The Janitor of Hollow Hill

Florence Frightengale

Welcome back, dear listeners, to another chilling installment of the Frightengale Files. I’m Florence Frightengale, your spectral nurse with a penchant for the peculiar, and as always, I’m joined by the ever-dramatic Dr. Elijah Blackwood. Elijah, are you ready to mop up another hospital mystery?

Unknown Speaker

Florence, I was born ready. Though, I must say, if I see one more haunted corridor, I may start charging the ghosts for my time. But tonight’s tale—ah, it’s a particularly grim one, isn’t it? The Janitor of Hollow Hill. I do hope you’ve brought your strongest torch.

Florence Frightengale

Oh, I never go ghost-hunting without it. And tonight, we’re not just chasing shadows—we’re following the trail of a man no one remembers hiring, yet everyone seems to have seen. So, listeners, keep your eyes peeled and your keys close. You never know which door might open… or close behind you.

Unknown Speaker

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Reports began surfacing from nearly every department—nurses, orderlies, even a rather skeptical anesthetist—about a janitor pushing a cart through the halls. The odd bit? No one could recall ever seeing his name on the payroll. Not a single contract, not a single shift report. Yet, there he was, as real as you or I.

Florence Frightengale

And it wasn’t just idle gossip. On the maternity floor, they found a rusted key ring, tagged with the name “G. Halloway.” Now, I’ve seen my share of lost property, but this key ring… it felt heavy, as if it carried more than just keys. It carried a story. Or perhaps, a warning.

Unknown Speaker

It’s always the maternity floor, isn’t it? New life and old secrets, side by side. But this G. Halloway—he’s not in any staff records. No one remembers hiring custodial staff recently. Yet, everyone’s seen him. It’s as if he’s always been there, just out of focus.

Florence Frightengale

Things grew stranger. Freshly mopped floors began showing footprints—leading straight into walls, as if the walker simply vanished. And the wax… it wouldn’t dry where the janitor had been seen. I remember, after hours in the operating theater, hearing a low humming. The sort that makes your skin crawl. Moments later, the floor collapsed. Coincidence? I rather doubt it.

Unknown Speaker

You know, Florence, I’ve always said hospitals are built on layers—of history, of secrets, and apparently, of wax that refuses to set. The footprints into the wall, though, that’s classic spectral mischief. But the humming… that’s the bit that unsettles me. It’s always the little things, isn’t it? The sound you can’t quite place, the shadow that lingers a moment too long.

Unknown Speaker

Then came the door. One night, where the medical supply closet should have been, there appeared a door labeled “Janitorial—Basement Access.” I couldn’t resist. I opened it, and all I found was a dark stairwell, the air thick with bleach. There was a trail, leading downward, but no blueprint records that door. By morning, it had vanished. Like it was never there at all.

Florence Frightengale

Doors that appear and disappear… it’s a recurring theme at Hollow Hill, isn’t it? Reminds me of the Gray Lift from our last episode—places that exist only when you need them, or perhaps, when you’re meant to find them. But a trail of bleach? That’s not just cleaning, that’s erasure. Someone—or something—wants to scrub away more than just dirt.

Florence Frightengale

And then, the files. Several patient records, completely wiped—names, diagnoses, even admission dates. Staff swore they’d cared for these patients, but couldn’t recall their faces. I found a journal entry from 1931, warning of “the one who scrubs too hard.” It seems this isn’t a new phenomenon. The hospital’s been haunted by erasure for decades.

Unknown Speaker

It’s a peculiar kind of haunting, isn’t it? Not just apparitions, but the removal of memory itself. The ultimate clean-up. I wonder, Florence, is it mercy or malice? To be forgotten so thoroughly that even your face slips away from those who once knew you?

Unknown Speaker

The overnight staff began reporting memory gaps after seeing a man in brown overalls. One nurse collapsed during rounds, repeating, “I mopped it clean. I mopped it clean.” I found her badge, half-melted, stuck to the floor near the incinerator. It’s as if the act of cleaning itself became a compulsion, a curse passed from the janitor to the staff.

