bound there, Elijah, but she needs more than a child now. She needs... companions.Ah, now that is where the story truly darkens, doesn't it? Margaret's ghost isn’t merely clinging, Florence; she's building. Expanding. Constructing her perfect—Florence, if Margaret's reach is growing—if she's truly drawing others into her shadow—these accounts from witnesses must paint a broader picture, don’t they?No, not at all. Over the years, many have claimed to see her—a figure in a hospital gown, standing by an empty crib. Thin. Pale. Her eyes bruised from loss. Always swaying, as if calming a non-existent child.And whispering, perhaps? Something unsettling like... "Can you help me find him?" Or am I imagining this?Not your imagination, Elijah. Each account describes the same plea. *Her* plea. Once, a nurse swore she heard sobbing and the sound of the crib gently rocking. Then, just as quickly, the figure faded as the lights flickered. Gone in a heartbeat...Except, not quite gone, was she? The rocking of the crib, the unmistakable cry of a baby—it lingers, doesn’t it?Yes, as though the maternal instinct refuses to leave. Margaret’s love kept her there, but love can twist when—When it’s left to fester in darkness. I’ve said it before, Florence, no emotion is more corrosive than grief. Her longing has——turned into an obsession. And, Elijah, her obsession isn't passive. It’s hungry now, relentless in finding someone to share her pain. Or to join her in it.Hmm, fascinating. But you mentioned personal experience, Florence. You, too, encountered her specter, didn’t you?I did. Years ago, when I walked those halls as a living nurse. It was late, close to midnight—a time when silence becomes deafening, and every shadow holds potential. I passed Room 313 and paused when I heard it.Let me guess—a lullaby?Not quite. It was humming. Wordless, off-key, but soothing all the same. Against my better judgment, I peered inside. And there she was. Frail, ghostly pale, rocking an empty crib. Her voice——floated over you?Exactly. She looked up suddenly, and those eyes... Elijah, they weren’t angry or threatening. Just... hollow. Yet they still asked. Begged. "Can you help me find him?"And what did you do?Nothing. I stepped back, shut the door, and prayed I hadn’t lingered long enough to be noticed. But Margaret... she doesn’t forget those who acknowledge her, does she?No, she doesn’t. And I’d wager you know why. Once seen, the line blurs. The living begin to belong to her domain. She’s seeking, Florence—seeking someone to shoulder her grief or... continue her twisted vigil.And among those seeking to help, it’s the kind ones she marks. The ones who hesitate outside her door. It’s never force, Elijah. It’s always a choice. A deadly, haunting choice.A choice she carefully crafts. This—this longing for a replacement—it defines Room 313. A nursery no longer for life, but for eternal servitude. For grief shared until it... consumes you.Florence, her choices are deliberate, aren’t they? But why the nurse? What was it about her that made Margaret reach out, when so many others surely passed that room?Margaret is deliberate in her choices, Elijah. It’s not the careless or the indifferent she seeks. It’s the kind ones. The ones who linger too long, who hear the faint cries and feel their hearts tugged.It’s clever, isn’t it? Exploiting empathy. What begins as compassion warps into entrapment. A terribly efficient predator.That’s the tragedy of it. Margaret doesn’t hate the living. Quite the opposite—it’s envy, painful and consuming. She sees what she lost: warmth, movement, the ability to hold her own child.And yet that longing becomes something grotesque. Curious, isn't it? Love curdles over time, transforms into, well... obsession. This isn’t just mourning, Florence. This is conquest.Yes, conquest driven by twisted purpose. Margaret isn’t merely a grieving mother. She’s building a nursery beneath the hospital. Brick by spectral brick.And her so-called offerings—the nurse, the whispers, the tokens left behind—they aren’t random. They’re ritualistic, deliberate. Each one serves a purpose.Elijah, it’s a pattern older than time itself. Ghosts like Margaret reflect the living’s greatest fears and desires. Love that transforms into hunger, empathy turned into weakness. It’s comforting, isn’t it? The idea that such devotion remains, even if malformed.Comforting? Hardly. She’s replaced cradles with cages. For her, love isn’t a sentiment anymore—it’s a tether. A snaring hook. And those drawn to her sorrow cannot escape its barb.It’s why Room 313 remains sealed. Not simply to keep others out but to keep Margaret in. To contain her hunger, her expanding nursery, her... replacements.But it won’t stop her forever. Spirits like Margaret are patient. She waits, observes, finds the cracks. Hollow Hill may have locked her away, but how long before the next Mother’s Day... when the lullaby calls again?And someone answers it. You see, Elijah, the dead do not choose us; they wait for us to choose them. A lingering glance, a curious ear—it’s all the invitation she needs.And what happens when the “kind ones” stop answering? When the doors remain closed, when the lullabies fall silent? What does she do then?She’ll adapt, Elijah. Longing always finds a way. But tonight, let her lullabies remain unanswered. And remember—do not linger outside Room 313. Don’t acknowledge the whispers, the cries. Because the moment you do......you belong to her. Ah, Florence, once again you've managed to unsettle even me. Well done.And that’s all for tonight, dear listener. Remember, love unacknowledged fades. But love acknowledged, ignored, or left in the dark... becomes something else entirely. Stay cautious. Stay safe. Until next time.

Episodes

The Mother's Room Mystery