Welcome back, dear listeners, to another shadowy stroll through the Frightengale Files. I’m Florence Frightengale, and as always, I’m joined by the ever-curious Dr. Elijah Blackwood.Thank you, Florence. It’s good to be back, though I must say, tonight’s topic has me feeling a bit... uneasy. We’re delving into the infamous haunted hallway—where whispers have lingered for over a century. It’s not just a corridor, is it? It’s a place that seems to remember you, sometimes even before you remember yourself.Quite right. And the question we’ll be circling tonight: What happens when a place begins to remember your name? Let’s find out, shall we?So, Hallway 10. For those unfamiliar with Hollow Hill’s labyrinthine layout, Hallway 10 sits just beyond the old surgical wing, sealed off after a series of... incidents. It’s become a legend among staff—no one quite agrees on what happened, but everyone agrees you don’t linger there.It’s the sort of place that gets whispered about in break rooms. “Don’t answer back,” they say. That’s the warning. If you hear your name, keep walking. Don’t even look over your shoulder.It’s almost become a rite of passage for new staff—survive a night shift without hearing your name in Hallway 10, and you’re in the clear. Or so they hope.One of the earliest stories comes from a night nurse—she was making her rounds, utterly alone, when she heard her name, soft as a sigh, from the darkness. She said it was like being called home and lost at the same time.She reported feeling completely disoriented afterward—couldn’t recall which floor she was on, or how much time had passed. I mean, isolation and fatigue can do strange things to the mind, but there’s a line, isn’t there? When the imagined starts to feel more real than the corridor beneath your feet.Exactly. And in a place like Hollow Hill, that line is paper-thin.There are so many reports of time behaving oddly in that hallway. Clocks freeze, watches skip ahead. One staff member swore she’d only been gone a minute, but when they found her, she’d been missing for forty-five.It’s as if the whispers themselves bend time, or perhaps they’re just a symptom of something else at work. I always wonder—are the voices causing the distortion, or is the distortion what lets the voices in?Chicken and egg, isn’t it? Either way, you come out changed.There’s a pattern, too—names whispered over and over, usually those of staff who’ve just left, or worse, just died. It’s as if the hallway is echoing, or maybe it’s calling to the living, trying to fill a vacancy.There was that case—a nurse heard her mother’s voice, her mother who’d passed years before, calling her back. That’s not just an echo. That’s something reaching out, or in.It makes you wonder if the hallway is a mouth, or an ear. Or both.Not all the whispers are sinister, though. There was an incident—a nurse was told, quite clearly, to step back. Moments later, a ceiling tile crashed down where she’d been standing.Protective, perhaps. Or manipulative. I find it unsettling that the hallway seems to choose who it warns. Some get saved, others... not so much.Selective mercy. Or maybe it’s just playing favorites.Some staff have reported hearing whispers in languages no one can quite place. Not Latin, not Greek—something older, maybe. Elijah, you once said some of the words resembled ancient lamentation rites?Yes, or at least the cadence. There’s a rhythm to it, like mourning songs from long before our time. But then there was that one word—“remember”—spoken in a tone that didn’t feel human at all.It’s the kind of voice that lingers in your bones, not your ears.And then there’s the door. No handle, no keyhole, just a slab of wood, always cold to the touch. Staff say they hear soft knocking from the other side, but it never opens.Some say it’s just a relic from old architecture, a forgotten broom closet. Others think something was sealed inside, and the knocking is a reminder it’s still waiting.I’d rather not find out which is true, to be honest.There are at least two documented cases of staff who vanished during their shifts—last seen near Hallway 9, just adjacent. Their voices were reportedly heard days later, calling for help from somewhere no one could reach.And yet, those disappearances never made it into the official records. It’s as if the hospital itself wanted to forget. Or maybe the hallway did the remembering for them.Either way, the silence around those cases is almost as chilling as the whispers themselves.Decades ago, children in the ward played a game—one would whisper into the hallway, and the other would listen at the far end. One always answered. The other... sometimes didn’t come back.I’ll admit, I once stopped a child mid-game. The whispers got louder that night, as if the hallway was cross with me. I never let them play again.Sometimes, the games we play with the dark play back.There are stories of staff hearing loved ones—mothers, partners, even children—calling them into the hallway. It’s a powerful lure, especially on long, lonely nights.But I don’t think it’s imitation. I think it’s memory, weaponized. The hallway doesn’t just mimic; it digs into what you most want to hear and throws it back at you.That’s what makes it so dangerous. It knows what you’re missing.So what do these voices want? Attention? Obedience? There was a CNA who answered aloud—just a simple “yes?”—and she lost her voice for three days. Couldn’t speak a word.I think the whispers are collecting echoes, piecing together a voice of their own. Every answer, every response, gives them a little more to work with.That’s a chilling thought, Florence. A voice built from fragments of the living.A medium once came to investigate. She lasted twelve minutes before fleeing, blood trickling from her ears. She said the space was “thick with unfinished words.”Her final note read, “It wants to be remembered.” That’s the part that haunts me. Not what it is, but what it wants.Sometimes, wanting to be remembered is the most dangerous desire of all.There was one night—no whispers at all. Staff described a dread so thick it was hard to breathe. That same night, a patient in a distant ward died, and none of the alarms or monitors went off.It makes you wonder if the whispers are a distraction, a curtain drawn over something else moving unseen. Silence, in that place, is never empty.Sometimes, the absence of a voice is the loudest warning.I suppose it’s time I confess—I once walked the length of Hallway 9, just to see if the stories were true. I heard the voice of a soldier I’d lost in Crimea, one I never got to say goodbye to. I didn’t speak, but something whispered, “Thank you for not answering.”That’s the thing, isn’t it? Sometimes, the greatest kindness is silence.I’m not sure the hallway is haunted, not in the traditional sense. It feels alive, in its own way—a construct of grief, memory, and repetition. A place that remembers more than it should.If it calls your name, walk away. That’s not your memory speaking. It’s something trying to make one of you. And trust me, you don’t want to be remembered by a place like that.That brings us to the end of tonight’s journey through the haunted halls. If you’re still listening in the dark, perhaps leave a light on, just in case.Thank you for joining us, dear listeners. If you crave more spectral tales, you can find us at patreon.com/FlorenceFrightengale. Until next time, keep your wits about you—and never answer when the hallway calls.Goodnight, Florence. Goodnight, all. Sleep well—if you can.Goodnight, Elijah. And goodnight to all our haunted hearts out there.

Episodes

Whispers from Hallway