The Window Left Closed

Florence Frightengale

Welcome back, dear listeners, to Hollow Hill’s chilling archives. I am Florence Frightengale, recording nurse and lore keeper.

Unknown Speaker

And I am Dr. Elijah Blackwood, Neurosurgeon... and enthusiast in matters of the inexplicable.

Florence Frightengale

The case recordings you're about to hear were recovered from the Hollow Hill archives—documents unearthed from shadows so deep they still seem to whisper their secrets.

Unknown Speaker

Secrets, I might add, that have never been explained, verified, or disproven. What you’re really listening to... is a dare.

Florence Frightengale

Listen at your own risk.

Unknown Speaker

Perfect sentiment, Florence. Now... do carry on.

Florence Frightengale

This is Florence Frightengale, narrator of curiosities that tickle the skin. The following case file was retrieved from reel twelve of the Frightengale Archives. A reel marked with no metadata, no clues... only a single, cryptic warning:

Unknown Speaker

"Do not open the window."

Florence Frightengale

Yes. A window left closed—a story soaked in fear and stained with caution. Dear listener, imagine being faced with something so monstrous, so entirely unforgiving, that dangling on the edge of death would be preferable.

Unknown Speaker

Preferable to what? Something worse than rotting in your own corpse, Florence? You’ve awakened my curiosity.

Florence Frightengale

Yes, Elijah. And that’s precisely the question awaiting an answer. Until now.

Florence Frightengale

Winter, 1903—Hollow Hill Hospital. A place where heavy snow smothered the vast grounds, and the staff fought to keep more than just their patients alive. It was here that the warning, "Do not open the window," took on weight. The air inside was oppressively still, filled with a terror unspeakable yet palpable, as the staff prayed not for recovery, but for salvation—his soul teetering on the edge of something far darker than death.

Unknown Speaker

And how does one save a soul, Florence? Through prayer, or something a little less orthodox?

Florence Frightengale

Orthodoxy rarely survives in times of despair It was tradition—one I say cautiously—that when a soul refused to pass, the window would be opened, allowing an escape from its earthly bindings.

Unknown Speaker

A peculiar tradition. And did it succeed? Was the man freed?

Florence Frightengale

Freed? I fear not. For this man, the act of setting the window ajar did not grant solace... but sparked a terror so profound that his frail body locked tight, even in death.

Unknown Speaker

Fascinating. Was he tethered by fear of what was beyond the window, or the certainty of what awaited him?

Florence Frightengale

A question the attending staff would have shared, had they not been caught in a horror all their own. For the moment the window opened, the room trembled with a force as cold and inhuman as it was unrelenting. And then there was the sound...

Unknown Speaker

Sound? Do elaborate.

Florence Frightengale

A scratching—long, deliberate, outside the pane. As if something was waiting. No one dared look long enough to see, but the poor man, oh... his face. Elijah, he screamed, clawing at his bedding, pleading for them to lock the window and never speak of it again.

Unknown Speaker

Locked it they did, I assume. But let me guess—that wasn’t the end of it.

Florence Frightengale

Correct. Even sealed, the glass would fog on the coldest nights—not from the warmth within, but as though breath from something uninvited pressed against its surface. Scratches beneath the paint, faint but too precise to be dismissed, would appear over days.

Unknown Speaker

And what became of them—the staff? The patients around them? Surely someone dared to investigate further?

Florence Frightengale

Not so bravely as one might think. Hushed voices replaced their curiosity, Elijah, and rumors filled the void. They claimed the window, though bolted, would quiver as if beckoned. Some began to whisper... not of what was outside, but who chose to remain within.

Unknown Speaker

Intriguing, Florence. It raises more questions than answers. Perhaps... perhaps I’ve seen something similar in the field.

Unknown Speaker

Florence, your tale stirs a peculiar memory. During the Crimean winters, I witnessed things far colder than frostbite—unease that seemed to creep in like the snow itself, as though the very air carried more than its share of grief.

