Collectors and Watchers

Florence Frightengale

Welcome back, dear listeners, to another installment of the Frightengale Files. I’m Florence Frightengale, and as always, I’m joined by the ever-inquisitive Dr. Elijah Blackwood. Elijah, have you ever had that sensation—where you lose track of time, as if something’s slipped by unnoticed?

Unknown Speaker

Oh, more times than I care to admit, Florence. Especially in Hollow Hill, where the clocks seem to tick to their own peculiar rhythm. I wonder if our listeners have ever found themselves missing a moment, or perhaps an entire hour, without explanation. If so, you’re in the right place. Tonight, we’re delving into two tales from Hollow Hill—one of a collector who came for a soul, and another of a watcher who never blinks. Shall we begin?

Florence Frightengale

Let’s set the scene. Hollow Hill is not a place where the dead always rest. The walls remember, the corridors echo, and sometimes, the past refuses to stay buried. One evening, a visitor arrived—tall, impeccably dressed, and known only as the Gentleman in Black.

Unknown Speaker

He was the sort of presence you feel before you see. The air seemed to thicken as he entered, as if the hospital itself was holding its breath. No one knew his name, but everyone sensed his purpose.

Florence Frightengale

He walked past the nurses’ station without so much as a nod. There was a weight to him, heavier than the air on a stormy night. Every step was measured, deliberate, as if he was following a path only he could see.

Unknown Speaker

It’s that sort of presence, isn’t it, Florence? The kind that makes you want to look away, but you can’t. He moved with a certainty that unsettled even the most seasoned staff.

Florence Frightengale

I remember feeling an unnatural stillness settle over the ward. The staff, usually so chatty, avoided saying his name aloud. Even the patients—some barely conscious—grew restless, as if they sensed something was amiss.

Unknown Speaker

It’s remarkable how the atmosphere can shift with a single arrival. I’ve seen it before, but never quite like this. The silence was almost... expectant.

Florence Frightengale

He approached me directly, his eyes cold and assured. “I’m here for Aldous Gray,” he said. “I’ve come to collect what belongs to me.” There was no warmth, no question—just a statement of fact.

Unknown Speaker

That’s the sort of confidence that borders on arrogance, isn’t it? He spoke as if the world owed him an answer, and he’d come to claim his due.

Florence Frightengale

Naturally, I checked my records. Aldous Gray was indeed listed, but his bed was already empty. The Gentleman frowned, a crease forming between his brows. “There must be a mistake,” he insisted.

Unknown Speaker

It’s always the paperwork, isn’t it? Even the supernatural can’t escape hospital bureaucracy. But in this case, the error wasn’t clerical—it was something far stranger.

Florence Frightengale

I told him the truth: Gray had passed earlier that week. He’d been buried in the pauper’s plot, no rites performed, no family to mourn him. The Gentleman’s expression darkened, as if the very idea offended him.

Unknown Speaker

No rites, no ceremony—just a name crossed off a list. It’s a lonely end, and yet, in Hollow Hill, even the lonely are not always left alone.

Florence Frightengale

He demanded to see the bed. I led him to Room 12, where the sheets were neatly folded, untouched since Gray’s removal. The room felt colder, somehow, with him standing there.

Unknown Speaker

It’s as if the absence itself was a presence. The Gentleman seemed to search for something he couldn’t quite name.

Florence Frightengale

He declared that Gray’s soul should still be present. He refused to accept its absence, insisting that something was amiss. I remained calm, firm—there was nothing left for him here.

Unknown Speaker

You have a knack for holding your ground, Florence. I imagine he wasn’t used to being told no.

Florence Frightengale

I explained, as gently as I could, that Hollow Hill has rules of its own. Not every soul can be claimed. Some simply vanish before any collector arrives.

Unknown Speaker

That’s a theme we’ve seen before, isn’t it? Like the Hag’s rooms or the Gray Lift—sometimes, the hospital itself intervenes, bending the rules in ways no one expects.

Florence Frightengale

He bristled at the suggestion. “Such a thing cannot happen,” he insisted, but I could see his confidence beginning to crack. He wanted an explanation, something to restore his certainty.

Unknown Speaker

It’s unsettling, when the world you know refuses to play by your rules. He was used to order, to certainty—and Hollow Hill offers neither.

Florence Frightengale

I repeated myself: Gray was gone. No soul remained in Hollow Hill for him. I told the Gentleman his journey had been wasted.

