Hungry Spirits of Hollow Hill

Florence Frightengale

Welcome, night wanderers, to another episode of the Frightengale Files. I’m Florence Frightengale, and before you get too comfortable, a word of warning: the old Hollow Hill cafeteria hasn’t served a single meal in over twenty years. Yet, somehow, it’s never truly empty.

Unknown Speaker

Indeed, Florence. I’m Dr. Elijah Blackwood, and tonight we’re delving into a room that was once meant for comfort and camaraderie—now, it’s a place where hunger lingers, staff vanish, and the only thing on the menu is mystery. If you thought the hospital’s hallways were unsettling, just wait until you hear what’s been happening behind those sealed cafeteria doors.

Florence Frightengale

We’ll be sharing tales of trays that move on their own, shadows that sit without bodies, and the unmistakable clink of cutlery when no one’s dining. So, pour yourself a cup of something warm—just make sure it’s not from Hollow Hill’s kitchen.

Unknown Speaker

Let’s start with why the cafeteria closed in the first place. Officially, it was shut down in 2004 after a rather mysterious electrical fire. No one ever figured out what caused it. The oddest bit? The surveillance footage from that night was found burned—inside a locked filing cabinet. Now, how does that happen?

Florence Frightengale

And there’s the matter of the missing cook. He was never accounted for after the fire. The last order ticket he wrote simply read, “Don’t let it starve.” I still get chills thinking about that. Who—or what—was he feeding?

Florence Frightengale

Every night, precisely at 2:12 a.m., staff on the lower floors report hearing trays crashing to the floor. The cafeteria’s been sealed for years, but the sound is unmistakable. It’s as if the room is still serving dinner to someone—or something.

Unknown Speaker

Investigators have gone in, expecting a mess, but all they find are trays slightly out of place. No food, no spills, just that sense that someone’s been there. One nurse described the noise as “metal screaming in pain.” I rather like that—evocative, isn’t it?

Unknown Speaker

There’s an old serving bell near the kitchen window. It still rings, always three times, even though the kitchen’s locked and empty. Each time it rings, the bulb above the kitchen flickers. No one’s ever seen who—or what—rings it.

Florence Frightengale

Three rings, Elijah. In old folklore, that’s often a summoning. I can’t help but wonder if someone’s calling for service… or calling something else entirely.

Florence Frightengale

Security footage, salvaged from an ancient camera, shows a dark silhouette seated at Table Nine every Thursday. It doesn’t move, doesn’t eat, just faces the kitchen. That’s the same table where the head chef used to take his breaks—until he vanished after the fire.

Unknown Speaker

It’s as if the table’s waiting for him to return. Or perhaps, he never left at all. I’m not sure which is worse.

Unknown Speaker

Cleaning crews have reported the overpowering smell of warm bread, even though the ovens were removed years ago. Sometimes, loaves appear on trays, covered in a fuzzy black mold that pulses when touched. Lab analysis couldn’t identify the fungus, but when they froze a sample, it… whispered. I’m not making that up.

Florence Frightengale

I remember that. The technician said it sounded like someone sighing. Bread that breathes—now there’s a diet I’d rather skip.

Florence Frightengale

Several staff have seen a young girl in a 1950s-style cafeteria apron, standing by the dish return. She mouths something, but no one can hear her. When anyone approaches, she vanishes, and water condenses on the metal nearby, as if someone just exhaled.

Unknown Speaker

It’s always the dish return, isn’t it? I wonder if she’s trying to send something back—or if she’s waiting for someone to collect her.

Unknown Speaker

There’s an old chalkboard menu that keeps changing, even though the chalk’s been removed. The dishes are… unsettling. “Tongue & Tallow,” “Vein Reduction Roast,” and once, “Your Own Name, Served Cold.” Florence, you tried to erase it, didn’t you?

Florence Frightengale

I did, and the words were written under the surface, almost as if the board itself remembered every order. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s as if the menu’s taking requests from somewhere else.

Florence Frightengale

Wednesday nights are strictly avoided by the maintenance staff. They say something moves inside the cafeteria—heavy, slow, dragging. One janitor dropped his flashlight and ran. He was found curled up, repeating, “It has too many mouths.”

Unknown Speaker

Too many mouths. That’s… oddly specific. I suppose it’s better than too many teeth, but not by much.