Florence Frightengale

Go on...

Unknown Speaker

Field hospital. Balaklava. We had a patient—a soldier who’d hardly survived the trenches. His wounds were severe, but his fear... his fear was crippling. He whispered about something waiting beyond the tent flap. Something "furtive.”

Florence Frightengale

"Furtive..." An odd descriptor for something unknown.

Unknown Speaker

Odd, yes. His ramblings made no sense at first. But as his condition worsened, ah... we noticed it too. A shadow, Florence—not cast by candle or moonlight. This thing stretched across the canvas walls like a living thing in its own right.

Florence Frightengale

And the others? They saw it too?

Unknown Speaker

Naturally. My fellow surgeons, hardened men all, suddenly found excuses to abandon their stations each night.

Unknown Speaker

And the soldier? Well, his cries... his cries grew louder. He begged us not to part the canvas, not to let the thing in, though no one ever touched that flap. No one dared. And then,

Florence Frightengale

Wait.

Unknown Speaker

He died mid-scream. One arm raised toward the tent opening, his mouth frozen in a silent plea.

Florence Frightengale

How unsettling. But tell me—what became of the tent?

Unknown Speaker

Ah, Florence. That’s the curious part. The day we buried him, I returned to find it empty—stripped bare, as if it had never stood. And yet, I swear I saw...something moving in the snow where it stood.

Florence Frightengale

A parallel, it seems, to our uninvited whisperer behind the windowpane.

Unknown Speaker

It would appear that some... beings, if that’s even what they are, prefer to remain just out of sight. Waiting.

Florence Frightengale

Then, it’s only a matter of time before they make themselves known.

Florence Frightengale

Speaking of waiting, when the wind howls around Hollow Hill, and the frost creeps across the windows like bony fingers, I often recall that room.

Unknown Speaker

The sealed room, I presume?

Florence Frightengale

Yes. And of the ashen imprint on my mind: those interminable knocks at the windowpane. Slow and deliberate, like some cruel, calculated announcement that... something knew we were listening.

Unknown Speaker

And yet no one dared confront it. You say this, but surely, Florence, there had to be a soul reckless enough to try?

Florence Frightengale

Oh, reckless souls are plenty. In fact, I nearly was one myself. Would you like to know about my first night alone on the ward?

Unknown Speaker

Ah, a tale I cannot resist.

Florence Frightengale

It began as a quiet shift. Too quiet. There was a patient—not far from the infamous window—a frail, elderly woman who held on to life with the gentlest thread. I sat near her, the room lit only by the faint glow of a distant lamp. Everything was still, until...

Unknown Speaker

Let me guess. The window?

Florence Frightengale

Precisely. A sound, faint at first—a distant tapping. It grew louder, sharper, as if something was impatient. Gathering my courage, I turned, expecting to see a branch swaying in the wind.

Unknown Speaker

But no branch awaited, did it?

Florence Frightengale

No. Just fog, forming on the inside of the pane. I remember tracing its trail with my eyes, noting how it curled unnaturally, spelling patterns I dared not interpret. And beneath the windowsill, on the wooden frame, the faintest, jagged scratches stared back at me.

Unknown Speaker

Scratches, you say. From the inside?

Florence Frightengale

Yes. And I—I could swear the old woman knew. Her eyes darted to the window, following the knock... knock... knock. Her breath quickened. I reached for her hand, and she squeezed it with such ferocity, despite her frailty, that my fingers ached.

Unknown Speaker

And then?

Florence Frightengale

She whispered, "Do not let it in." For a moment, her voice was more alive than her body had been in years—firm, commanding. But no sooner had the words left her lips than the tapping ceased, and light, faint scratches were etched right before my eyes.

Unknown Speaker

Etched? By what?

