The Endless Patient

Florence Frightengale

Welcome, dear listeners, to another shadowy stroll through the Frightengale Files. I’m Florence Frightengale, your spectral nurse for the evening, and as always, I’m joined by the ever-dramatic Dr. Elijah Blackwood. Elijah, are you ready to check in to the most unsettling room in Hollow Hill?

Unknown Speaker

Dramatic? I’ll have you know, Florence, I’m merely thorough. But yes, I suppose I’m as ready as one can be to discuss a room that seems to have a mind of its own. Room 616—just the number gives me chills. Or perhaps that’s the draft in this blasted studio.

Florence Frightengale

Oh, don’t blame the cold on the room, Elijah. You’re the one who insisted on keeping the window open for “atmosphere.” Tonight, we’re unraveling the tale of the Endless Patient—a man who arrives with perfect paperwork, but no one remembers admitting him. And the longer he stays, the stranger the hospital becomes.

Unknown Speaker

It’s a story of vanishing windows, shifting identities, and a fate that, frankly, I wouldn’t wish on my worst consultant. Shall we begin?

Florence Frightengale

Picture this: a male patient is wheeled into Room six one six. Everything looks proper—charts, signatures, the whole bureaucratic ballet. But when the admitting nurse is asked which department sent him, she just shakes her head. “He was already here,” she insists. Yet the timestamp on his record is from next week. Not yesterday, not today—next week.

Unknown Speaker

That’s the bit that gets me. I’ve seen plenty of administrative blunders, but a record from the future? That’s a new one, even for Hollow Hill. And when you, Florence, checked the intake logs, his name was simply “Mr. Nowhere.” Not Smith, not Jones—just... Nowhere.

Florence Frightengale

It’s as if the hospital itself was expecting him, but no one else was. And that’s never a good sign, is it?

Unknown Speaker

So, naturally, I did what any self-respecting physician would do—I checked his vitals. And they were perfect. Too perfect. Not a single fluctuation, not even a twitch. It’s like he was a waxwork, except for the faintest smile on his lips. Eyes closed, but not asleep. Not really awake, either.

Florence Frightengale

You tried the old knee reflex trick, didn’t you?

Unknown Speaker

Of course. And he spoke. “You shouldn’t touch what isn’t yours.” I’ll admit, I nearly dropped my reflex hammer. I mean, I’ve had patients snap at me before, but never quite like that.

Florence Frightengale

It’s unsettling when the patient seems to know more about the rules than the staff, isn’t it?

Florence Frightengale

Things only got stranger. The LPN assigned to 616—she just stopped. Fourteen minutes, standing motionless. I tried to get her attention, but she finally whispered, “He asked me not to breathe.” And then she collapsed. No pulse, no arrhythmia, nothing on the monitor. But she wasn’t dead. Just... unreadable.

Unknown Speaker

And her badge—her name had changed. “Property of 616.” I’ve seen staff get possessive about their wards, but that’s taking it a bit far, don’t you think?

Florence Frightengale

It’s as if the room was claiming her. Or maybe the patient was. Either way, it was the first sign that six one six wasn’t just a room. It was a trap.

Unknown Speaker

And then the room itself started to move. According to the staff logs, Room 616 was relocated three times in a single shift. Three different floors, three different locations, but always the same patient, same bed, same posture. Security footage showed him lying still in all three places at once. I mean, how do you even begin to explain that?

Florence Frightengale

It reminded me of the Gray Lift episode, actually. Places in Hollow Hill don’t always obey the laws of physics, or time, or even common sense. But this was the first time I’d seen a patient split across realities. Or maybe the hospital was splitting itself to contain him.

Unknown Speaker

Or to keep him from leaving. Either way, it was clear—616 was no ordinary room, and he was no ordinary patient.

Florence Frightengale

During a consult, the patient turned to me and recited the last words of my final living patient from 1910. Words I’d never shared with anyone. Then he called you by your birth name, Eliyyahu. The one you never use. Not even in your own head, I’d wager.

Unknown Speaker

I’ll admit, that rattled me. When I asked who he was, he just said, “I’m whoever you locked away.” It’s as if he was a mirror, reflecting back the things we’d rather forget. Or maybe the things the hospital itself can’t let go of.

Florence Frightengale

It’s a recurring theme, isn’t it? The hospital as a keeper of secrets, and sometimes, those secrets come back to haunt us.

Unknown Speaker

We tried to discharge him, of course. Every attempt—system error. The computer just refused. One doctor tried to move him to ICU and suffered a full-body seizure mid-transfer. And then, twelve minutes later, the clipboard burst into flames. Only the discharge form burned. The rest was untouched.

Florence Frightengale

It’s as if the hospital itself was protecting him. Or maybe protecting us from him. Either way, no one was getting out of six one six—not the patient, not the staff, not even the paperwork.

Florence Frightengale

Then the infection started. Three other patients in the same hallway—fever, hallucinations, and suddenly speaking in ancient tongues. Infection control was baffled. No pathogens, no bacteria, nothing. One patient told me, “He said the hospital is dreaming.”

Unknown Speaker

That’s the bit that sticks with me. The idea that the hospital itself could dream, and that we’re all just figments inside it. It’s not the first time we’ve seen collective phenomena like this—remember the North Wing’s shared nightmares?

Florence Frightengale

Yes, but this felt different. Less like a haunting, more like a contagion of unreality.

