Welcome back to the Frightengale files a place where we do not cast shadows. We do not breathe. We do not sleep.But we remain.A chilling sentiment, no doubt. And yet, accurate.I am Florence Frightengale. Once a nurse, now a whisper in these halls. And these stories… they weigh on the walls, don't they?Indeed, weight and silence are the companions of such truths.And Dr. Blackwood? He walks with me still. A man of precision. Of skepticism.A skeptic by necessity—a believer by ordeal.And now. doomed to remain.Ha. Doomed—I’d prefer damned by enlightenment. But, yes, here for now, Florence.Listeners, heed well what we share. This is the Frightengale Files. And tonight, we recount our record of Bed Nine.Not a tale of death—but of what lingers beyond it.Bed Nine. Not a tale of death, but of persistence—where shadows take substance, and what lingers whispers louder with each passing hour.A curious phenomenon, Florence. But truly, more than rumors should substantiate such dread.Ah, but rumors have roots. It began with flickering lights and failing monitors. Machines growing restless, or perhaps resisting. And then, the whispers.The infamous line, wasn't it? "Bed for one more.""Bed for one more." Always the same. Just a whisper over the intercom when no one spoke on the other side. Disturbing. Predictable. And utterly ignored.Predictable? You give it too much credit. It's mere superstition. I’ve encountered equivalent fears, mind you—soldiers avoiding tents, battlefield rituals to ward off death.And did these rituals work?Hardly. But belief itself was a kind of armor. The more you cling to ritual, the further logic recedes. It’s like taming chaos—futile, but comforting.Comforting? Perhaps. Or an invitation. Humans grasp at patterns, even in chaos. But this is more than chance, Doctor. The bed is... selective.Selective? Florence, that implies sentience. You credit inanimate objects with intent. Dangerous territory.And yet, here we stand—the nurse and the surgeon—both stripped of mortality, still bound to this place. Is that not intent? A purpose beyond death?Purpose, perhaps. But malicious? There, we diverge. Though I admit… the staff's collective dread of Bed Nine seems too uniform to dismiss.Exactly. Fear carves its own legends. Why else would nurses avoid those sterile sheets, the bandages remain untouched, the curtains drawn half-open as though watched?Phantom logic borne of paranoia. Explainable phenomena twisted under duress. A short circuit. A burnt filament.Spoken like a man who dissects corpses but fears to turn corners here. Tell me, Doctor, are the ashes of vivisected logic enough to warm this hollow chill?I... well, even the rational find this place unnerving.Unnerving, indeed. Bed Nine attracts its own gravity. The stories cluster. Feelings fester. Rituals echo. Until dread itself becomes real. And that is where human fragility aligns with something… other.Other? Hah. We dance around definition. Call it legend, anomaly, or possibility—it all hinges on perception.Perception or invitation. The bedsheets are tucked, the intercom silent. But what stirs beneath the folded veil of logic shall not remain so forever.The boy's name was Marcus. Barely twelve, barely alive. He arrived on a night that felt steeped in Bed Nine's shadow—a storm rattling these walls as if nature itself recoiled. Even then, the air seemed to whisper: 'Bed for one more.'A desperate arrival, no doubt. Yet, storms often breed peculiar energy, don’t they?Energy? Perhaps. Or an omen. Only one bed was available. Bed Nine.Of course. The infamous resting place. And yet, someone dared?Nurse Edith Rowe. Bold, inexperienced, and unaware of the grim lore. She wheeled Marcus into position, locking the bed brakes. And in that instant... the room seemed to exhale.Exhale? Curious phrasing, Florence. Atmospheric pressure shifts, perhaps? A known natural phenomenon tied to storms.Oh, no. This was no natural occurrence. It was her.Her?Vivienne Hart.Wait—Vivienne? The spectral volunteer? She who…She who has not changed, Doctor. She stood at the foot of the bed, smiling with unnatural glee. Waiting.Smiling? Ugh. That grin could rival the macabre masks of Victorian cadaver art. Truly unsettling.She leaned toward Marcus, her voice barely more than a whisper. 