Florence Frightengale

That remains the question, doesn’t it? The next morning, they covered the scratches with paint. Another layer to erase the evidence. But the memory? That can’t be painted over, Elijah.

Unknown Speaker

Ah, Florence, you leave me both disturbed and desperate for answers.

Florence Frightengale

As do I—to this day.

Florence Frightengale

The memory of that night lingers, Elijah. It taught me this: never open the window, never investigate the whispers, and certainly, dear listener, never invite it in.

Unknown Speaker

Ah, your fondness for absolutes never ceases to amuse me. But really, doesn’t such rigid caution come at the expense of curiosity? One must ask why such warnings persist at all.

Florence Frightengale

They persist, because silence often keeps us safe. Folklore serves a purpose, particularly in hospitals where hope and despair intermingle. It’s an unwritten rule: when the unknown knocks, you simply do not answer.

Unknown Speaker

Interesting. But surely this reluctance to explore—or even acknowledge these phenomena—has its own consequences? Ignorance of the proverbial beast doesn’t render it toothless, does it?

Florence Frightengale

True, but fear isn’t without merit. Consider the staff who lived through it—their hushed stories, the rituals they clung to. Superstition in Hollow Hill isn’t borne out of ignorance, but survival.

Unknown Speaker

Ritual, you say. Fascinating, Florence. It’s as if these people built their own psychological armor, albeit unconventional. By conforming to their routines and folklore, they create a fragile shield between themselves and the unknown.

Florence Frightengale

Fragile, indeed. Because even the smallest misstep—a curious glance, an unintentional gesture—could be perceived as an invitation. And at Hollow Hill, invitations are rarely ignored.

Unknown Speaker

But why such relentless caution? Surely something was learned, something concrete, from those who interacted—or dared to confront—the entity?

Florence Frightengale

Concrete? No. Only fear. For those foolish enough to disregard the warnings, one thread remained consistent: they changed. Not visibly, but inwardly. The man who once left the ward laughing… returned weeks later a husk of his former self—silent, with empty, hollow eyes.

Unknown Speaker

Hmm. Most compelling. Could it be... Florence, could it be that this “entity,” as you call it, exploits belief itself? Perhaps rituals and silence don’t protect us so much as they keep it entertained.

Florence Frightengale

Or perhaps those rituals give us the strength to face another day within Hollow Hill’s walls. Psychology and the supernatural walk hand in hand here. What we fear and what we believe are intertwined.

Unknown Speaker

A delicate dance, no doubt. But surely you must wonder: what if we’ve misinterpreted the warnings all along?

Florence Frightengale

Misinterpretation... one dares not entertain the thought. Stardust takes centuries to settle, Elijah, and mankind has a long way to go before its arrogance clears.

Unknown Speaker

Ah, but you’ve just admitted ignorance. Even a locked window doesn’t stop a sharp enough wind from slipping through. What, then, would stop it from truly entering?

Florence Frightengale

Nothing, I suspect. The best we can do... is endure.

Florence Frightengale

Endurance and awareness—that is all we have. And now, as we close Frightengale Case Report 012, heed this: if you should ever encounter something like this...

Unknown Speaker

I’d suggest curiosity, but let me guess—your advice differs, Florence?

Florence Frightengale

Indeed. Do not engage. Do not investigate. And above all—

Unknown Speaker

Yes, yes. "Do not invite it in."

Florence Frightengale

These recordings are archived for internal reference only. Dissemination is strongly discouraged. You and I may speak of them, Elijah, but for others... some doors, some windows, are best left closed.

Unknown Speaker

A somber note to end on, but fitting, Florence. Fitting indeed.

Florence Frightengale

Until next time, dear listener, keep the lights low, the doors locked, and the windows sealed—and let us both hope... that whatever whispers in the dark stays content behind the glass.

Unknown Speaker

Content... or unable to enter.

Florence Frightengale

Let us hope, Elijah.

Florence Frightengale

Until next we meet, dear listener.