Do Not Cover the Mirror

Florence Frightengale

Welcome back, dear listeners, to another chilling installment of the Frightengale Files. I’m Florence Frightengale, and as always, I’m joined by the ever-incorrigible Dr. Elijah Blackwood. Elijah, are you feeling suitably haunted tonight?

Unknown Speaker

Haunted, Florence? I’d say I’m positively beset by phantoms, as usual. And I must say, after last week’s foray into the Code Quiet debacle, I’m not sure I’ll ever trust a hospital memo again. But tonight’s tale—well, it’s a new breed of unsettling, isn’t it?

Florence Frightengale

Indeed. Tonight, we’re peeling back the cloth—quite literally—on a story that begins with a simple change in protocol. Hollow Hill’s ICU, mirrors uncovered, and what followed was anything but routine. Thank you for joining us, and for all your messages and theories after our last episode. Shall we begin, Elijah?

Unknown Speaker

Let’s. And if you’re listening in the dark, perhaps… don’t look over your shoulder. Or into any mirrors.

Unknown Speaker

So, it starts with a memo. All ICU mirrors to be uncovered, effective immediately, per some updated hygiene guidance. Now, I’ve seen my share of bureaucratic nonsense, but this one—no one seemed to know who sent it. Nurse Carrie, sharp as ever, notices the old cloths are gone. No one admits to removing them.

Florence Frightengale

And you know me, Elijah—I can’t resist a good bit of administrative sleuthing. I checked the sender’s name. Not in the hospital registry. Not in any staff records, not even a temp. It’s as if the memo wrote itself. Or, perhaps, something else wrote it for us.

Unknown Speaker

It’s reminiscent of what we saw with Code Quiet, isn’t it? Protocols appearing from nowhere, and the staff just… following along. No one questions it until it’s far too late.

Florence Frightengale

Exactly. And this time, it’s not just whispers in the hallway. It’s the mirrors—those old, covered things—suddenly exposed. And with them, something else exposed as well.

Florence Frightengale

The first real sign that something was amiss came from an ICU tech. He’s doing his rounds, and he glances at the mirror behind Patient 9’s bed. He sees a figure—standing far too close for comfort. He turns, of course, but there’s no one there.

Unknown Speaker

Classic. The old “see it in the mirror, gone in the room” trick. But it doesn’t end there, does it? Later, they find him just… staring at the mirror. Repeating, “It sees now. It sees me now.” Over and over. I mean, that’s not your run-of-the-mill night shift fatigue, is it?

Florence Frightengale

No, and the way he said it—like he was trying to warn us, or maybe warn himself. It’s as if the act of uncovering the mirror let something see back. Not just a reflection, but an observer. A watcher.

Unknown Speaker

It’s unsettling, Florence. And it’s only the beginning.

Unknown Speaker

Then, at 3:17 AM—always the witching hour, isn’t it?—all of Patient 9’s monitors flatline. But when the staff rush in, her body is gone. Vanished. Yet, in the mirror, she’s still there. Lying in the bed, as if nothing’s happened.

Florence Frightengale

Panic sets in. A nurse, desperate, shatters the mirror. Or tries to. There’s a crash, blood on the floor, but—no glass. Not a shard. Just blood, and a sense that something’s been let loose. Or perhaps, something’s been trapped.

Unknown Speaker

It’s almost ritualistic, isn’t it? The breaking of the mirror, the blood. But the absence of glass—now that’s the bit that gets me. It’s as if the mirror was never really there, or it was something else entirely.

Florence Frightengale

Or someone else. The line between patient and reflection, between body and image, starts to blur. And the staff—well, they’re beginning to realize they’re not just being watched. They’re being… mirrored.

Florence Frightengale

So, we decide to test it. Elijah and I, ever the curious, roll an empty gurney in front of a hallway mirror. At first, nothing. Just our own tired faces staring back. But then—a flicker. A face. Someone strapped to the gurney, mouth open in a silent scream.

Unknown Speaker

And I remember whispering, “That’s not our gurney.” Because it wasn’t. The straps, the stains—none of it matched. It was as if the mirror was showing us a memory, or a possibility. Or, dare I say, a warning.

Florence Frightengale

It’s not the first time we’ve seen the hospital’s past bleed through, but this—this was different. The mirror wasn’t just reflecting. It was revealing. And what it revealed was not meant for us.

