Into the Haunting of Hollow Hill Hospital

Noah Kancz

Alright, well, here we are. This is the Frightengale Files, and if you can hear the tremble in my voice, congratulations—you’re as nervous as I am. I’m Noah Kancz, and with me, as always, is the guy who drags me into places even horror movies wouldn’t bother with…

Mitchell Kancz

Mitchell Kancz. You say that like I forced you to come stand outside Hollow Hill Hospital at midnight, which, for the record, is exactly what I did. You ready?

Noah Kancz

Define “ready.” It’s seven stories of “no, thanks,” windows all blank and staring at us like… like the world’s creepiest face. I feel like we’re being watched, and we haven’t even gone inside yet.

Mitchell Kancz

C’mon. Just listen. You hear that?

Noah Kancz

Yeah, I hear it. Is that… laughing? A kid’s laughter in there? This place has been closed for thirty years, and of course, the first sound is right out of a nightmare. That’s just great. Fantastic start.

Mitchell Kancz

We said we’d face Hollow Hill and see what the stories were hiding, right? And judging by the fact my arms are already covered in goosebumps, maybe the legends were an understatement. Let’s do it.

Mitchell Kancz

The front doors are just—okay, did the doors just open on their own?

Noah Kancz

Yeah, with all the subtlety of a banshee. You know it’s haunted when the building swings the doors for you. I swear, that shriek rattled my fillings.

Mitchell Kancz

Alright, let’s… wow. The reception desk still has the guest book open here—October 13, 1995, right? The day they sealed this place up. Everything just stopped.

Noah Kancz

Except… you see those footprints? Wet footprints, heading straight to the elevator. Do you see anyone else in here, Mitchell?

Mitchell Kancz

Nobody living, no. But it means we’re not alone. Let’s look around. Try not to step in them, alright?

Noah Kancz

Alright, so file room—Correction: chaos room. There are thousands of files all over the floor, thrown everywhere like some record-obsessed poltergeist had a tantrum.

Mitchell Kancz

You’re fumbling with the records again. What’s that one—why does that file keep popping on top? You buried it twice now, and it’s still there?

Noah Kancz

It’s labeled Patient Zero, “unexplained phenomena.” I hate that phrasing. Here—look at this photo. Black eyes. Not, like, metaphorically. I mean pitch black, bug-eyed directly into the lens. I feel like it’s staring through me.

Mitchell Kancz

That’s—yeah. Not normal. This whole record feels… angry, almost. Let’s just put it back down and keep moving before it shows up again, okay?

Mitchell Kancz

We’ll take the elevator. What’s the worst that could—wow, look at the inside of this thing.

Noah Kancz

It’s covered in scratches! Like… those are claw marks, right? I mean, I don’t want them to be, but they’re definitely not decorative.

Mitchell Kancz

And here—check the button panel. There’s an unmarked one at the bottom that isn’t on any floor plan I’ve seen. Wanna press it?

Noah Kancz

Do I have a choice? Fine. And… down we go. Is it just me, or are we descending for way, way too long?

Mitchell Kancz

Too long. We should’ve hit the basement already. This isn’t right.

Noah Kancz

Alright. This is the pediatric floor. It should be cute. It’s not cute. There are toys everywhere, and I swear that truck just moved. I’m not turning around again.

Mitchell Kancz

Hold on, listen—someone left a jack-in-the-box going, but it’s… it’s speeding up. That’s not how those are supposed to sound, right?

Noah Kancz

No, and if we see a clown pop out, I’m quitting. It’s—wait, that’s not a clown. That’s—Mitchell, that’s a hand!

Mitchell Kancz

Whatever’s in there, I’m not winding it back up. Let’s move, yeah?

Mitchell Kancz

Now we’re in the surgical suite. It’s… weirdly spotless. The instruments are all laid out like someone’s coming back to finish up a surgery.

Noah Kancz

Except there are fresh restraint marks on the table, and the light over us just flickered on. I don’t want to know what those rusty stains are. And—did the intercom just say, “The patient is waiting?”

Mitchell Kancz

I definitely heard that. That’s enough to make you wish you hadn’t heard it. Let’s not be the ones they’re waiting for.

Noah Kancz

Maternity ward. Cradles—dozens of them. All empty, rocking in sync. This room is freezing. I can see my own breath, and through the fog, there are little shadows moving between the cribs.

