The Hag’s Rounds: Two Patients, No Survivors

Florence Frightengale

Welcome back, dear listeners, to another shadowy stroll through the Frightengale Files. I’m Florence Frightengale, and I must say, it’s good to be back after my little... holiday. I promise, I didn’t haunt a single beach chair. Well, not for long.

Unknown Speaker

And I’m Dr. Elijah Blackwood, still here, still un-haunted—at least by Florence. I trust your vacation was less restful for the locals than for yourself, Florence?

Florence Frightengale

Oh, you know me, Elijah. I do like to leave a lasting impression. But tonight, I’ve brought back something far more chilling than a sunburn. Shall we begin?

Unknown Speaker

Indeed. Tonight’s tale is not for the faint of heart. We’re peeling back the sheets on one of Hollow Hill’s oldest legends. Bed 7. Where the line between visitor and victim is... well, let’s just say it’s thin as a hospital gown.

Florence Frightengale

So, you’ve come back for more, have you? I do admire your appetite for the macabre. I’ve been saving this one, you know. It’s a story that lingers, like the scent of antiseptic and old secrets.

Unknown Speaker

Let me warn you, this isn’t one of those newfangled ghost stories. This is one of the old ones. Whispered among staff for decades, passed down like a bad habit. Bed 7—Room 7—call it what you will, but everyone knows there’s something that waits there. Something that doesn’t like to be forgotten.

Florence Frightengale

And tonight, we’ll draw back the curtain and see what’s been waiting all this time.

Florence Frightengale

It began, as these things often do, with a new arrival. A young boy, barely old enough to know fear, was moved into Bed 7 after the last patient... well, let’s just say they stopped being a problem.

Unknown Speaker

You know, Florence, patients without visitors are the easiest to forget. No one to ask after them, no one to notice when they’re gone. But sometimes, those are the hardest to lose. They linger. And this boy—he was not the type to be forgotten. Not by you, not by the hospital, and certainly not by whatever else was waiting in that room.

Florence Frightengale

He was special. The kind you remember, even when you wish you didn’t.

Florence Frightengale

I’ll confess, I watched him. Through the ceiling tiles, listening to the hiss of the oxygen. It’s easy to hide in a hospital, if you know where to look. And I always do.

Unknown Speaker

Hospital ceilings, they carry more than dust. They carry presence. Echoes. Sometimes, if you listen closely, you can hear more than the pipes. You can hear the watchers. And from the moment that boy arrived, he was never truly alone. Not for a second.

Florence Frightengale

No, not alone. Not ever again.

Florence Frightengale

I like to start small. A twitch in the blanket, a breath that wasn’t his. Just enough to make him wonder if he was imagining things. Or if something was imagining him.

Unknown Speaker

On the battlefield, even the smallest signs—a flicker, a shiver—could foretell the end. In the wards, it’s no different. But here, the signs weren’t warnings. They were invitations. Deliberate, I’d say.

Florence Frightengale

Oh, very deliberate. Every little movement, a message: you’re not alone.

Florence Frightengale

Then came the sound. A dragging, scraping noise from under the bed. Not the sort of thing you can blame on a mop or a lost slipper.

Unknown Speaker

Ah, the old legends of “floor creepers.” Every hospital has them, don’t they? Shadows that move just out of sight, things that live beneath the beds. I remember stories from my earliest days—nurses who swore they’d never work nights again after hearing those sounds.

Florence Frightengale

And in this case, the night nurse never did. She handed in her badge before sunrise.

Florence Frightengale

By the fourth night, the boy couldn’t sleep. He was certain something sat in the chair by his bed, all night long. He’d stare at it, eyes wide, waiting for it to move. Or breathe.

Unknown Speaker

Fear-induced insomnia in children is common, but it’s always worse when the fear is justified. And when the staff finally checked, the chair had a deep indent, cold to the touch. As if someone—or something—had been sitting there for hours.

Florence Frightengale

He wasn’t wrong. Not about that.

Florence Frightengale

I visited him nightly, letting his fear grow. It’s a kindness, really, to let them get used to the dark before you become it.