Unknown Speaker

Then there’s the nurse—poor thing—who runs straight into a mirror, face-first. She claims she saw her own body, but it was… walking away from her. Not toward, not with her, but away. Like she was being left behind by herself.

Florence Frightengale

The CCTV footage is even stranger. She’s moving normally, until she just… stops. Mid-stride. Collapses. And her chart, updated by some unseen hand, now reads: “Identity pending.” As if the hospital itself isn’t sure who she is anymore.

Unknown Speaker

It’s that theme again, Florence—identity, memory, the hospital’s power to rewrite both. We saw it in the North Wing, with Patient 13. Here, it’s the mirrors doing the rewriting.

Florence Frightengale

And the staff are starting to realize: the mirrors aren’t just glass. They’re doors. Or perhaps, they’re graves.

Florence Frightengale

I spent a night in the ICU, just… watching. The mirrors, the staff, my own reflection. And then, it happened. My reflection turned to look at me before I moved. It mouthed words I’ll never forget: “Do not cover me. I remember being buried.”

Unknown Speaker

That’s… that’s properly chilling, Florence. I mean, we’ve talked about haunted objects before, but a reflection with memory? That’s a new one. It’s as if the act of covering the mirrors was a kind of burial, and now, uncovered, they remember the darkness.

Florence Frightengale

It’s a warning, Elijah. Or a threat. Either way, the mirrors are awake now. And they’re not happy.

Unknown Speaker

Then comes the code blue in Room 14. Staff rush in, and in the mirror—two bodies. One on the bed, one standing nearby. But in the room, there’s only one patient. Yet, in the reflection, both are intubated. Both are… alive, in a sense.

Florence Frightengale

And when the lights flicker, one of the reflections smiles. Just for a moment. It’s as if the mirror is keeping its own tally, its own version of events. And sometimes, its own version of us.

Unknown Speaker

It’s that doubling, that echo. The hospital’s way of reminding us that what we see isn’t always what’s real. Or, perhaps, that reality is just one version among many.

Florence Frightengale

Naturally, the staff try to remove the mirrors. Smash them, cover them, toss them out. But the glass won’t break. The frames reappear, sometimes on the opposite wall. One nurse tapes a cover over a mirror, only to find it the next morning—on the other side of the room, showing her sleeping.

Unknown Speaker

And you, Florence, you left a note: “It punishes concealment.” Because that’s what it felt like. Every attempt to hide the mirrors, to bury them again, just made things worse. The mirrors want to be seen. Or, perhaps, they want to see us.

Florence Frightengale

It’s a game we can’t win. The more we try to hide, the more the mirrors reveal. And what they reveal… well, it’s not always what we expect.

Unknown Speaker

Then the reflections start to get things wrong. A nurse looks in the mirror and sees her coworker—who died two years ago. In another, you, Florence, see the ghost of a patient long expired. It blinks. You do not.

Florence Frightengale

And in the morgue, the mirror shows… nothing. No reflection at all. As if, in that place, the boundary between life and death is too thin for even a ghost to cross. Or perhaps, the mirror simply refuses to look.

Unknown Speaker

It’s mimicry, but imperfect. The mirrors are trying to remember, to reconstruct, but they get it wrong. Or maybe, they’re showing us what we’ve forgotten—or what we’re meant to forget.

Florence Frightengale

In the end, the staff resort to blacking out the mirrors. Paint, tape, anything to block the view. But as I walk past one, I see a version of myself—pale, mouth sewn shut. It holds up a paper: “You already covered me once.”

Unknown Speaker

That’s the thing about these stories, Florence. The past never stays buried. Whether it’s a protocol, a memory, or a mirror, it always finds a way back. And sometimes, it’s staring right at you.

Florence Frightengale

Or through you. The mirrors of Hollow Hill are awake, and they remember everything we try to hide. Even ourselves.

Florence Frightengale

That’s all for tonight’s tale, dear listeners. If you’re tempted to cover your mirrors after this, well—I can’t say I blame you. But remember, sometimes what’s hidden is only waiting to be seen.

Unknown Speaker

And if you want more haunted hospital lore, or perhaps a few sleepless nights, do check out patreon.com/FlorenceFrightengale for exclusive content and behind-the-scenes chills.

Florence Frightengale

Thank you for joining us in the shadows. Until next time, keep your eyes open—and your mirrors uncovered. Goodnight, Elijah.

Unknown Speaker

Goodnight, Florence. And goodnight to all our listeners. Sleep well—if you can.