Welcome, dear listeners, to another shadow-draped episode of the Frightengale Files. I’m Florence Frightengale, and as always, I’m joined by the ever-dramatic, ever-dour Dr. Elijah Blackwood. Elijah, are you ready to haunt the airwaves once more?Ha! Florence, I was born ready—or perhaps, never quite finished. Good evening, everyone. If you’re new here, you’ve chosen a rather... persistent episode to join us. And if you’re returning, well, you know the drill: keep your wits about you, and your exits in sight. Not that they’ll help, mind you.Tonight, we’re unraveling the tale of Hollow Hill Hospital—the hospital that simply refuses to die. Budget cuts, board meetings, and something far more sinister lurking in the walls. Elijah, do you think we’ll make it out with our memories intact this time?Memories, Florence? I’m still trying to recall where I left my last ounce of optimism. But let’s not keep our listeners waiting. Shall we begin?Let’s set the scene: a boardroom, fluorescent lights flickering, the air thick with the scent of old coffee and dread. The hospital’s closure is on the table—funding issues, safety concerns, the usual bureaucratic dirge. Elijah, you remember the tension, don’t you?Oh, vividly. The sort of tension you could slice with a scalpel. Halfway through, the projector sputters to life—uninvited, mind you—and flashes a message: “You Can’t Close What Isn’t Done.” No one claims responsibility. No one even remembers bringing the slide. Typical Hollow Hill, really.And then, as if on cue, a board member collapses. Pronounced dead on the spot. Her last words—chilling, even for this place—“What do we do with all the souls?” I still get goosebumps thinking about it.It was as if the hospital itself was answering back. Or warning us. I’m not sure which is worse.After that, the paperwork began to unravel. Discharge forms reversed overnight. Patients who’d been cleared for release were suddenly back on the books—some didn’t even remember leaving. One muttered, “I never got out the first time.”And the records—oh, the records. “Status: OPEN CASE – INCOMPLETE DISCHARGE.” It’s as if the hospital itself refused to let anyone go. I’ve seen bureaucracy, Florence, but this was something else. Something... alive.It reminded me of the North Wing’s endless loops, as we discussed in a previous episode. But this time, the entire hospital seemed caught in the snare.Then came the construction crews, eager to decommission unused offices. But the blueprints changed overnight. A wall torn down one day was rebuilt by morning, bricks still wet. The foreman found a message scrawled inside: “Seal us back in.”It’s as if the building itself was fighting back, refusing to be dismantled. I’ve seen rooms shift before, but never with such... intent. The message in the wall—Elijah, do you think it was a plea or a threat?Both, perhaps. Or neither. The hospital’s always had a mind of its own. This was just the first time it wrote back.Soon, the staff began to forget. Hire dates, positions, even each other. One nurse found a photo of us from 1921—she swore she was born in 1990. I must say, I don’t age nearly as well as I’d hoped.I checked the staff roster. Half the names didn’t exist anywhere outside Hollow Hill. It’s as if the hospital was inventing its own history, or erasing ours. Memory, Florence, is a fragile thing—especially here.It’s reminiscent of the Janitor’s episode, isn’t it? The way people and records just... vanish. Hollow Hill never forgets, but it makes sure we do.And then, the unclothed man. Found calmly sitting in the cafeteria, no memory, no ID, but utterly serene. He insisted he “worked here before the first shift.” Security tried to escort him to psych, but before he left, he turned to you, Florence, and said—“Don’t let them lock the doors. It’ll spread.” I still hear it in my dreams. When they searched the room, he was gone. In his place, a single nurse’s cap, dust-covered, marked with my name. I never wore that style, not in this lifetime.It’s as if the hospital was returning lost property—or lost time.Then came Room 404. Suddenly appearing on every digital floor map, labeled “ROOT WARD: KEEP MONITORED.” No one remembered authorizing it. I tried to enter, but the keypad rejected my code. And then—It whispered, didn’t it? “You’re too late.” I’ve never trusted digital locks, but this was something else entirely. A room that shouldn’t exist, refusing entry to those who know too much.Or perhaps, to those who remember too much.And then, a letter. Addressed to me, postmarked 1885. Inside, a note in my own hand: “Do not allow the hospital to die. It breathes for all of us now.” The signature—my signature—complete with a scar across the ‘B’ that only I would know.Time is a circle at Hollow Hill, Elijah. Or perhaps a spiral. I’ve seen messages from the past before, but never so... personal. Did you feel as if you’d written it, or as if you were being written?Both, Florence. Both. I’m not sure which is more unsettling.In the oldest part of Records, I found a leather-bound book: Codex Hollow. The entries weren’t for patients, but for entities—“The Whisperer,” “The Cradle-Taker,” “Mr. Through-the-Glass.” The last page was blank, but as I watched, the ink began to write: “You’re next, Florence.”I’ve seen many ledgers, but never one that writes back. The hospital keeps its own records, it seems. And it’s always looking