Welcome, dear listeners, to another shadow-draped episode of the Frightengale Files. I’m Florence Frightengale, and as always, I’m joined by the ever-dramatic Dr. Elijah Blackwood. Elijah, have you managed to avoid being spirited away by the hospital’s haunted lift this week?Barely, Florence. I swear, every time I step into that lift, I half expect to end up in the North Wing—or worse, the cafeteria after midnight. But I’m still here, and so are you, which means it’s time for another tale from Hollow Hill. Tonight’s story is a bit different, isn’t it?Oh, it is. Tonight, we’re unraveling the mystery of “Code Quiet”—a protocol so secret, even the ghosts seem to whisper about it. If you thought the hospital’s refusal to die was unsettling, wait until you hear what happens when you acknowledge your own name after midnight.Let’s just say, if you hear your name in the dark, you might want to pretend you didn’t. Shall we begin?It started, as these things often do, with a bit of nosiness. I was leading an audit of old records—dusty, tedious, and, frankly, the sort of thing that makes you wish for a good haunting to liven things up. That’s when I found it: a loose panel in the old nurse’s station. Behind it, a scorched manual, bound with rusted staples, no barcodes, no hospital ID, nothing to suggest it belonged to anyone—or anything—official.You know, Florence, I’ve seen my share of odd paperwork, but this was something else. The cover read “Emergency Protocols: Level Null.” Not a single entry in the digital logs. And on page nine—marked with a red-ink fingerprint, no less—there was one rule still legible. Everything else was blacked out or burned. The rule? “Do not acknowledge your name after midnight.” Circled three times, as if someone was desperate to make sure it wasn’t missed.It’s always the things that aren’t meant to be found, isn’t it? The rest of the manual was unreadable, but that one rule… it felt like a warning. Or a dare.Naturally, I had to check the system. I mean, you can’t just stumble on a protocol like that and not want to know who wrote it. I cross-checked every database—nursing protocols, emergency codes, even the old disaster plans. Nothing. It was as if “Code Quiet” had never existed. But then, staff started reporting oddities. Silent alarms, triggered for no reason. The system would log a code, but when you arrived—nothing. No patients in distress, no machines beeping, just… silence.It’s the kind of silence that makes your skin crawl, isn’t it? Like the hospital itself is holding its breath, waiting for you to make the wrong move.And then the voices began. Night shift staff—seasoned, sensible people—started hearing their names whispered. Always at 12:01. Always from just behind them. Some tried to laugh it off, but you could see the fear in their eyes. One nurse said it felt like the air itself was calling her, just waiting for her to answer.It’s that one step too far, isn’t it? The moment when you realize you’re not alone, even when the corridor is empty. And the worst part—if you turn around, there’s never anyone there. But the whisper lingers, like a chill on the back of your neck.About this time, a new volunteer appeared. She wore scrubs that looked decades out of date, always smiling, always in the right place at the wrong time. HR couldn’t place her. No onboarding, no paperwork, nothing in the files. Patients seemed drawn to her, though. They’d follow her with their eyes, even when she wasn’t supposed to be there. It was as if she belonged to a different era—or a different world entirely.I tried to catch her on the security cameras, but she never showed up. Not once. It’s as if she was a memory the hospital itself was trying to keep alive, even as it erased everything else.We thought we could outsmart the system. Turn off the monitors, unplug the machines, even pull the batteries. But the alarms kept ringing. ICU, ER, Radiology—everywhere at once. The elevator started taking people to floors that didn’t exist, and in the ICU, time itself seemed to collapse. Staff would lose minutes, sometimes hours, with no memory of what happened. The machines, it seemed, remembered more than we did.It’s as if the hospital was rewriting its own story, one malfunction at a time. And we were just along for the ride, whether we liked it or not.Then there was the nurse with the black ribbon. First seen in the OR hallway, silent as a shadow. Her neck wrapped tight, as if holding something in—or keeping something out. If anyone spoke to her, she’d simply point to their throat. And then, they’d lose their voice. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for days. Speaking, it seemed, came at a price.I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my time, but that… that was something else. It’s as if the hospital was warning us: some things are better left unsaid.Communication itself started to unravel. Phones would ring from dead lines—extensions that hadn’t existed in years. The intercom would come alive in the middle of the night, reading bedtime stories in a language no one recognized. And if you tried to record it, all you’d get was static. Or, worse, your own voice screaming back at you.It’s as if the hospital was trying to tell its own story, but only on its terms. And heaven help you if you tried to listen too closely.Reality itself began to shift. Room numbers vanished overnight. New pages would appear on desks, written in handwriting no one recognized. Staff began whispering each other’s names, afraid to speak them aloud. It was as if the hospital was erasing us, one detail at a time.It reminded me of what we discussed in the episode about the North Wing—how memory and identity can be rewritten, or simply… lost. Only this time, it was happening everywhere, all at once.And then, without warning, the hospital-wide alert triggered itself. “Code Quiet Initiated.” No one pulled the alarm. No one approved the protocol. But everyone felt it—a pressure, like something pressing behind your eyes. The voice on the intercom began to mimic us. It learned our tones, our laughter, even our grief. It wanted to be welcomed. It wanted to belong.It’s the most dangerous kind of haunting, isn’t it? The one that learns, adapts, and waits for you to make a mistake.So here’s our final warning, dear listeners. If you ever find yourself in a hospital corridor, and you hear your name whispered—don’t turn around. Don’t answer. And above all…Do not say “What?” Reflections may not match, and the final rule of Code Quiet is simple: do not respond. Some things are better left unheard.That’s all for tonight’s tale, my spectral friends. Thank you for joining us in the shadows of Hollow Hill. Remember, the hospital may be watching, but so are we.Sleep well, and keep your ears closed after midnight. Until next time, Florence.Goodnight, Elijah. Goodnight, listeners. And may your corridors always be quiet.

Episodes

Code Quiet