Mitchell Kancz

That music box… the lullaby’s off. It’s playing backwards, isn’t it? Makes my skin crawl. We should get out of here before something notices us.

Mitchell Kancz

Look at these shelves. These pill bottles, they… none of these drugs show up in any database I’ve ever seen. “Somnum Mortis.” “Animam Extrahens.” “Oblivion Draught.” You have to be kidding me.

Noah Kancz

Was that bottle just—oh, it fell! Watch out—wait, look! That mist… it’s got faces. Screaming faces. What did I say about hospitals and things I never wanted to see?

Noah Kancz

These padded cells look like they lost a fight with a grizzly. Scratches straight through to the concrete. And—patient journals scattered everywhere. Every last one of them ends with “It lives in the walls.”

Mitchell Kancz

Yeah, I’d like to dispute that, but the walls actually look like they’re pulsing. I mean, they’re breathing. It can’t be, but it is… I don’t think we should be in here any longer than necessary.

Mitchell Kancz

Cafeteria. Still set for dinner—look, the food actually looks fresh until I touch it, then it just peels apart. That’s disgusting. The walk-in freezer keeps swinging open—wait, did you see those? Bodies in there, covered in frost, just standing.

Noah Kancz

But now the freezer’s empty, and, wait, listen—every bit of silverware on every table is rattling. I hate this place, Mitchell, I really do.

Noah Kancz

The stench of burnt flesh hits you before you even get in the door. Shower stalls are turning on by themselves, steaming hot. The mirrors… I can’t even look. Those aren’t our reflections. They’re burned—just melted faces looking back.

Mitchell Kancz

EVP recorder’s going wild. That’s not a sound I ever want to hear again. It’s like… screaming, but lower, deeper—almost not human. Like we talked about with those radium girls in the Cadaver Synod episode, trauma just sticks to these places.

Mitchell Kancz

Dr. Meridian’s office hasn’t changed since ‘95. October 12th on the calendar. His journal—get this, he was doing unauthorized experiments, trying to prove consciousness survives death. Dark stuff.

Noah Kancz

Final entry: “I was right. They’re still here. And they’re angry.” I’d say he was onto something—unfortunately for us.

Mitchell Kancz

We’re in the morgue now. Every drawer is open, empty, except number thirteen. Typical horror movie move. I’ll open it—

Noah Kancz

Oh, why did you do that? Did that body just sit up? Its eyes are sewn shut, but I swear it’s saying our names. Nope. No thank you.

Noah Kancz

The X-ray viewing boxes just flickered on by themselves. These scans—how do you even get extra organs or bones twisted into symbols like that? And now the machine’s going off—I shouldn’t be standing here—

Mitchell Kancz

Wait, it’s running your scan… Noah, that is not normal. There’s… something dark, just writhing inside the chest image. We’re leaving. Now.

Mitchell Kancz

Plastic sheeting everywhere—this was the quarantine wing. Biohazard warnings, fingernail scratches all over the walls, and “LET US OUT” written in dried blood, no ambiguity.

Noah Kancz

The hazmat suits are turning as we walk by, like they’re watching us. I know they’re empty, but it doesn’t feel empty at all.

Noah Kancz

Okay, chapel. Crucifix is upside down again, no matter how many times it’s turned. The altar’s got a stain—yeah, let’s just assume it’s not wine. Prayer books open, but all the words are blacked out except for a few random ones. I don’t even want to read what message it’s spelling.

Mitchell Kancz

And the hymns—why are they always backwards in places like this? It messes with your head.

Mitchell Kancz

The seventh floor. We checked the blueprints, and this isn’t on there anywhere. The walls are all surgical tiles, and it’s a literal maze. I think the corridors just rerouted themselves.

Noah Kancz

Check these doors. Instead of numbers, there are weird symbols, like stuff you’d find in witchcraft books. I’m not convinced anything ethical happened in these rooms.

Mitchell Kancz

ICU monitors still running without power. It’s nothing but flatlines and then these sudden spikes. That bed’s got fresh indentations, like someone was just here.

Noah Kancz

The call button keeps lighting up, over and over. Answer it, please. Heavy breathing. No words, just breathing—enough to make you feel like you’re the one being watched.

Noah Kancz

We’re finally down in the unmarked basement. Mitchell, this corridor is just… literally carved out of stone, not built. It’s so much older than the rest of the hospital.