Unknown Speaker

And then the environment itself turned against us. The HVAC went mad—freezing one moment, boiling the next. Thermostats displaying numbers that made no sense, countdowns that never reached zero. You found frost on your stethoscope, didn’t you?

Florence Frightengale

I did. And the hallway was filled with moths. Not a single one before, and then suddenly, dozens. It was as if the hospital was trying to purge itself, or maybe signal that something was fundamentally wrong.

Florence Frightengale

In the nurses’ lounge, the mirror stopped showing the current staff. Instead, it reflected nurses long dead—faces I recognized from decades past. One reached through the glass, pointed toward six one six, and mouthed, “Stop the beating.” When I looked down, my badge had changed: “Nurse on Call – six one six Eternal.”

Unknown Speaker

It’s as if the room was rewriting reality, one detail at a time. Even your identity wasn’t safe. And the message—stop the beating—what do you think it meant?

Florence Frightengale

Perhaps the heart of the hospital is in that room. Or maybe it’s the patient himself, keeping everything in a perpetual state of unrest.

Unknown Speaker

Then there was the chart update from Dr. Ernest Vale. But he’s been dead since 1987. You remembered him, didn’t you, Florence?

Florence Frightengale

I did. He vanished during a code blue in that very hallway. And now, the patient was wearing his watch. It’s as if six one six collects people, or at least pieces of them, and never quite lets go.

Florence Frightengale

Shift change brought more confusion. Three nurses found standing around six one six , no idea how they got there. Every clock on them showed a different time. One whispered, “He keeps changing the rules.” And the whiteboard outside? “DO NOT RESUSCITATE UNLESS HE ASKS.”

Unknown Speaker

It’s as if the patient was in charge now, not the staff. The rules of medicine, of time, of reality—none of them applied anymore.

Unknown Speaker

When we returned to 616, the windows were gone. Just gone. You swore they were there yesterday, Florence.

Florence Frightengale

I did. And the IV bag was dripping ink, not saline. The call light didn’t ring—it whispered, “come back inside.” It was as if the room was sealing itself off, erasing any way out.

Florence Frightengale

We tried to leave. Took the elevator from the 6th floor to the 1st, but every time, the doors opened back on the 6th. On the fourth loop, the patient was waiting inside. He smiled and said, “You almost left without me.”

Unknown Speaker

It’s like the Gray Lift all over again—trapped in a loop, unable to escape until the hospital, or whatever’s inside it, decides to let you go.

Unknown Speaker

Then the staff began to change. One by one, they took on the patient’s features—the same smile, the same posture. I confronted a nurse in the breakroom, and her face just... fell off. Like a mask. Underneath, a mouth full of teeth said, “One of you must stay.”

Florence Frightengale

It was as if the room was choosing its next resident. Or maybe it was never about the patient at all, but about the cycle—one in, one out.

Florence Frightengale

That’s when I realized the date—June 16th. The same date I lost an entire shift staff in 1899. I dug into the archives and found a name: “Patient Six-Sixteen. Status: Never Discharged.” I was the last nurse on shift that night. I’d forgotten, or maybe the hospital made me forget.

Unknown Speaker

It’s as if the room, or the patient, or the hospital itself, keeps us trapped in these cycles. Repeating, erasing, starting again.

Unknown Speaker

Events began to loop. Same codes, same emergencies. Nurses living entire shifts and forgetting. six one six remained untouched. Time didn’t move inside. I was found stitching my own coat closed, muttering, “He’ll take the open ones first.” I don’t even remember doing it.

Florence Frightengale

It’s a kind of purgatory, isn’t it? The hospital as a living memory, refusing to let go of its own pain.

Florence Frightengale

Then came the burn order. Administration sent an urgent code: “Initiate Protocol: Purge six one six .” The sprinklers activated, but instead of water, they rained old patient photos. Every face was the same man. That’s when I realized—we couldn’t purge six one six . We were inside it.

Unknown Speaker

It’s a horrifying thought. The idea that you’re not just in the room—you are the room. Or at least, you’re part of its story now.

Unknown Speaker

A note appeared on the patient’s chest: “One out, one in.” Florence, you volunteered. But I stopped you. “He’s already taken me,” I said. And then the patient opened his eyes—and they were yours, Florence. Your eyes, staring back at you.

Florence Frightengale

It was as if the room had chosen. Or maybe it was always going to end this way. One of us had to stay, and one of us had to remember.

Florence Frightengale

And then, suddenly, Room six one six was empty. Perfectly made bed, no record of a patient at all. I resumed my shift. No one remembered the incident. Except now, the room number appears in the main lobby directory—with my name listed as resident physician.

Unknown Speaker

It’s as if the cycle resets, but the story lingers. The hospital never really lets go, does it?

Florence Frightengale

Thank you, dear listeners, for braving another night with us in the Frightengale Files. If you enjoyed tonight’s tale, do check out patreon.com/FlorenceFrightengale for exclusive content and extra chills.

Unknown Speaker

And remember, if you ever find yourself in Room 616, don’t touch what isn’t yours. Or better yet, don’t check in at all.

Florence Frightengale

Sleep tight, and may your shift never end. Goodnight, Elijah.

Unknown Speaker

Goodnight, Florence. And goodnight to all our listeners—until next time, keep your eyes open and your badges close.