'There is always room for one more.' Chilling words. Predictable, perhaps. But her intent was clear.And the nurse? Surely she reacted to this ominous figure?Bless her, she stood her ground. Her voice faltered but held firm: 'You cannot have him.' The defiance of the mortal against what once was human, now… something else.Let me guess. Her defiance alone wasn’t enough.No. Vivienne did not respond. Not verbally. She lunged, mouth wide, a void spilling voices—agonized, frantic, pleading. The cries of those she'd claimed echoed through the ward.Ah... auditory hallucinations? Or something even worse, Florence?Not hallucinations. Manifestations. Edith gripped Marcus's hand and began to pray. Her hands steeled by faith. Her words louder than the wailing inferno.Hm. And, astonishingly, this fervor worked?It wasn’t about working, dear Doctor. It was about surviving. As she spoke, the lights flared, brighter and brighter, until Vivienne was gone. But she left her mark—the boy's survival was as improbable as her silence.Survival, perhaps. But untouched? I highly doubt it. No one escapes such an ordeal, unmarked.Indeed. Marcus lived. But Bed Nine did not let him go so easily. The story had only acquired new layers of dread.You know, Florence, Marcus and Bed Nine—it stirs something in my memory. Not Bed Nine, no, but a cot. One that carried its own shadowed history. Do you recall?A cot?A so-called cursed cot. During the Crimean War, we carried men into the wards like parcels from the post—none of them ever expected to leave alive. This cot… it became infamous.Infamous? Go on, Doctor—you’ve piqued both my skepticism and my intrigue.Patients who lay upon it—well, let’s just say they didn’t lay long. Their breathing slowed unnaturally fast. Convulsions, cold sweats—symptoms escalating within hours. And then, death. But the troubling part?Troubling part? Death wasn’t troubling enough?No, Florence. What unsettled even the fiercest skeptics was how they died. Completely… silent. No cries. No gasps. Just... gone.That is troubling. And you, of course, sought an explanation.Indeed. A rational one. And I thought I’d cracked it—fungal infections from the damp canvas, an allergic reaction, anything environmental. But I tested, adjusted treatment, even switched cots in secret. Yet the results were identical.Identical symptoms? Regardless of environment? That’s enough to make even a hardline rationalist tremble.Tremble, yes... though I denied it at the time. Then came Private Hollis. He wasn’t like the others.Ah. What made him different? Resilience? Defiance?Neither. He seemed… aware. Said the cot “whispered.” Claimed it called him by name. Insisted he could feel dozens of hands pressing against him every time he laid down. I dismissed it, naturally. Fatigue, fever, war-stewed paranoia.And yet, he survived.Yes, though barely. But his condition didn’t resolve entirely. For months, years even, he claimed the whispers followed him. And, well—And he wasn’t alone anymore.Precisely.So he escaped the cot, but the cot never truly let him go. How quaint, Doctor. A harbinger of our own lingering circumstances.Or perhaps the thin veil between reality and what lies beyond tore itself slightly, briefly exposing him to... whatever waits. But that was then. I—I don’t dwell on it.No. I suppose not. Dwell or deny, the past casts its shadow regardless.And these shadows, Florence, they do leave marks. Whether we admit it or not.Shadows do leave marks, Doctor. Take, for instance, Nora Vale’s disappearance from Bed Nine in 1912. Not a single witness. Just a note left behind, carefully folded on her pillow. It read, 'She is kind. I am not afraid. There is room for one more.'A curious sentiment—a mixture of submission and serenity amidst the inexplicable. Though I might argue it hints less at fear and more at... indoctrination.Indoctrination, yes—or perhaps inevitability. Vivienne Hart, even in life, was drawn to Bed Nine. She lingered there. It was her realm before death, and now... it remembers her.Hm. The bed remembers her. An absurd premise—though I suppose anything associated with Vivienne is far from ordinary. But tell me, what of Nurse Rowe? Her encounter seemed to extend beyond a single night, didn't it?Oh, it did. After saving Marcus, Edith began... hearing things. At first, soft, like a name whispered from a dark room. Then louder. Familiar. Personal. Footsteps followed her—barely audible, just enough to feel pursued.Auditory anomalies. Likely tied to stress and an overactive imagination. Nurses under pressure——would hardly have their names carved into a bandage bin, Doctor.Carved? As in physically etched? You’re certain it couldn’t have been... vandalism?Vandalism doesn't explain the message left for her each year: a package containing a pristine piece of her uniform, folded and pressed. And always with the same note. 