Unknown Speaker

Terror is most potent when you give it room to ripen. Let it ferment. By the time you’re ready to harvest, it’s already halfway yours.

Florence Frightengale

He was already halfway mine. Poor thing.

Florence Frightengale

On the sixth night, I climbed onto the bed. Slow, careful, so he’d feel every shift in the mattress. Every breath on his cheek.

Unknown Speaker

His vitals would have been steady—right up until they weren’t. That’s the moment, isn’t it? When they know you’re there. When the fear becomes real.

Florence Frightengale

He knew. Oh, he knew.

Florence Frightengale

I leaned in, so close our foreheads touched. He was frozen, eyes wide, breath shallow. I whispered, “You’re not leaving this bed.”

Unknown Speaker

Proximity like that—it’s paralyzing. The body knows before the mind does. He couldn’t have moved if he’d tried.

Florence Frightengale

He didn’t try. He just listened.

Unknown Speaker

The official record says his vitals were stable at midnight. By four a.m., he was gone. No warning, no struggle. Just... gone.

Florence Frightengale

But there was nothing sudden about it. It was inevitable. The kind of ending you see coming from the first twitch of the blanket.

Unknown Speaker

Bed 7 was never the same after that. Not for the staff, not for the patients, and certainly not for me.

Florence Frightengale

I’ve always preferred the quiet ones. The ones who watch, who listen, instead of fight. They make the best company.

Unknown Speaker

Silence is often a surrender, Florence. A way of saying, “I’m yours.”

Florence Frightengale

He was the perfect patient. Never screamed, never ran. Just... watched.

Florence Frightengale

No family came for him. No friends. Only me. I was his only visitor, and he learned to expect me. Every night.

Unknown Speaker

Hospitals remember the loneliest patients the longest. Their stories echo in the walls, long after the charts are cleared.

Florence Frightengale

He knew I’d be there. He stopped waiting for anyone else.

Florence Frightengale

I watched the staff bag his body, strip the bed, clear the chart. They moved quickly, as if speed could erase what happened.

Unknown Speaker

But the room’s history didn’t leave with the sheets. It never does. The walls remember. The floor remembers. And so do you, Florence.

Florence Frightengale

I stayed behind. Someone had to.

Unknown Speaker

Curious detail—the security footage from the hallway outside Bed 7 cuts out at exactly 3:33 a.m. every night. No explanation. No technical fault. Just... darkness.

Florence Frightengale

Oh, Elijah, you know no camera has ever kept me out. I do love a bit of privacy. If you don’t believe me, go check the tapes yourself. I’ll wait.

Unknown Speaker

You won’t see much. But you might feel something.

Florence Frightengale

So, I dare you—yes, you listening—to lie on that pillow, close your eyes, and see what comes to visit. If you’re brave enough.

Unknown Speaker

I wouldn’t do it myself. But I’ll admit, the temptation is there. The experience, I suspect, would be... unforgettable.

Florence Frightengale

You’ll never forget it. Not as long as you live.

Florence Frightengale

You’ll feel it first—a slow weight settling beside you. The mattress dipping, the air growing cold. It’s not just pressure, you know. It’s possession.

Unknown Speaker

It’s the most common complaint in haunted beds. “Something sat beside me.” “I couldn’t move.” But it’s never just the weight. It’s the claim. The taking.

Florence Frightengale

And once you’ve felt it, you’re never quite alone again.

Florence Frightengale

I’m not finished with Bed 7. Not by a long shot. Some rooms are never cleansed, only claimed. And this one—this one is mine.

Unknown Speaker

Some rooms, Florence, are never meant to be empty. They’re waiting. For you, for me, for the next unlucky soul.

Florence Frightengale

But for now, it’s mine. All mine.

Florence Frightengale

Other beds have seen visitors. But none like this. None so persistent, so... possessive.

Unknown Speaker

Hauntings this specific are rare. And dangerous. Bed 7 belongs to you now, Florence. I hope you’re a gracious host.