Unknown Speaker

That must have stung. There’s nothing more humbling than a wasted errand, especially for someone who believes himself above such things.

Florence Frightengale

He refused to accept defeat. He searched the ward himself, questioning nurses, but they offered no answers. His frustration grew with every silent stare.

Unknown Speaker

It’s almost as if the staff knew better than to get involved. Sometimes silence is the only defense against the unknown.

Florence Frightengale

He wandered into the chapel, seeking proof—some sign, some trace. The altar gave him nothing. Even his own reflection in the stained glass looked unfamiliar, as if the place itself was erasing him.

Unknown Speaker

That’s a chilling thought. To be so certain of your purpose, only to find yourself a stranger in the mirror.

Florence Frightengale

I followed him into the chapel. I told him, some souls leave no trace. Others are consumed by Hollow Hill itself, lost to any collector or visitor.

Unknown Speaker

It’s a reminder that the hospital has its own appetite, its own secrets. Not everything is meant to be found—or claimed.

Florence Frightengale

He demanded to know where Gray had gone. I suggested, perhaps, Gray had no soul left to offer. Maybe Hollow Hill claimed him first, before any collector could arrive.

Unknown Speaker

That’s a possibility that would unsettle anyone in his position. To be outpaced by the very place you thought you could master.

Florence Frightengale

He began to lose his composure. The authority he carried felt weaker, his voice less certain. I could see the doubt creeping in, undermining his every word.

Unknown Speaker

It’s a rare thing, to see someone unravel in real time. Especially someone who arrived so sure of himself.

Florence Frightengale

He tried to assert himself one last time. “All souls belong somewhere,” he declared. But he couldn’t prove Gray’s did. His certainty collapsed, leaving only questions.

Unknown Speaker

That’s the thing about Hollow Hill—answers are always just out of reach. The more you demand, the less you receive.

Florence Frightengale

I reminded him, gently but firmly, that Hollow Hill is not his domain. Here, the rules bend against intruders. I told him to leave, empty-handed.

Unknown Speaker

And sometimes, that’s the only way to survive—knowing when to walk away, even if it means admitting defeat.

Florence Frightengale

At last, he accepted he had failed. His mission was over. Slowly, his presence faded from Hollow Hill, leaving the air lighter, but the mystery unresolved.

Unknown Speaker

It’s as if the hospital itself exhaled, relieved to be rid of him. But the questions linger, don’t they?

Florence Frightengale

I noted his defeat in my ledger. Not every soul is his to claim, I wrote. And so, Hollow Hill remained unchanged—its secrets intact, its rules unbroken.

Unknown Speaker

A fitting end, or perhaps just another beginning. In Hollow Hill, nothing is ever truly finished.

Florence Frightengale

But the night is young, and Hollow Hill has more to offer. Let me share a second tale—one that lingers in the old surgical wing. The doors are locked, but the windows are never truly empty.

Unknown Speaker

There’s always something watching, isn’t there? Even when you think you’re alone.

Florence Frightengale

Nurses whisper of a figure always seen inside. They call it the Watcher. No matter the hour, it appears at the same window, unmoving, unblinking.

Unknown Speaker

It’s the sort of thing that gets under your skin. You try to ignore it, but you always feel its eyes on you.

Florence Frightengale

Patients complain of being observed, even outside the building. The sensation is constant, invasive. Staff refuse to speak of it openly, as if naming it might make it stronger.

Unknown Speaker

That’s a familiar pattern, isn’t it? Like the red phone or the Hag—sometimes, silence is the only shield we have.

Florence Frightengale

One nurse, Edith Rowe, decided to investigate. She approached the courtyard near the surgical wing. The window sat high, unreachable from outside, but she was determined to see for herself.

Unknown Speaker

Curiosity is a dangerous thing in Hollow Hill. But I can’t blame her—sometimes, you just have to know.

Florence Frightengale

Edith saw movement behind the glass. A pale hand pressed against it, slow and deliberate. It wasn’t a wave, but a gesture—almost as if it was testing the barrier between worlds.

Unknown Speaker

That’s the sort of detail that stays with you. A hand, not waving, but reaching. It’s enough to make anyone uneasy.

Florence Frightengale

Edith reported back to me, shaken. I cautioned her not to return. The Watcher, I warned, notices those who notice it. Best to let some mysteries lie undisturbed.