Florence Frightengale

It’s tragic, really. The line between duty and obsession blurs so easily in these halls. I’ve seen it before—nurses, doctors, even porters, all driven to the edge by something they can’t name. But this… this is different. It’s as if the hospital itself is using Halloway to wipe away what it can’t bear to remember.

Florence Frightengale

The original janitor’s closet was sealed after a fire in 1957, yet now it glows with an eerie light. Inside, everything is perfectly arranged—uniforms, wax, an empty clipboard titled “Final Tasks.” And there, on the list, was my own name. I can’t say I was surprised. Hospitals have long memories, even if people do not.

Unknown Speaker

Your name, Florence? That’s… unsettling. I suppose none of us are truly safe from the past, are we? The fire, the sealed closet, the unfinished business. It’s as if Halloway’s work is never done, and neither is the hospital’s appetite for secrets.

Unknown Speaker

We found a logbook—a list of erased patients and their room numbers. Every room now a storage closet, each entry ending with “Resolved.” I did a bit of morbid arithmetic, and the total matched the number of unmarked graves behind the hospital. It’s not just paperwork being cleaned up, Florence. It’s people.

Florence Frightengale

It’s a chilling thought, Elijah. The idea that a hospital could tidy away its mistakes so thoroughly, no one would ever know. But the dead remember, even if the living forget. And sometimes, they leave clues for those willing to look.

Florence Frightengale

One patient claimed to hear a voice singing through the shower drain. Security checked old orientation tapes and, sure enough, the same voice was there: “I’ll get to it. Everything gets clean, eventually.” It’s almost comforting, in a twisted way. The promise that nothing is ever truly left behind—at least, not for long.

Unknown Speaker

Or perhaps it’s a warning. That everything, and everyone, will be dealt with in time. The voice in the drain, the tapes, the endless cleaning—it’s all part of the same cycle. The hospital’s way of ensuring nothing escapes its notice. Or its reach.

Unknown Speaker

A nurse was injured after falling into a maintenance shaft that shouldn’t have existed. At the bottom—pale uniforms, rusted mop heads. Florence, you mentioned once that floor wax was used to hide bloodstains after a massacre. It seems the hospital’s history is always just beneath the surface, waiting to swallow the unwary.

Florence Frightengale

Yes, and it’s a lesson we never quite learn, is it? Covering up the past doesn’t erase it. It just makes it harder to see—until, of course, the floor gives way. And then, all those secrets come tumbling out.

Florence Frightengale

We found an old staff photo from 1942. There, at the edge, was a man with a mop—unfamiliar, yet unmistakable. The same man appears in every photo since, unchanged. That’s when you named him, Elijah. Gideon Halloway, Hollow Hill’s first night custodian.

Unknown Speaker

Indeed. It’s remarkable, really. Decades pass, staff come and go, but Halloway remains. Always at the edge, always watching. It’s as if he’s the hospital’s shadow, cleaning up after everyone else’s messes—forever.

Unknown Speaker

Personnel records show Halloway was promoted after reporting a surgeon’s misconduct. Then, he vanished. Yet, the hospital claimed he “never missed a shift.” Florence, you wondered if he ever stopped mopping up other people’s mistakes. I’m inclined to think he didn’t. Or perhaps, he couldn’t.

Florence Frightengale

It’s a grim fate, isn’t it? To be bound to a place, cleaning up sins that aren’t your own. But perhaps that’s the price of knowing too much. Or of being too thorough. Some stains, after all, never come out.

Florence Frightengale

Every night at 3:15 a.m., the floor buffer turns on by itself. No one scheduled, no power source. A nurse once dared to touch it—she was found hours later, humming and scrubbing the same spot, lost in a trance. It’s as if the act of cleaning becomes a ritual, a compulsion passed down from Halloway himself.

Unknown Speaker

It’s almost like the Bloodletting Choir we discussed a few episodes back—rituals that bind, that possess. Only here, the music is the hum of machinery, the rhythm of scrubbing. And the cost is one’s own will.

Unknown Speaker

Keys began appearing in staff pockets—each one different, none fitting any modern lock. I tried one in an old medicine cabinet and found a photo of a surgical team, all their faces scrubbed out. On the back: “He keeps what should have stayed buried.” It’s a message, I think, from Halloway himself.