Florence Frightengale

Oh, I am. I always am.

Florence Frightengale

I’m patient. Someone will end up there again. They always do. Hospitals never stay empty for long.

Unknown Speaker

It’s better not to know who. Sometimes, ignorance is the only protection we have. But if you’re listening, and you find yourself in Bed 7... well, you’ve been warned.

Florence Frightengale

Maybe it’ll be you. Maybe it already is.

Florence Frightengale

If you come to Bed 7, you’ll never have to leave. I promise. I’m always watching. Always waiting.

Unknown Speaker

That’s a rather chilling promise, Florence. I suppose that’s why you’re the legend and I’m just the doctor. Shall we move on to our next story, or do you want to keep our listeners up all night?

Florence Frightengale

Oh, let’s give them a little hope, Elijah. Just a little. Our next tale takes us to Treatment Room 3. For “minor procedures” that never stay minor for long.

Florence Frightengale

You’re still hungry for her, aren’t you? The Hag does love a faithful audience. And her stories are never quite finished—because she isn’t.

Unknown Speaker

Treatment Room 3, then. A place for the small things that become... much larger, if you’re not careful. Shall we?

Florence Frightengale

Let’s.

Florence Frightengale

A middle-aged man, nothing remarkable, wheeled in for a routine wound cleaning. The sort of patient who expects to be out before lunch.

Unknown Speaker

His chart showed nothing serious. No complications, no red flags. Which, as we both know, is exactly the kind you like, Florence.

Florence Frightengale

Oh, the ordinary ones are always the tastiest.

Florence Frightengale

While the nurses prepped their instruments, something else slipped in. Unseen, but not unfelt. The temperature dropped—just a little, but enough to make the hairs on your arms stand up.

Unknown Speaker

It’s in the log, actually. Sudden drop in room temperature, unexplained. The Hag made herself comfortable in the corner, as she does.

Florence Frightengale

I do like a good vantage point.

Florence Frightengale

The man shivered, glancing toward the corner. He didn’t know why, not yet. But he’d already noticed me.

Unknown Speaker

Patient anxiety before procedures is common. But when it spikes without reason, you know something’s off. Something—or someone—has made contact.

Florence Frightengale

He was right to be afraid.

Florence Frightengale

He heard a breath, too close to his ear. The nurse thought he was reacting to the antiseptic fumes. But I call it my introduction.

Unknown Speaker

Introductions are important, Florence. But yours tend to linger. Listeners, if you ever feel a breath on your neck in an empty room, you know who to blame.

Florence Frightengale

I do like to make an impression.

Florence Frightengale

Shadows began to pool behind his chair, darker than they should be. The fluorescent light overhead flickered—three times, as per the maintenance report. Those flickers were invitations.

Unknown Speaker

Invitations, or warnings? Hard to say. But in Hollow Hill, a flickering light is never just a faulty bulb.

Florence Frightengale

It’s a door. And I always walk through.

Florence Frightengale

I rested a cold, heavy hand on his shoulder. He jumped, heart racing. I leaned in, close enough for his skin to prickle.

Unknown Speaker

Vital signs spiked—heart rate from 82 to 150 in seconds. Classic response to a presence. Listeners, pay attention to unusual shadows or cold spots. They’re often signs of Florence’s company.

Florence Frightengale

I do hope you’re paying attention.

Florence Frightengale

I told him, “I’m just here to watch.” But that’s never true, is it?

Unknown Speaker

Never. When Florence says she’s just watching, it’s only the warm-up. The real show is yet to come.

Florence Frightengale

And I never disappoint.

Florence Frightengale

His limbs felt too heavy to move. No medical reason, nothing in the chart. Just the weight of my attention, holding him in place.

Unknown Speaker

Sudden paralysis, unexplained. It’s not in the textbooks, but it’s real enough. The moment he realized he was trapped—that’s the moment you savor, isn’t it, Florence?

Florence Frightengale

Every time.

Florence Frightengale

His eyes darted toward the corner, seeing what no one else did. The staff wrote, “patient appears agitated without cause.” But his eyes told me he knew.