Unknown Speaker

There was a test once—a tray left empty and clean overnight. The next morning, it was found with a full meal, still warm. There was even a handwritten note: “You forgot dessert.” I must warn you, accepting any offering from the dead is an invitation. Or perhaps a debt. Either way, I wouldn’t recommend it.

Florence Frightengale

It’s the politeness that gets me. Even the dead expect proper service.

Florence Frightengale

Staff checking the cutlery cabinet found knives embedded in walls and countertops—no signs of forced entry. One knife pierced straight through a steel prep table, lodged at an angle that defies explanation. The cameras only showed flickering, and what sounded like breathing.

Unknown Speaker

Knives that move on their own, trays that return full… It’s as if the cafeteria is still working, just for a different clientele.

Unknown Speaker

One of my favorites, if you can call it that—a receipt machine with no power suddenly printed a ticket: “ORDER zero zero. 1 soul, tenderized.” The paper was hot to the touch, and Florence, you kept the receipt, didn’t you?

Florence Frightengale

I did, and it reprinted itself every night for a week. I’ve never been so unsettled by a bit of paper in my life.

Florence Frightengale

Multiple employees have reported sudden, overwhelming hunger while passing by the sealed cafeteria doors. Some even tried to eat inedible things—gauze, plastic wrap, IV tubing. All of them said they were “feeding someone else.”

Unknown Speaker

That’s a kind of possession, isn’t it? Hunger that isn’t your own. It’s as if the room itself is reaching out, trying to fill a void that can’t be satisfied.

Unknown Speaker

A single, hair-covered hairnet was found on a gurney outside the ER. No one’s worn those in decades. When they bagged it for evidence, it squirmed. Inside, they found a gold tooth and half a button. I’m not sure what’s worse—the hairnet moving, or what it was hiding.

Florence Frightengale

It’s always the little things, isn’t it? The details that make your skin crawl.

Florence Frightengale

There’s a small service window near the tray return. Now, it shows things that aren’t in the cafeteria—ballrooms, funeral parlors, meat lockers. Stare too long, and you lose time, maybe even bleed from the nose. One nurse saw herself waving from the other side—older, and smiling with no teeth.

Unknown Speaker

A window to nowhere, or perhaps everywhere. I’d wager it’s best not to look too closely. You might not like what looks back.

Unknown Speaker

A dietary tech clocked out at 3:06 a.m. Her badge swipe was recorded, but she was never seen again. Oddly, her punch-in continued every night at 3:07 a.m., for thirty-one nights. When I deactivated her badge, the cafeteria’s doors groaned. I’m not sure if that was relief or disappointment.

Florence Frightengale

It’s as if the room keeps its own staff, whether they want to stay or not.

Florence Frightengale

A single glass of milk keeps appearing on a serving tray—always cold, always sweating. Throw it away, and it reappears by the service window. Testing found calcium, blood, and traces of human bone marrow. I don’t recommend drinking it, no matter how thirsty you are.

Unknown Speaker

Milk for the dead, perhaps. Or for those who wish they were.

Florence Frightengale

I found old blueprints showing the original morgue sat directly beneath the kitchen. The vent system ran both ways—heat from the ovens, cold from the cadavers. There was a note in the margin: “We must feed both kinds.”

Unknown Speaker

That’s a design flaw—or a design intention. Feeding the living and the dead, all under one roof. Hollow Hill never did anything by halves, did it?

Florence Frightengale

The final message, scratched into a tray slot, reads: “We still take requests. What are you hungry for?” I have to wonder—if you answer, do you become the next item on the menu?

Unknown Speaker

Not all who eat are alive, Florence. And not all who starve are dead. That’s something we’ve seen time and again at Hollow Hill. If you’re ever offered a meal there, I’d suggest you politely decline.

Florence Frightengale

Thank you, dear listeners, for joining us on this midnight feast of fright. If you’re still hungry for more, you can find exclusive content and behind-the-scenes chills at patreon.com slash FlorenceFrightengale. We promise, nothing on our menu bites back—well, not usually.

Unknown Speaker

We appreciate every one of you brave souls who tune in, week after week. Remember, Hollow Hill’s stories are never truly finished—there’s always another course to come. Until next time, keep your trays close and your appetites in check.

Florence Frightengale

Goodnight, Elijah. And goodnight to all our listeners—may your dreams be less haunted than our cafeteria. Sleep tight, and don’t answer if someone asks what you’re hungry for.

Unknown Speaker

Goodnight, Florence. Goodnight, all. Stay curious—and stay wary.