The Collector Beneath Hollow Hill

Unknown Speaker

Good evening, and welcome to another chilling installment of The Frightengale Files.

Florence Frightengale

Tonight, we shine a flickering light into the shadowy corners of Hollow Hill Hospital. A place where... let’s just say anomalies abound.

Unknown Speaker

Indeed. It’s where the lines between life, death, and whatever lies beyond have been quietly blurred for decades. A realm of strange occurrences and uncanny patterns.

Florence Frightengale

Though "quietly" is a curious word, don’t you think? Hollow Hill is anything but quiet when you listen close enough. The echoes... they linger.

Unknown Speaker

Spoken like someone far too familiar with lingering echoes. But let us not get ahead of ourselves. For those listening, I am Dr. Elijah Blackwood, your humble—

Florence Frightengale

Humble? That’s... questionable.

Unknown Speaker

Ahem. Your insightful guide through the threads of the inexplicable.

Florence Frightengale

And I am Florence Frightengale, a steadfast companion to curiosities both mortal and... otherwise. Tonight, we unravel the tale of Mr. Ellis—keeper of ashes and secrets.

Unknown Speaker

A figure as enigmatic as the institution he inhabits. But before we descend into his story…

Florence Frightengale

...let's set the stage for where it all began. Shall we?

Florence Frightengale

Let us step back to where the tale begins. Imagine—a snow-covered chapel, candlelight flickering against the cold silence, broken only by a singular, haunting cry.

Unknown Speaker

The kind of echo that makes your spine tingle. The nuns would later swear it came from the tabernacle itself. Curious, isn’t it?

Florence Frightengale

Quite. When they dared to open it, there he was—wrapped in torn altar linens, no less. An infant, unnamed, untouched, almost... unclaimed.

Unknown Speaker

Ironic that they refused to name him, isn’t it? Almost as if they knew names hold power. And this child—

Florence Frightengale

—was no ordinary child. They wouldn’t touch him. Even the bravest whispered he wasn't theirs to claim.

Unknown Speaker

So, enter Mr. Ellis, the groundskeeper. A simple man, but compassionate. He took the child in, gave him his surname—and perhaps, unwillingly, much more.

Florence Frightengale

But even compassion does not explain what followed. The boy survived, yes, but he was... unsettling. And not merely because of his silence.

Unknown Speaker

Silence. That’s putting it mildly. Never crying, never blinking during Mass. Oh, and the shadow they said he lacked? That’s not just unsettling—it’s unnatural.

Florence Frightengale

Mmm, and let's not forget... some claimed his breath chilled the very crucifix. Imagine a boy like that growing up in the corridors of Hollow Hill Hospital.

Unknown Speaker

It begs the question, doesn't it? What makes something—someone—human? Is it a name? A shadow? The ability to cry? Florence, I once encountered a Crimean orphan, eerily similar in demeanor...

Florence Frightengale

Oh, Elijah. I knew you would weave yourself into the tale eventually.

Unknown Speaker

Indulge me. This boy, too, spoke not a word. Not a sound. And when the battlefields fell quiet, you could almost feel his presence long before you’d see him. The hairs on your neck...

Florence Frightengale

...stood on end, I imagine. And yet, what defines humanity is a question even the living struggle to answer. Shall we return to the beginning, then? To the boy who was not what he seemed...

Unknown Speaker

Ah, Florence, to question the definition of humanity is one thing. But with this boy, his peculiarities extend beyond stray observations. His existence teeters unnervingly close to the realm of death itself.

Florence Frightengale

And it began early, didn’t it? As though he was drawn, inexorably, to the stillness. Picture him—a boy of just seven, wandering into the hospital morgue uninvited. Bold, or perhaps heedless, of what any ordinary child would fear.

Unknown Speaker

Not bold. No—fascinated. He wasn’t afraid. He was... compelled. Some children seek out playgrounds. This one sought out the dead.

Florence Frightengale

And not merely to gawk. He watched, studied—even assisted. Folding linens for the deceased as though preparing them for the next chapter of their journey. Routine, methodical, relentless in his silence.

Unknown Speaker

Let’s not forget his eye for precision. By the time most children were learning cursive, he had mastered the art of stitching eyelids shut. Imagine finding a child, needle in hand, carefully closing the eyes of the recently departed.

Florence Frightengale

Carefully, but devoid of ceremony. Not out of malice nor obligation, but something colder. Colder than even the steel tables in the morgue. Perhaps he understood something of death that no adult ever could...

