Hydrotherapy Wing Hauntings

Florence Frightengale

You came back… How brave. Or… how foolish.”

Florence Frightengale

“There are places in Hollow Hill where the air never quite settles. Where the silence stretches... then tightens. Where the hum beneath the floorboards doesn’t come from electricity—but memory.

Unknown Speaker

“Welcome back, dear listener. If you’ve returned, either you missed us… or something followed you here.”

Florence Frightengale

“Tonight begins a new file. A wet one. One that seeps up through the seams of sanity.”

Unknown Speaker

“We call this case… The Woman in the Drain.”

Florence Frightengale

Tonight, we descend into the Hydrotherapy Wing of Hollow Hill Hospital—a place where, they say, even the dead hum beneath the tile. I always found it odd, Elijah, how the quietest wards are never truly silent. There’s a pulse, a sort of... vibration, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath.

Unknown Speaker

You know, Florence, I’m not one for ghost stories—at least, not without a bit of evidence. I’d wager half these so-called hauntings are just the old ventilation system. Pipes and vents can mimic voices, especially in a building this ancient. But, well, I’ll let our listeners judge for themselves. We’ve got a recording here—listen closely.

Florence Frightengale

That’s the drip. Rhythmic, isn’t it? Like knuckles tapping on metal, or a heartbeat echoing through water. The staff first caught it after midnight, when the corridors narrow and footsteps echo like you’re walking through someone else’s dream.

Unknown Speaker

Nurses swear the sound only starts after lights-out. I’m skeptical, but I’ll admit, the cadence feels... intentional. Almost as if something’s waiting for you to notice.

Florence Frightengale

If you’re listening on headphones, tell us—does it sound like water, or breathing? Or perhaps both? Sometimes, I think the dead are just waiting for someone to listen.

Unknown Speaker

Let’s talk about the Hydrotherapy Wing itself. In 1987, after a monsoon flooded the lower floors, the administrators had no choice but to unseal it. Imagine: a relic of “treatment by drowning,” locked away for decades, suddenly exposed to the living again.

Florence Frightengale

I remember the first time I saw it—tiles blistered and peeling, drains yawning open like mouths. Yet the floor was bone-dry, cold as a crypt. It was built for people no one wanted to touch, really. A sanitarium inside a hospital, hidden in plain sight.

Unknown Speaker

And the plumbing—severed years before. No water should have been able to reach those drains. Any moisture, any drip, should have been impossible. Yet, listen to this—field tape from the night they reopened the wing. That hollow clank? That’s from a grate that was supposed to be filled with concrete. So, what exactly is moving beneath our feet?

Florence Frightengale

Let me introduce you to Nurse Edith. Iron nerves, that one. She had a reputation for wisdom behind locked doors—never rattled, not even by the worst night shifts. But even Edith wasn’t immune to the Hydrotherapy Wing’s peculiar music.

Unknown Speaker

I’ve got her log entry here. She writes, “The drip forms a lullaby. I can trace the rhythm, but it never repeats. I shut every valve, but the sound grows louder in the dark.”

Florence Frightengale

She even caught something on her pocket recorder—muffled humming, voices with no human throat. It’s unsettling, isn’t it? Edith decided not to report the sound. She thought silence was safer than disbelief. I can’t say I blame her.

Florence Frightengale

It wasn’t just the staff. Patients, too, began to see things. There was an elderly woman who refused to bathe, swearing she saw a “wet woman” standing motionless in the shower corner. Never moved, never blinked—just watched.

Unknown Speaker

I spoke with a younger patient, actually. He wouldn’t sleep, convinced the woman was climbing the pipes, inch by inch, every night. He described her in detail—hair plastered to her face, skin like wax. And he’d never met the older patient. Identical details, Florence. That’s what unsettles me.

Florence Frightengale

A night orderly once looked into his mop bucket and saw a face reflected back—eyeless sockets, steam pouring out. Hallucination, maybe. Or something shared, something that lingers in the water. The lights would flicker, and a gurgle would roll up the drains, as if the pipes themselves were breathing.

Unknown Speaker

Then Edith returned, white as linens, clutching fistfuls of black hair—dripping, spiraled around a corner grate. I checked the hydro pipes myself. They end in sealed masonry. No flow, no water, no way for hair to get through. And yet, there it was.