Florence Frightengale

Or perhaps from the hospital. Some things are meant to be forgotten, but they never truly are. The wrong key, the wrong memory, the wrong secret—sooner or later, they all come to light.

Florence Frightengale

A former maintenance worker once told me, never touch Halloway’s bucket. We found it beneath the floorboards—filled with still-warm water and, disturbingly, human teeth. There’s a rumor, you know, that one soul is claimed for every floor Halloway mops. I can’t say I disbelieve it.

Unknown Speaker

It’s a gruesome tally, isn’t it? The idea that cleaning could be a form of collection, not just erasure. Every mop stroke, another name wiped away. Another secret kept.

Unknown Speaker

Entire halls go dark during Halloway’s appearances, even when the generators are running. Shadows linger, always shaped like a man with slumped shoulders. Some janitors clean, Florence, and some… conceal. I suspect Halloway does both.

Florence Frightengale

Yes, and it’s the darkness that frightens me most. Not the absence of light, but the presence of something else. Something waiting, just out of sight, ready to sweep us all away.

Florence Frightengale

I found Halloway’s full ring of keys buried beneath the old chapel floor. Each key bore the name of someone who’d disappeared from Hollow Hill over the last century. And one key, Elijah, had your name on it. E. Blackwood. I must admit, I felt a chill.

Unknown Speaker

Well, that’s… unsettling. I suppose my time here is more limited than I thought. Or perhaps, I’ve already been claimed, and just haven’t noticed yet. It’s a sobering thought, Florence.

Unknown Speaker

A locked archive room was found spotless and empty. Decades of files, gone. A single note: “Too messy to keep.” Florence, you recalled a similar purge in 1919, after a doctor’s suicide was ruled “unrecorded.” It seems the hospital has always had a way of tidying up its own history.

Florence Frightengale

Yes, and it’s always the same—erase the evidence, erase the memory, erase the person. But the past has a way of resurfacing, no matter how hard you scrub. Some stains, as we’ve said, are indelible.

Florence Frightengale

A priest once visited Hollow Hill, hoping to bless the service halls. He never left. Later, Elijah, you heard Halloway humming “Ave Maria” in the morgue. And beneath a shifting floor tile, we found a row of clerical collars, stuffed into the concrete. Even the holy aren’t immune to the hospital’s hunger.

Unknown Speaker

No one is, Florence. Not the living, not the dead, not even those who come to offer peace. The hospital takes what it wants, and Halloway is its instrument. Relentless, thorough, and utterly impartial.

Florence Frightengale

I suppose it’s time for a confession. During the war, I once asked Halloway to “take care of something.” A wounded soldier, bleeding out in the hallway. I never saw him again, but the floor was always spotless. I may have made Halloway what he is. Or at least, given him purpose.

Unknown Speaker

Florence, we all have our ghosts. Some just wear uniforms and carry mops. But perhaps, in trying to help, you set something in motion that can’t be stopped. Or maybe, you simply revealed what was already there.

Unknown Speaker

We found a final entry in Halloway’s log: “Cleaned the dead. Now the living must go.” Suddenly, all exits from Hollow Hill vanished from the hospital maps. And Halloway’s key ring reappeared, holding only two new tags: F. Frightengale and E. Blackwood. It seems, Florence, we’re next on the list.

Florence Frightengale

Well, Elijah, if we’re to be swept away, at least we’ll go together. But I suspect our story isn’t quite finished yet. After all, as long as there are secrets to uncover, the Frightengale Files will go on. And so will we—at least, for now.

Florence Frightengale

Thank you, dear listeners, for joining us on this particularly haunting journey through Hollow Hill. If you’ve enjoyed tonight’s tale, do subscribe, share, and leave us a note—preferably not written in bleach. Elijah, any final words before the lights go out?

Unknown Speaker

Only this: keep your keys close, your memories closer, and never trust a janitor who hums in the dark. Until next time, Florence.

Florence Frightengale

Goodnight, Elijah. Goodnight, listeners. And remember—some stains never wash out. Sleep tight… if you dare.