Unknown Speaker

Or something we refuse to understand. It takes a certain... stillness, doesn’t it? To work so comfortably with cadavers. And yet, it wasn’t merely comfort with death—it was an affiliation. Did no one stop to question this?

Florence Frightengale

They didn’t dare. Where others might recoil, he stepped forward. Silent but steady. Even the nurses whispered of it—his ability to blend with the shadows, his presence barely there yet palpably chilling.

Unknown Speaker

Ah, the whispers. Shadowless, they said. Shadowless and untouchable, as though the boy existed halfway between the living and the other side. Yet, there he stood, unassuming... folding linens, moving toward the bodies left behind.

Florence Frightengale

And with each task, it was as though he was rehearsing. Preparing himself for... something greater. A boy shaping himself not for life, but for death.

Unknown Speaker

A grim upbringing, but one that fit him like the gloves he would’ve worn. Florence, did you notice? Not once have we spoken of him playing, of him learning joy. Only... his intimacy with the macabre.

Florence Frightengale

Because joy was not his to possess. He was not of the living, not in any way that mattered. He was destined for the shadows—for the silence of Hollow Hill. Already, he was becoming something else entirely. Something far colder, far stiller...

Unknown Speaker

Florence, if his childhood was but the prelude to his eerie bond with death, then what came next played like the macabre crescendo. When his guardian, old Ellis Sr., passed away, it was not merely a loss. It unshackled something within the boy—something shadowed, something unrelentingly intimate with the silence of the grave.

Florence Frightengale

Transformation, indeed. Picture the scene: a raging thunderstorm, the echoing cracks of lightning splitting the skies above Hollow Hill as the old mortician took his final breath. His body, they found, seated upright. His eyelids... stitched closed—not by any nurse.

Unknown Speaker

No vacancy announced. No replacement interviewed. And yet, the very next morning, the boy appeared in the mortuary, wearing Ellis Sr.’s coat.

Florence Frightengale

A coat that hung perfectly, as if tailored for him—though it had belonged to a man twice his age, twice his size. There he stood, calm as ever, silently assuming duties no one had trained him for. But clearly, he needed... no training.

Unknown Speaker

This was no mere passing of a torch, Florence. It was as though the boy had been waiting, the way a shadow waits for dusk. Stepping into Ellis Sr.’s shoes—or shall we say, his shadow—without hesitation.

Florence Frightengale

Indeed, it was as if he'd been preparing for this transition all his life. The cot in the incinerator room became his bed. The furnace beneath Hollow Hill, his companion. He no longer just worked with the dead. He became... part of their story.

Unknown Speaker

So much so that whispers began to spread. They said Ellis—yes, the boy, now Mr. Ellis—didn’t leave the grounds. Didn’t age. Some claimed they saw him walking through the basement halls at night, the ash floating around him like smoke.

Florence Frightengale

Yet what truly haunted them wasn’t his presence, but his absence where it should have mattered. No appetite, no belongings, no life beyond the bodies in his care. He lived in silence, cradled by the fire that seemed to sustain him.

Unknown Speaker

And for those who succumbed without a name, without a claim... he had a peculiar habit, didn’t he? The silver canister tucked beneath his coat, as though he were collecting more than just ashes. Witnessed, the label read. Witnessed, and—

Florence Frightengale

—held. Captured. Preserved in a way that was neither life nor death. Only... a stillness. Perhaps he believed the unclaimed deserve more than oblivion, even if what he offers is... far colder, far stranger.

Unknown Speaker

Stranger, indeed. He carried those ashes as though they were relics, sacred mementos of lives that the world had forgotten. But make no mistake—there was no reverence in his routine. Only duty. As though he were born of ash himself.

Florence Frightengale

Evenings in Scutari bore their own stillness, didn’t they? A hush draped over the oil-lit halls, only broken by the whispers of the forgotten. The faint sting of carbolic acid lingered as if trying, in vain, to excise the shadows we harbored.

Unknown Speaker

The forgotten? Or the discarded?

Florence Frightengale

Perhaps both. I often found myself asking what made a patient unclaimable. Was it circumstance? Or something far deeper—a mark invisible to mortal eyes?

Unknown Speaker

And how many of such marks did you bear witness to? Surely, not all found peace within those grimy walls of Scutari.

Florence Frightengale

No, peace was scarce. I spent that night among those we termed "the shadows." No names, no loved ones waiting, no letters tucked under their pillows. Just rows upon rows of beds... and silence.

Unknown Speaker

Rows of unseen lives. Florence, you must’ve felt them—the weight of the silence, pressing down from every side.