Florence Frightengale

It reminded me of offerings, you know? Like something hungry below, waiting to be fed. We tried an experiment—dropped a single hair down the grate. It vanished with a wet snap. I’m not sure if the ward has grown a mouth, but it certainly feels like it’s waiting to swallow something—or someone.

Unknown Speaker

Let’s step back for a moment. Hydrotherapy—scald, submerge, forget. It was a cruel practice, meant to cleanse the mind by nearly drowning the body. And Hollow Hill’s wing was infamous for it. But the real horror, Florence, is what happened to Nurse Jane Darrow in 1956.

Florence Frightengale

Jane vanished after screams echoed from the showers. The wing was sealed the next morning, but the screams lingered for three nights, even after the last brick was set. I’ve seen photographs of Jane beside the old immersion tub. That tub later split down the middle, as if something inside wanted out.

Unknown Speaker

It’s hard not to draw a line from Jane’s fate to the present drip. The wing never forgave its keepers. Reminds me, in a way, of what we saw in the Crimea—places that hold onto pain, refusing to let it go. Some wounds, it seems, never heal.

Florence Frightengale

When the ward reopened, they found Jane’s locker untouched. Inside: a brush, rotted shoes, and a water-blurred note—“I scrubbed but it won’t come off.” The odd thing is, the water damage on the note looked recent, not decades old.

Unknown Speaker

We wondered if Jane kept scrubbing, even after flesh turned to vapor. A slow scrape against metal interrupted our recording that night—a distant brushstroke on tile. We decided to end the investigation, but left a recorder inside Jane’s rusted locker. Just in case.

Florence Frightengale

You know, Elijah, I still say it’s supernatural. You always want a rational explanation, but sometimes, the simplest answer is the most chilling.

Unknown Speaker

Or the most convenient, Florence. But I’ll admit, this place makes even me question what’s possible.

Florence Frightengale

The next evening, we found Edith collapsed outside the wing. Her shoes were soaked, clipboard smeared with fingerprints that didn’t look human. Elijah, you examined her—

Unknown Speaker

No trauma, no injury. Just terror so deep her jaw wouldn’t close. I’ve seen shell shock, but this was different. Florence played back the locker tape: seven wet knocks, then a door unlatching on its own.

Florence Frightengale

We entered the ward. The floor was dry, but the corner grate dripped like a metronome. Then, the recorder caught a rushing intake of breath from the drain. That’s when we left. Quickly.

Unknown Speaker

I found the janitor’s final scrawl on the wall: “She is still cleaning. Do not enter when it rains.” The hospital tried to cement every grate, nail every door with iron, but humidity still seeps through stone. You can’t keep water out forever.

Florence Frightengale

A thunderstorm rolled in as we broadcast live. The walls began to bead with condensation. And beneath the thunder, a new rhythm—five strokes, pause, five strokes—the sound of a brush on bone. It wasn’t cleaning to purify, Elijah. It was punishment. For anyone who listens.

Florence Frightengale

So, dear listener, if you ever smell mildew in your dreams—wake up. That’s Jane’s warning, and mine.

Unknown Speaker

And if you find a single black strand in a dry room, don’t touch it. That’s Jane Darrow’s invitation to join her within the drain. Some stains do not wash away; they drag others down instead.

Florence Frightengale

The drip fades, replaced by a gurgle, then silence—until a sudden splash cuts the feed. Some souls rise. Jane sinks—and she drags the living with her.

Florence Frightengale

If you’ve made it this far, well… we thank you. It’s no small thing, to sit in the dark and listen. But do keep your ears open tonight. That hum beneath your floorboards? It might not be your pipes.

Unknown Speaker

Thank you for joining us for this installment of The Frightengale Files. We know your time is precious… and possibly running out.

Florence Frightengale

If you’d like to dive deeper into the horrors Hollow Hill has tried so hard to bury, my book is now available on Amazon. The Frightengale Files: The Grimoire of Hollow Hill, written with the invaluable help of Liv Kancz, is your invitation into the dark. But be warned… some chapters have teeth.

Florence Frightengale

You can find it wherever the brave go to read. Or wherever the foolish think they’re safe. And if you do purchase a copy… try not to let it whisper to you after midnight.

Unknown Speaker

We’ll see you next week. Same time, same shadows. For more hauntings, more whispers, and more… things you should never, ever follow.

Unknown Speaker

Until then—keep the lights on. And whatever you do, don’t listen too closely to your drains.