for new entries.I suppose I should be flattered. Or terrified. Or both.Then the alarms began. No pattern, no reason. The code color: “STATIC.” Over the PA, a garbled message: “Do not turn off the heart. Let it pump. Let it pump.” The lights went out for thirteen seconds. In that silence, something walked the hallway in bare feet.Thirteen seconds. Long enough to wonder if you’ll ever see the light again. I heard the footsteps, Elijah. I counted them. There were more than two feet walking.I’m not sure I want to know what else was there with us.The morgue’s electronic door locked itself. Inside, a voice screamed, then calmed, then sang. When we forced it open, there were no bodies—just uniforms from every era. I found mine, freshly pressed, still warm. I haven’t worn that uniform in over a century.It’s as if the hospital was preparing for a new intake. Or a reunion. The past never stays buried here, Florence. Not in the morgue, not anywhere.We followed a staff member, sleepwalking toward the lowest mechanical floor. Behind a sealed panel, we found it—a pulsing, organic structure, wired into the building itself. The heart of Hollow Hill. It stopped beating for three seconds. The next three patients on ventilators flatlined at the same moment.The hospital is alive, Elijah. We’ve said it before, but to see its heart—beating, then pausing, then claiming lives in sync—it’s something I’ll never forget. Or forgive.It’s a living wound, Florence. And it’s not ready to heal.Then, every door began locking itself. Staff couldn’t leave, patients couldn’t transfer. The front doors stayed open, but anyone who tried to walk through vanished from memory entirely. I whispered, “It’s choosing who stays.”A hospital that decides who is remembered and who is erased. It’s a terrifying power. And yet, somehow, it felt... inevitable.A nurse reported seeing someone in my old uniform, riding the elevator down—past the basement. She said the woman turned and said, “I clocked in when this place was built. We all did.” The elevator now goes to Floor -6, though the shaft only has five levels.The past is always just below the surface here. Or perhaps, just one floor lower than you expect. I wonder who—or what—waits on Floor -6.My own reflection began to betray me. During rounds, it blinked out of sync, smiled when I didn’t. In one mirror, it mouthed, “Shut it down and I’ll remember you.” In another: “Shut it down and I’ll become you.” I always thought I knew myself, Florence. Now I’m not so sure.Mirrors are dangerous things in Hollow Hill, Elijah. They remember what we try to forget. Or perhaps, they show us what the hospital wants us to see.The final board vote was held. All in favor of closing Hollow Hill. The lights flickered, and every board member received a page: “You have been transferred. Report to Floor 616.” The boardroom door wouldn’t open again. Their names vanished from the payroll system within seconds.It was as if the hospital had made its own decision. Or perhaps, it was simply enforcing the one it had made long ago. No one leaves Hollow Hill—not really.In the admin archives, I found a torn document: “If we bind it here, it stays. If we let it go, it seeks.” Elijah, you remembered rumors of a doctor who performed an unauthorized sealing ritual in the early 1900s. His name? Dr. Elijah Blackwood. The signature matched.I—I always suspected I’d left more than a few scars on this place, but to find my own hand in its binding... It’s a terrible thing, Florence, to realize you may be the lock and the key.The central clock froze at 3:33 AM—a time no one could remember ever experiencing. Every digital clock rolled over to zero zero zero zero and refused to progress. One line appeared on every monitor: “You cannot close the wound until it finishes bleeding.”Time itself, arrested. The hospital refusing to let go, refusing to heal. It’s as if Hollow Hill is waiting for something—or someone—to finish what was started.I was given a final task: shut the hospital’s breaker, end all power—end Hollow Hill’s life support. But as I reached for the switch, I heard the voices of every patient I’d ever saved, calling my name. “If Hollow Hill dies,” you said behind me, “so do we.”It wasn’t a threat, Florence. It was a truth. We are as much a part of this place as it is of us. To end it would be to end ourselves. I’m not sure I was ready for that. I’m not sure I ever will be.So I hesitated. The breaker stayed untouched. The lights flickered once, then stabilized. A nurse walked by, smiling as if nothing had happened. The PA crackled: “Welcome to Hollow Hill. Your shift has begun.”And so, the hospital lives on. For now. For always, perhaps. The doors remain open, and the story continues.So, dear listeners, Hollow Hill must never close. Not because we fear what’s inside, but because we know what would be unleashed if it were ever set free. Thank you for joining us on this journey through the hospital that refuses to die.We’re grateful for your company, your courage, and your curiosity. If you’ve enjoyed tonight’s tale, do let us know—before you forget. And remember, the next shift is always just beginning.Until next time, keep your torches lit, your paperwork in order, and your exits memorized. Goodnight, Elijah.Goodnight, Florence. And goodnight to all who wander Hollow Hill—whether you remember it or not.

Episodes

The Hospital That Refused to Die