Florence Frightengale

It wasn’t just a feeling. The silence in that unit was alive. It seemed to breathe with the rhythm of the dying. And in the absence of names, I often whispered my own, as if sharing it might tether us both to existence.

Unknown Speaker

A striking image, nurse turned witness, carrying names for the nameless. But when you whispered your own name... did they listen?

Florence Frightengale

Not at first. Or so I thought. One patient—a woman, emaciated and gray with fever—turned her gaze to me. Her pupils were like ash pits, empty yet intensely aware. Before her breath stopped, she whispered, "You’re not meant to linger here." Her words chilled me more than her touch.

Unknown Speaker

Wait—she spoke? Against all odds?

Florence Frightengale

Quietly, with the timbre of falling dust. But what stayed with me wasn’t her words... it was her face. Moments before she passed, it shifted—no longer drawn with agony, but serene. Almost... relieved to fade into the nameless air.

Unknown Speaker

Strange relief, do you think it was your presence? Your voice that gave her strength? Or did she see something—or someone—you could not?

Florence Frightengale

Perhaps both. Whatever she saw, she did not linger. But I stayed. I watched as the shadows deepened, spread, and... thickened, taking on the shapes of those I could no longer name.

Unknown Speaker

And so, the unclaimed became more than bodies. They became... witnesses themselves.

Florence Frightengale

It felt more like they were waiting—for someone, for something. One figure loomed larger in my mind. A child, ash-streaked and silent, moving between the cots. My vision, perhaps... Or a fragment of something older within Scutari’s walls.

Unknown Speaker

The child... fitting, wouldn’t you say? That the ashes of the lost would stir under such a presence? Did this child—

Florence Frightengale

He didn’t simply walk between the beds. He paused by each one. Just as Ellis does, with the dying at Hollow Hill. Perhaps naming the dead is a duty older than either you or I could imagine...

Florence Frightengale

Beneath Hollow Hill, it’s as though the silence of Scutari has found new shelter. The air isn’t heavy with life’s presence, but with ash—clinging, whispering, and settling like a wound unhealed, echoing the memories we dared not bury.

Unknown Speaker

And at the heart of it all, you have Mr. Ellis. Or should we call him... the keeper? The ash collector? The mortal furnace?

Florence Frightengale

Perhaps all of those—and yet none. Have you considered the room itself? The incinerator room beneath Hollow Hill. It isn’t merely a place he dwells. It’s... alive in his presence.

Unknown Speaker

Alive? That's quite the claim, even for you. Though, admittedly, the behavior of ash around him is... peculiar. I've heard staff describe it spiraling, forming shapes, as though compelled by unseen hands.

Florence Frightengale

Not unseen hands. Just his. Picture it—the urns stacked high, shadows flooded in soot. And there he stands, tending to... the forgotten. His movements deliberate, his silver canister tucked close, hidden beneath his coat like a secret only the dead are owed.

Unknown Speaker

Yes, that infernal canister. It isn’t cremains in the ordinary sense, is it? Not remains to scatter, but something... preserved. Contained. And why label them "Witnessed"? That word... it suggests intent. A ritual.

Florence Frightengale

A ritual indeed—but not one meant for any soul still walking among us. One morning, I followed those faint trails of ash up the staircase to the ruined chapel above. He moved without sound, yet every step echoed as though summoning the yard full of dead below.

Unknown Speaker

And what awaited at the chapel? Surely not simple prayers.

Florence Frightengale

No. He opened the canister, and began to speak—not in any language we’d recognize. Not Latin, nor Greek. It was older. Ancient. Each word drawn like fire through a needle’s eye. The air around him thickened... suffocating, as though the walls themselves were bracing for something to rise.

Unknown Speaker

Rise? From what? The ashes themselves? Or—

Florence Frightengale

From within the dust that poured from the pews. Oh yes, they were not still. Faces began to form from the ash, outlines of shoulders, hands—even clothes. And I swear, for one unsteady heartbeat... they were alive. Watching him.

Unknown Speaker

Watching? More like waiting. It’s as if these ashes were not discarded, but transformed—anchored by his strange naming, bound to him. Tell me, was it devotion in their gaze? Or fear?

Florence Frightengale

Maybe neither. Or both. When his chant ended, the shapes held their form for but a moment longer. There was silence, gravely heavy, before they softly collapsed into heaps of untouched ash. It was then I realized... he isn’t preserving life. He’s preserving death itself.

Unknown Speaker

Fascinating. Yet we still don’t know what he truly is. Revenant, spirit... or something else entirely?

