The Haunting of Hollow Hill

Unknown Speaker

Ah, laughter—an unmistakable signature of the human spirit, don't you think? Infectious, disarming, a universal cheer. But what if...

Unknown Speaker

what if it didn’t come from the living?

Florence Frightengale

Or, perhaps, not even from humans at all. Imagine, Elijah—a dusty theatre, forgotten, with echoes trapped like moths in its curtains.

Unknown Speaker

A theatre? Intriguing. And who or what might these echoes belong to? Careful—

Unknown Speaker

I may start diagnosing your ghosts at this rate.

Florence Frightengale

Diagnose away, if it comforts you. But let me paint you a scene, dear listeners... Imagine laughter, faint, slipping through tiny cracks in an abandoned stage. Not from an audience, no, nor from mischief...

Florence Frightengale

but giggles that stir even as the puppets do not move—at least, not on their own.

Unknown Speaker

Puppets? Now that's unsettling. Florence, you do have the rare gift of making the mundane utterly sinister.

Florence Frightengale

Oh, but these were never mundane. I assure you, the shadows here are stitched into their strings. Welcome, listeners... to a tale where the wooden limbs creak, the painted eyes seem to follow, and no sound is without intention. Shall we?

Florence Frightengale

This theatre, Elijah—the one where laughter lingers and shadows cling—did not begin as a cradle of joy, but rather as a rushed remedy, a hurried creation with secrets in its very foundation.

Florence Frightengale

an old waiting room, hastily transformed into a stage for the sick, to distract them with painted smiles and fluttering wooden limbs.

Unknown Speaker

Bizarre. A theatre for sick children, you say? Was it entertainment or a folly of desperation?

Florence Frightengale

Perhaps both. But Dr. Penny, though a master of routines, was no ordinary entertainer. A painted grin, oversized shoes, and that bag—

Florence Frightengale

a bag of many puppets, each one seemingly… animated by mischief—or intent.

Unknown Speaker

Mischief? Let me guess, one of them spoke without a ventriloquist pulling the strings?

Florence Frightengale

Oh, far more than speaking, Doctor. There was Frederick, a fox with brass eyes that glinted far too keenly in the dim light. And Miss Winks—the ballerina with, quite unnervingly, no mouth to speak of—

Florence Frightengale

but she turned her head with deliberate grace, as though she saw things the rest of us could not.

Unknown Speaker

Mechanical tricks, no doubt. Clever craftsmanship.

Florence Frightengale

Crafted, surely. But these were no simple marionettes. Do you know about The Surgeon? Dressed in scrubs, hands unsettlingly elongated as if they—

Unknown Speaker

Wait, elongated? Surely you’re jesting, Florence.

Florence Frightengale

Would that I were. The Surgeon had an aura, as if its strings wove shadow into stitches, and wherever it performed, that air grew so… very… still.

Unknown Speaker

Curious. Yet I imagine the children found it more absurd than alarming—

Florence Frightengale

At first, yes. But something always shifted by the end. The laughter… it sounded trapped, forced as though the puppets told jokes only they truly understood.

Unknown Speaker

Hah! And were there reports of these puppets wandering the corridors after hours too?

Florence Frightengale

Not corridors, Elijah—later. But during the days I worked amid war and dwindling light, we had our own theatre once. Far away, yet strangely… familiar. A soldier once swore the props whispered.

Unknown Speaker

Whispered? Good heavens, Florence, your colleagues must've chalked it up to fatigue.

Florence Frightengale

Some, perhaps. But tell me, do shadows often sway when no hand moves them?

Unknown Speaker

Is that your subtle way of saying “prepare yourself”? I must admit, you're building quite the grim allure for this story. Pray continue.

Florence Frightengale

Ah, Elijah, then came that stormy Tuesday—rain clawing at the hospital windows, shadows in the theatre stretching like living things, while pale parents huddled under the dim light, caught between dread and weariness.

Unknown Speaker

A fittingly grim setting. And Dr. Penny, I assume, made yet another peculiar entrance?

Florence Frightengale

Quite the opposite. His entrance was subdued, almost ceremonial. He bowed, as always… and announced a “very special performance.” The curtain rose, revealing Frederick, Miss Winks, and The Surgeon upon their wooden stage.

Unknown Speaker

And this was when the puppets began their… what? An excruciating comedy of sorts?

Florence Frightengale

No. It was something far more insidious. Frederick blinked. Miss Winks turned her head—sl-o-w-ly—as though she were looking directly at each child, one by one.

Unknown Speaker

Wait, what? A blinking puppet? Surely someone saw the strings tugged, did they not?

Florence Frightengale

No strings moved, Elijah. And then The Surgeon…

Florence Frightengale

whispered.

Unknown Speaker

Whispered? Impossible—a puppet cannot generate sound!

Florence Frightengale

And yet it did. The audience froze, their breaths catching in synchronized disbelief, as though their lives had become strings pulled taut. The puppets began to reenact surgeries—

Florence Frightengale

needles pressing into imaginary skin, cries echoing from nowhere. And the laughter. A child's laughter, warped and endless, looped over groaning wood and muted screams.

Unknown Speaker

Dear heavens, that must’ve sent the crowd into hysterics. Was there a stampede for the door?

