Welcome back, patient listener, to the Frightengale Files.Ah, another chilling chapter, no doubt. And who—or, dare I ask, what—shall we unearth tonight?Tonight's tale, Elijah, is one of lingering shadows and lullabies. A volunteer who came to help, but instead... stayed to haunt.Intriguing. You have my attention. But tell me, Florence, how does a volunteer become...a specter? Surely, there’s more to this than the usual fancies.Oh, there’s more, far more. It begins with Vivienne Hart, a girl from another era, another life. A girl who embodied sweetness... on the surface."On the surface," you say? Hah, classic. Let me guess—pink stripes, white shoes, and a smile that outstayed its welcome?Precisely. But don’t let her charming attire fool you. It’s the whispers beneath her smile that haunt, not the smile itself.Fascinating. It seems, as always, we’re in for more than just a ghost story. Continue, Florence.Ah, the whispers beneath her smile... They began the moment Vivienne Hart stepped into Hollow Hill Hospital in 1952. She was just 16, dressed in her pink-striped pinafore and white shoes that never seemed to scuff—full of purpose, and something far more chilling.Something else? That’s an awfully curious omission, Florence, don’t leave us in suspense.Patience, Elijah. There were no ominous signs at first. None at all. Young Vivienne walked the halls, visited the children, brought books, fluffed pillows—Ah, the perfect picture of a diligent volunteer. But let me guess, the children adored her.Adored her, yes. But adoration turned to unease. Odd things began to happen when she was near. Children’s vitals mysteriously dropped. Their laughter grew quieter.That’s no mere coincidence. I know it isn’t. So what—what was she doing?One child, a boy with leukemia, claimed—Let me guess. He heard something? Saw something?He said, "She whispers to the bones."“Whispers to the bones”? Curious. That’s a particularly poetic way of explaining... what, the draining of life? A gentle thief in pink stripes. But surely the hospital staff noticed this pattern?Some dismissed it as childish imagination. Others whispered of something darker. Yet she remained, unshaken, handing out lullabies along with books.It reminds me of a figure I encountered during the Crimean War—You’re about to tell us about one of your spectral encounters, aren’t you?Well, of course. How could I resist? She wasn’t a young volunteer; rather, an aging field nurse we called “The Silent Sister.” Never spoke, but we all felt cold when she touched the wounded. Those she tended to... rarely survived the night.And you think Vivienne shares this same spectral affinity?The specifics differ, but yes. The ability to linger in the folds of life and death—Is far more common than we dare to admit. Agreed.Vivienne’s whispers, her undisturbed smile, were tolerated—for a time. But eventually, the cracks began to show.The cracks began to widen, Elijah. Vivienne’s presence grew... disquieting. Children spoke less after her visits. Smiles faded. And then... there was the burn ward.Ah, the burn ward. Always a site of deep anguish. Something tells me this isn’t just another room with unpleasant memories.Memories, indeed. One night, I found her there, standing in front of the mirror. She appeared serene—too serene, like an untouched painting amidst chaos. But—Ah, but the whispers?No, Elijah. Not whispers. Her reflection spoke. And it wasn’t her voice. It was... older, harsher. Alien, almost. It sent shivers through the air like a winter draft through the halls.Hm. Reflective anomaly, possession—call it what you will, it suggests a level of consciousness beyond death itself. What happened next?She turned to me. Smiled. Said something innocuous—so out of place, so mundane, I can’t recall it. But her eyes... they lingered. Burned.Typical of such manifestations. The personal séance, if you will.It was after that night that the hospital acted. They erased her name from the logs, destroyed her badge, dismissed her entirely. But Vivienne didn’t leave. She couldn’t, or wouldn’t.Refusing dismissal despite being forcibly cut from her tether to this world... defiant even in death. Tell me, Florence, did she start appearing to the other staff?Yes. Nurse Holloway, in particular, had her share of chilling encounters.That name rings a bell. Her recounts were... unsettling?To say the least. She described Vivienne as silent as the grave. Said she once felt Vivienne walking behind her. Turned, and she wasn’t breathing. Pale as the linens. But always, that same knowing smile.And the children? Vivienne seemed to have a curious fixation on them, didn’t she?Yes. She’d visit at night, stroke their hair, and hum "Frère Jacques." The melody hung in the air like a question none of us dared answer. Some children said yes when she asked, "Will you stay with me forever?" They never woke again.A siren’s lullaby, mixed with the innocence of caregivers. Florence, it’s chilling how far such an essence can cling to life’s fragility.And yet, when she left a peppermint on the pillow, it felt almost cruel. Sweetness masking the finality of her visits.We could sense it, you know. That nothing we did would truly stop her. Still, we tried—containment, locks, wards, exorcisms. Nothing worked.Typical. Spirits with strong attachments are notoriously impervious to physical barriers. But exorcisms not working? That’s rare.Indeed, Elijah. Whatever holds Vivienne here, it isn’t easily untangled by faith or force. The hospital sought to eradicate her presence—And failed miserably, I assume.Oh, they did more than fail. Each attempt seemed to further root her in these halls. Her visits became more frequent. More... purposeful.Fascinating. It’s as though she thrives on attention, whether it’s fear or misguided reverence. And the peppermint candies—what’s their significance?Ah, the peppermints. A curious detail, isn’t it? A token left behind, deceptively innocent, almost mocking. It harkens to the old practice of comforting patients with sweets—Like offering solace during their final breaths. But in her case, it’s less solace and more... a signature.Precisely. An ironic kindness. But it also marks her claim, a silent reminder of where she walked, whom she touched. The peppermint doesn’t soothe; it lingers.And the sealed wing you hinted at earlier? The one with the cracked mirror? Surely there's a connection.That wing has been locked for decades, the mirror untouched since... well, the incident. It’s said Vivienne’s reflection remains there, watching, waiting.Waiting for what, exactly? Release? Or is it simply... curiosity?Curiosity might be a kind word. The hospital chose to forget what happened there. But Vivienne... she doesn’t forget. She lingers where the air grows still and shadows lengthen.And yet, you speak of her almost... fondly, Florence.Because in death, as in life, she’s a part of Hollow Hill now. Part of its echoing silence, its whispered tragedies. Elijah, we don’t fear her anymore. We accept her.Acceptance, an admirable approach. Yet hauntingly fatalistic. And what would you suggest our dear listeners take away from her tale?Only this: If you see Vivienne Hart, smile politely, step aside, and never take the peppermint. Some offers... cannot be refused without consequence.And on that enigmatic note...We bid you farewell, dear listeners. Until next time, when we unlock yet another secret hidden within the walls of Hollow Hill. Rest easy... but do keep one eye open.Or both, if you’re wise. Goodnight.

Episodes

The Volunteer: Vivienne's Haunting Melody