Florence Frightengale

The Ash Child of Victorian lore comes to mind. Maybe Ellis wasn’t born at all. Perhaps... he rose from the furnace, shaped by soot and silence, threading himself into an eternal role only the forgotten could understand...

Florence Frightengale

tell me—could a man rise from silence and soot alone? Is Mr. Ellis merely a witness, or could he be the very thread binding those ashes to the forgotten world they strain to leave behind?

Unknown Speaker

Colder? That’s an understatement. His stillness, his precision—it feels deliberate, calculated. Almost machine-like, but with an edge of something ancient. I wouldn’t be so quick to label him as merely mortal, Florence.

Florence Frightengale

And yet, there’s an elegance to his purpose—almost as if it’s predestined. Perhaps he isn’t an individual at all, but a force. A necessary link in the chain binding death and memory together.

Unknown Speaker

A force? That sounds dangerously poetic. No, Florence, this is anatomy. Function. If he’s anything, he’s a revenant—a being sustained by something we can’t yet comprehend. Or perhaps even... self-sustained by the ashes around him.

Florence Frightengale

Revenant. Spirit. Necessary force. The labels matter little when viewed through the eyes of those he tends—the ones unclaimed. To them, he is simply... the guardian of ash.

Unknown Speaker

A guardian, but of what? Peace? Oblivion? Or something much darker? The way he watches the dying—it’s too precise, too mechanical. It mirrors the eeriness of the Ash Child myth from Victorian folklore.

Florence Frightengale

Ah, the Ash Child. A tale of soot and flame, quiet vengeance, and eternal servitude. A child burned in a home’s hearth, rising from embers to claim its forgotten name, does that not sound familiar?

Unknown Speaker

You’re drawing quite the connection. I’ll admit, the parallels are chilling. But rumor and reality are rarely so neatly aligned. Still, this... this could be the exception, couldn’t it?

Florence Frightengale

To dwell in ash is to forget warmth. To preserve it is to invite pieces of the forgotten back. Elijah, isn’t it fascinating? The Ash Child wasn’t mourned, just as Ellis collects the unclaimed—not out of cruelty, but necessity. Perhaps... even mercy.

Unknown Speaker

But mercy by whose standards? What if he isn’t a preserver of mercy at all, but of finality itself? These canisters, the words etched on them... "Witnessed." Witnessed by whom, or rather, by what?

Florence Frightengale

By time, Elijah. Witnessed by time itself. Whether revenant, spirit, or legend embers back to life, one fact is immovable—he isn’t merely watching over the forgotten. He holds them, names them. And in doing so...

Unknown Speaker

...he binds them.

Unknown Speaker

So, if he holds them, names them, and binds them—as you suggest—then I must ask: Is Mr. Ellis shaped by memory’s shadows alone, or is he somehow born of the ash itself, a creation entirely of their forgotten essence?

Florence Frightengale

perhaps the answer lies not in what he is, but in his purpose. The keeper of those forgotten by the living, holding them in a silence that’s... far from empty.

Unknown Speaker

Empty? No, there is nothing empty about him—or the chapel, or even the ash swirling in the depths of Hollow Hill. If anything, it feels heavier, denser, as though imbued with something watching. Waiting.

Florence Frightengale

The ash does not wait. It settles. It remains. And within it, a name is given. A purpose. Even fire needs fuel, after all.

Unknown Speaker

"The fire does not ask for gratitude. Only fuel." His words, weren’t they?

Florence Frightengale

Indeed. And in that fuel—those forgotten fragments he collects—there lingers an essence. Of what, exactly, I suppose we may never truly know.

Unknown Speaker

But isn’t that what chills the spine most? The unanswered, the unseen. If he names the forgotten, Florence... who names him?

Florence Frightengale

Perhaps no one, Elijah. Or perhaps... he was named long ago, sifting through fire and time until only the silence remained. Here at Hollow Hill, not even the living dare offer him a new name. And so, he simply... is.

Unknown Speaker

Chilling, to say the least. Well, listeners, as we bid farewell to Hollow Hill Hospital and its enigmatic ash collector, I suggest you don’t linger too long in silent hallways. You never know what—or who—might be listening.

Florence Frightengale

Wise advice, dear Elijah. The world holds many unseen watchers. But tonight, we thank you for joining us in peering into the unfathomable. And remember...

Unknown Speaker

...stay curious, and a little cautious.

Florence Frightengale

And until next time, tread lightly. For the paths of the forgotten are never truly empty.