'Tell her I remember. Tell her I am not alone.'No crude prankster would maintain such dedication. But retrieving pieces of her uniform? That... complicates matters. Something continues to seek her out.Indeed. Vivienne doesn't haunt, Doctor. She hunts. And those who defy her? She makes sure they don’t forget. Edith left without warning—but Bed Nine, it seems, refuses to let go.A disturbing notion. Though I must wonder—why spare her? Why not take her entirely?Perhaps because sparing her leaves behind a more effective tool: a witness. Someone who carries the echoes of dread far beyond the hospital walls. A ripple effect, you might say.A ripple, yes—but those ripples disturb foundations, Florence. And they always lead... somewhere.Doctor, speaking of ripples and what they disturb—have you considered how naming something might tether it back to where it ought not be? How speaking a name in an empty ward might beckon something that watches, that waits?Hearing your name where none should whisper it? I’d call that unnerving. But whispers often have logical sources—ventilation currents or distant echoes. Have you encountered something specific?Specific? Oh, there was nothing vague about it. A crisp, deliberate call—'Florence.' Not louder than a breath, and yet weighted unmistakably with intention.Weighted? Interesting descriptor. Did you investigate the source? Surely a known prank among your colleagues.I often thought the same, and yet… there were moments, when the air itself seemed to listen. When the silence around the name kissed the edge of malevolence.Florence, silence doesn’t carry emotion. You’re suggesting awareness—intent from auditory phenomena. A fascinating, albeit questionable claim.Questionable, yes. But there was a night I refused to turn down that far hall. Not because of sound, no—but because I could feel it anticipate me. The shadows… seemed expectant.Expectant? You speak as though anticipation is an emotional extension of place—a structure familiar with its inhabitant.Precisely. Places absorb their stories. Hospitals such as these, bathed in the grief, the fear of generations… they remember. And sometimes, they respond.Respond in what fashion? Echoes? Retained vibrations within the walls? Responses don’t imply sentience.No, perhaps not. But they imply presence. And that presence knows I linger, as well. The whispers... they began calling not just 'Florence', but 'Come closer.'Come closer? That’s… peculiar. Aggressive, even.Aggressive, indeed. I began to question: if I—bound in this form—could still feel pursued, what then of those fragile mortals who dwell here? What, indeed.Fragile mortals. Yet roughly unbending. Florence, you describe these moments vividly. But I must ask: did these sensations take from you? Injure, even ethereally?Injure? Hah. Not as you'd expect. No, it wasn’t pain they gave me, but certainty. A knowing that this hospital marked me long ago and intends to keep me, much like it did Vivienne.An eternal membership, then. Quaint. Though I don’t advise leaning into such ideas—such fears feed their own myths, stretching truth before it snaps.Perhaps. Or perhaps the myths wouldn’t stretch if those named by shadows didn’t feel their names were closer to final markings.You wonder, Doctor, about final markings? Bed Nine waits. The whispers linger, the shadows stretch, and Vivienne Hart… she hunts still.A hunt, you say. For us—or merely for those daring enough to stay near that accursed frame?For all those who shudder yet cannot resist. Hunters and hunted. That is the nature of Bed Nine.Whatever the nature, these tales do remind us—the mind's ground is fertile for fear. Yet one wonders, where does legend end and the predator truly begin?A question for the next tale, perhaps, Doctor. For tonight, we leave ourselves——and our listeners?Indeed. But not without leaving a parting thought. Next time, we speak of Nurse Holloway. She died mid-round… yet her shift never ended.An eternal practitioner? Tragic, perhaps—or a lesson in commitment.Or a lesson in fear, dear Doctor. Until then, listeners, keep your curtains drawn, your eyes open, and your breaths steady.And if whispers call from darkened corners......do not answer.

Episodes

Bed Nine