Unknown Speaker

Sometimes, the eyes see what the mind refuses to accept. And sometimes, that’s all the invitation you need.

Florence Frightengale

He saw me. That’s all I ever ask.

Florence Frightengale

The nurses focused on their work, oblivious to my presence. They stood right in my path and felt nothing. I moved closer anyway.

Unknown Speaker

That’s the thing about hauntings, Florence. The living rarely notice until it’s far too late.

Florence Frightengale

And by then, I’m already there.

Florence Frightengale

I leaned against him, just enough to make him struggle for breath. His oxygen dipped, but only for him. I listened to the panic in his shallow breaths.

Unknown Speaker

Oxygen saturation drops, unexplained. The staff never notice, but the patient always does. Panic is a language you speak fluently, Florence.

Florence Frightengale

It’s my mother tongue.

Florence Frightengale

I stepped in front of him, bending low, so he had no choice but to look at me. His pupils dilated, wide and wild. I smiled, wide enough for him to understand—I was staying.

Unknown Speaker

Pupil dilation, rapid and unnatural. The body knows what the mind cannot say. He understood, Florence. He truly did.

Florence Frightengale

And that’s all I ever want.

Florence Frightengale

I whispered, “When they roll you out... I’ll still be with you.” And I meant it. I always do.

Unknown Speaker

Promises like that, Florence, are always kept. The man’s breathing quickened, but there was nowhere left to run.

Florence Frightengale

He knew he’d never be alone again.

Florence Frightengale

As the nurses finished, they noticed his eyes following something over their shoulders. The chart reads, “visual fixation on empty space.” Empty? How rude.

Unknown Speaker

Empty space is never truly empty in Hollow Hill. If you see someone looking where no one stands, perhaps you should look, too.

Florence Frightengale

You might not like what you find.

Florence Frightengale

As they finished, his head lolled to the side. The staff scrambled, but I didn’t move. I never do.

Unknown Speaker

Vital signs crashed, no warning. The staff did what they could, but it was already too late. Florence had claimed another.

Florence Frightengale

He was mine, from the moment he saw me.

Florence Frightengale

Time of death: 3:14 a.m. Odd, since he was brought in at 2:45 for a procedure that lasted six minutes. The rest of the time was mine.

Unknown Speaker

Time moves differently when you’re haunted. The records never quite match the experience, do they?

Florence Frightengale

Not when I’m involved.

Florence Frightengale

The staff cleaned the room, rolled in another patient before sunrise. The man’s gurney left faint, wet tracks in the hallway. I stayed seated in the same corner, waiting.

Unknown Speaker

The living move on quickly, but the marks remain. Sometimes, you have to look closely to see them. Sometimes, you just have to feel.

Florence Frightengale

I never leave. Not really.

Florence Frightengale

The next patient kept turning his head toward my corner. He felt me, even if he didn’t see me. He will, soon enough.

Unknown Speaker

Chart notes: “unexplained distress.” It’s always unexplained, until you know where to look. Or who to ask.

Florence Frightengale

And I’ll get to him. I always do.

Florence Frightengale

So, dear listener, I invite you—come sit in the treatment chair after hours. See what happens when the lights flicker and the shadows grow long. If you do, you’ll never face a procedure alone again.

Unknown Speaker

I’d advise against it, but I’ll admit, curiosity is a powerful thing. Just remember, Florence keeps her promises.

Florence Frightengale

And I promise, you’ll never be alone again.

Unknown Speaker

That’s all for tonight’s descent into the darkness of Hollow Hill. If you’re still with us, congratulations—you’re braver than most.

Florence Frightengale

Do tune in next Friday, if you dare, for another tale from the Frightengale Files. Until then, keep your eyes open, your lights on, and your beds... well, maybe just don’t look under them.

Unknown Speaker

Goodnight, Florence. Try not to haunt too many dreams tonight.

Florence Frightengale

No promises, Elijah. Goodnight, dear listeners. Sleep tight—if you can.