Florence Frightengale

No hysterics. Not even a whisper. They were trapped in stunned silence. And then, Elijah…

Florence Frightengale

the lights blew out.

Unknown Speaker

Ah, of course. How frightfully cliché.

Florence Frightengale

But when they flickered back on, Dr. Penny had vanished. The children were sobbing. And the puppets?

Florence Frightengale

They sat in the front row, as though they were the audience all along.

Unknown Speaker

Preposterous. Were there no investigations? Surely this vanished doctor became a topic of interest to someone.

Florence Frightengale

Oh, investigations were conducted. For years. But no trace of Dr. Penny ever surfaced. What remained, however, was the theatre itself. Locked. Sealed. Condemned.

Unknown Speaker

And yet, the legend persists. Elaborate tales of restless wooden limbs, no doubt invented to entertain or frighten the feeble-minded.

Florence Frightengale

You would think so, wouldn’t you? But tell me, how would you explain the tangled IV tubes—the nurses who reported whispers behind closed curtains? Or children shrieking in their dreams, gasping “He’s under the stage”?

Unknown Speaker

Coincidences or… imagination, perhaps. What about this janitorial vanishing act you hinted at earlier?

Florence Frightengale

Ah, yes. One poor soul—a janitor—disappeared while mopping near the theatre doors late one night. All they found was his flashlight, inexplicably angled to shine directly at the sealed puppet stage.

Unknown Speaker

And the stage? Surely, nothing was there.

Florence Frightengale

On the contrary. The puppets were seated, quite patiently. Three of them. And The Surgeon…

Florence Frightengale

had red stains on his painted hands.

Unknown Speaker

Painted… Florence, you cannot expect me to—

Florence Frightengale

Ah, Elijah, what you believe is hardly the concern here. What remains certain is that the theatre’s silence was never empty. Even now, the puppets seem to… linger.

Florence Frightengale

On every October's third Tuesday—the anniversary of that night—a sound rises from the silence within the sealed theatre. Not just any sound... but the faint, unmistakable echo of laughter.

Unknown Speaker

An echo? Specifics, Florence—what do you mean by that?

Florence Frightengale

Applause, Elijah. Faint, as though filtered through decades of dust. Curtains shifting slightly, though the air is undisturbed. And if you were to place your ear to the door, you’d hear...

Florence Frightengale

a performance.

Unknown Speaker

How charmingly absurd. A spectral performance, you say? Does the good doctor still bow to his invisible audience?

Florence Frightengale

Perhaps. Or perhaps it is not his bow, but his punishment. For some, Elijah, roles are irreversible. Eternal. Think of me, confined to haunt these halls—a nurse both in life and beyond. The echoes of duty resonate far longer than we imagine.

Unknown Speaker

Fascinating premise, Florence. But alas, belief requires more than eerie anecdotes. Spectral theatrics and puppets with painted hands can’t quite—

Florence Frightengale

Oh, but they do. The Surgeon’s hands were red, Elijah. Fresh, as though he had been working. And the applause that rattles the walls is joined, each year, by laughter. Not joyous, no. Something twisted. Warped.

Unknown Speaker

Laughter again. It does seem to follow these stories persistently, doesn’t it? But tell me this—has anyone dared step inside since that October night?

Florence Frightengale

No one living, that I know of. Though those who work here speak of figures seen crossing beneath the stage in the dead of night. Strings, tangled across equipment. And voices—soft, rhythmic—a whisper of “encore,” growing louder as the date draws near.

Unknown Speaker

And yet, these tales could merely be the inventions of feverish imagination. Surely you don’t credit every creak and groan to the dancing of these infernal puppets?

Florence Frightengale

Not every one, no. But would an imaginary performance leave those who listen weeping in the hallways? Would mere fiction stain the hands of The Surgeon again and again?

Unknown Speaker

Hmph. I suppose we’ll never know without stepping inside. Though I must confess, your accounts are… disquieting.

Florence Frightengale

Disquieting, indeed. But tell me, Elijah—would you place your ear against that door this October? Would you brave the laughter that is neither alive nor dead?

Unknown Speaker

You make it sound irresistibly dreadful. Perhaps I shall. After all, some legends must be confronted head-on, mustn't they?

Florence Frightengale

Perhaps. Or perhaps there are some stages best left undisturbed.

Florence Frightengale

And so, here we linger, dear listeners, at the edge of our tale. The curtains may seem drawn, yet within the theatre, the echoes stir, and the laughter persists.

Unknown Speaker

A chilling story, Florence. But surely, such echoes are the byproduct of collective hysteria—a lingering imagination stretched too thin.

Florence Frightengale

Perhaps, Elijah. Or perhaps such stages and their actors persist, waiting for the next unwitting audience. After all, some roles are… forever.

Unknown Speaker

Hmph. A tantalizing thought, though I suspect you revel in leaving us dangling, Florence.

Florence Frightengale

Oh, I wouldn’t dare deny it. But as the clock ticks, the shadows deepen, and so we part for now.

Florence Frightengale

Until next time, dear listeners. Mind the stage. For some whispers linger, and you never know who might be listening.

Unknown Speaker

Or clapping, perhaps?

Florence Frightengale

Perhaps. Goodnight… and remember, not all applause is an invitation.