Unknown Speaker

But warnings rarely work, do they? Especially when the unknown calls to you.

Florence Frightengale

Despite my warnings, Edith felt drawn back. She lingered in the courtyard after dark, unable to shake the feeling she was being studied in return. The sense of being watched grew stronger each night.

Unknown Speaker

It’s a dangerous game, that mutual observation. Sometimes, the gaze is returned with interest.

Florence Frightengale

I reviewed the history of the wing. Surgeries performed there often ended in death. Many names were never crossed from the roster—unfinished business, unresolved fates.

Unknown Speaker

That’s a recurring theme in Hollow Hill, isn’t it? The unfinished, the unresolved—they linger, waiting for someone to notice.

Florence Frightengale

Among those names was Samuel Hurst. Declared dead mid-operation, yet his record was never properly closed. His story, like so many others, was left incomplete.

Unknown Speaker

It’s as if the hospital itself refuses to let go, holding on to every unfinished tale.

Florence Frightengale

I began to suspect Hurst was the Watcher. His unfinished state kept him bound to that window, his eyes left permanently open, unable to rest.

Unknown Speaker

That’s a chilling image—eyes that never close, always searching, always waiting.

Florence Frightengale

Edith grew restless, feeling watched at all hours. Her sleep was disturbed by dreams of the window. She began to dread the courtyard, but couldn’t stay away.

Unknown Speaker

It’s a kind of obsession, isn’t it? The more you try to escape, the tighter the grip becomes.

Florence Frightengale

The Watcher became bolder. Sightings occurred in daylight, not just at night. Staff quietly confirmed his presence, but no one dared speak openly.

Unknown Speaker

It’s as if the Watcher was growing stronger, feeding on attention, becoming more real with every glance.

Florence Frightengale

I warned Edith—never meet his gaze. Once marked, escape becomes impossible. She listened, but I could see she felt chosen, unable to break the connection.

Unknown Speaker

That’s the danger, isn’t it? The sense of being special, when in truth, you’re just another name on the list.

Florence Frightengale

More reports surfaced. The Watcher’s form grew clearer to those who passed by. He appeared closer each time, as if the barrier between worlds was thinning.

Unknown Speaker

It’s a terrifying escalation. The more you see, the more you’re seen.

Florence Frightengale

Visitors began to ask who occupied the wing. Staff offered no explanation. Fear kept their answers locked away, just like the wing itself.

Unknown Speaker

Sometimes, silence is the only answer. The truth is too heavy to share.

Florence Frightengale

I uncovered further irregularities in the records. Hurst’s name recurred in multiple ledgers, always marked but never resolved. His story, like the Watcher, refused to fade.

Unknown Speaker

It’s as if the hospital itself is keeping him alive, in its own way. Or at least, refusing to let him go.

Florence Frightengale

Edith stood in the courtyard again, unable to look away from the glass. The Watcher stared back, his gaze unbroken, his presence undeniable.

Unknown Speaker

That’s the moment, isn’t it? When you realize you’re not just observing—you’re being observed, and there’s no turning back.

Florence Frightengale

The weight of his gaze became unbearable. Edith felt marked, her presence acknowledged. She sensed her time was limited, as if the Watcher had chosen her for something only he understood.

Unknown Speaker

It’s a chilling fate, to be seen and selected by something that shouldn’t exist.

Florence Frightengale

Hollow Hill does not release its chosen. Those taken remain bound to its walls. The Watcher is both prisoner and sentinel, forever waiting, forever watching.

Unknown Speaker

It’s a grim reminder—sometimes, the only escape is never to look in the first place.

Florence Frightengale

And so, the second tale ends. If you ever find yourself near a sealed window, dear listeners, don’t look too long. The Watcher is still waiting, and Hollow Hill is always hungry for new stories.

Unknown Speaker

That’s a warning I’ll take to heart, Florence. Some mysteries are best left unsolved.

Florence Frightengale

Thank you for joining us on this journey through Hollow Hill. If you’d like to support the show, visit ko-fi.com/florencefrightengale. We’ll be back next Sunday with more tales from the shadows. Elijah, always a pleasure to share these stories with you.

Unknown Speaker

The pleasure’s all mine, Florence. Until next time, keep your eyes open—but not too wide. Goodnight, everyone, and may your dreams be less haunted than ours.

Florence Frightengale

Spooky goodnight, dear listeners. Sleep well—if you can.