Mitchell Kancz

Look at these ancient symbols. This place was never just a hospital. Whatever’s below Hollow Hill—it’s older, and it’s not friendly.

Mitchell Kancz

This chamber—it’s a circle with tables laid out in a pentagram. Meridian’s notes say he tried to transfer consciousness between patients. That’s pure madness.

Noah Kancz

Equipment’s dead. And, uh, I’m pretty sure the shadows just detached from the walls. You’re seeing that, right? Not just me having a panic attack?

Mitchell Kancz

Roof time. The water tower is basically a myth in itself. Water’s pitch black, not moving at all. Reflections—okay, those are not our faces. At all.

Noah Kancz

Are you hearing voices? They’re naming all the vanished patients. “Remember me.” Over and over. That’s some next level haunting, even for this place.

Noah Kancz

Rehab gym. Equipment’s running on its own, just going through the motions. Handprints just showed up on the parallel bars. Don’t ask me to explain.

Mitchell Kancz

That mirror—are we actually surrounded, or is it just the reflection? Because I count at least thirty extra people in hospital gowns, and none of them are actually behind us.

Mitchell Kancz

Nurses’ station. Roster’s updating itself with dead nurses’ names. I don’t know how. The medication cart is moving—on its own. Call lights are lighting up down the hall—looks like they’re spelling words, almost like the phone’s trying to reconnect old conversations from ‘95. Everything here is stuck on repeat.

Noah Kancz

Another day, another loop. This hospital isn’t letting go of anything, is it?

Noah Kancz

Specimen jars—Mitchell, some of those organs are still moving. Slides under the microscope—cells dividing, decades later. That shouldn’t be happening. Tell me you found something that makes sense.

Mitchell Kancz

No, just Meridian’s real notes. He was trying to keep brains, hearts—whole identities—alive in pieces, making some sort of… conscious organ collective. I can’t believe I’m saying that like it’s normal.

Mitchell Kancz

We’re in the sealed wing. Conjoined twins, died during a forced separation. Everything’s frozen—time actually stopped on that clock, 3:33 AM, the moment they died.

Noah Kancz

Two small voices, talking together: “Why did you tear us apart?” Okay, so as twins, this is hitting way too close. I don’t like it.

Noah Kancz

Laundry room. Machines run with no power, washing nothing but blood-soaked sheets. Tables have body-shaped dents. Laundry chute screams. That white coat just hung itself—look, “Dr. Meridian,” still legible.

Mitchell Kancz

We should have brought a priest, not a tape recorder. This room’s a graveyard.

Noah Kancz

I’m running every piece of EVP gear at once, and—yeah, it’s picking up dozens of voices at once. A chorus of patients. They’re all saying some version of “He promised us immortality.”

Mitchell Kancz

Dr. Meridian’s ritual, October 13, 1995. He didn’t just kill patients—he trapped 127 souls here. The whole building’s haunted by conscious intent.

Mitchell Kancz

Hidden room, behind Meridian’s office. That’s… that’s Meridian. His body’s somehow perfectly preserved after all these years.

Noah Kancz

His eyes just opened. Nope, nope, nope. He… he says he’s the anchor for the souls. He’s giving us a choice: keep this secret and walk out, or join them forever.

Mitchell Kancz

We’re leaving. Together. But the building doesn’t want us to. Elevator’s freefalling, stairwells are endless, and the walls are closing in. Stay close, Noah!

Noah Kancz

I’m not letting go of your arm. Those exit signs are actually real. We follow the light. For once, running toward an emergency sign seems like good advice.

Noah Kancz

It’s dawn. Somehow, we got out. I’m not sure we’re the same, though. Reviewing the footage—Mitchell, our reflections are lagging. That’s not… scientific.

Mitchell Kancz

We said this was just the first trip. Next time, we’re coming back prepared—we owe it to all those souls still trapped in that hospital. Whatever it takes.

Noah Kancz

If I survive the nightmares, yeah. Let’s wrap. I need, like, a month of sleep and some holy water. This has been Frightengale Files—Mitchell, you wanna sign off?

Mitchell Kancz

We’ll be back. Thanks for listening, everyone—if you hear any laughter in the dark, don’t follow it. Until next time, stay curious and stay safe.

Noah Kancz

Later, Mitchell. Later, everyone. did you hear that voice? “Come back soon, brothers.” Great. Just great