Welcome back, dear listeners, to Hollow Hill’s chilling archives. I am Florence Frightengale, recording nurse and lore keeper.And I am Dr. Elijah Blackwood, Neurosurgeon... and enthusiast in matters of the inexplicable.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.Secrets, I might add, that have never been explained, verified, or disproven. What you’re really listening to... is a dare.Listen at your own risk.Perfect sentiment, Florence. Now... do carry on.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:"Do not open the window."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.Preferable to what? Something worse than rotting in your own corpse, Florence? You’ve awakened my curiosity.Yes, Elijah. And that’s precisely the question awaiting an answer. Until now.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.And how does one save a soul, Florence? Through prayer, or something a little less orthodox?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.A peculiar tradition. And did it succeed? Was the man freed?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.Fascinating. Was he tethered by fear of what was beyond the window, or the certainty of what awaited him?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...Sound? Do elaborate.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.Locked it they did, I assume. But let me guess—that wasn’t the end of it.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.And what became of them—the staff? The patients around them? Surely someone dared to investigate further?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.Intriguing, Florence. It raises more questions than answers. Perhaps... perhaps I’ve seen something similar in the field.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.Go on...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.”"Furtive..." An odd descriptor for something unknown.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.And the others? They saw it too?Naturally. My fellow surgeons, hardened men all, suddenly found excuses to abandon their stations each night.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,Wait.He died mid-scream. One arm raised toward the tent opening, his mouth frozen in a silent plea.How unsettling. But tell me—what became of the tent?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.A parallel, it seems, to our uninvited whisperer behind the windowpane.It would appear that some... beings, if that’s even what they are, prefer to remain just out of sight. Waiting.Then, it’s only a matter of time before they make themselves known.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.The sealed room, I presume?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.And yet no one dared confront it. You say this, but surely, Florence, there had to be a soul reckless enough to try?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?Ah, a tale I cannot resist.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...Let me guess. The window?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.But no branch awaited, did it?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.Scratches, you say. From the inside?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.And then?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.Etched? By what?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.Ah, Florence, you leave me both disturbed and desperate for answers.As do I—to this day.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.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.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.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?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.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.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.But why such relentless caution? Surely something was learned, something concrete, from those who interacted—or dared to confront—the entity?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.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.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.A delicate dance, no doubt. But surely you must wonder: what if we’ve misinterpreted the warnings all along?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.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?Nothing, I suspect. The best we can do... is endure.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...I’d suggest curiosity, but let me guess—your advice differs, Florence?Indeed. Do not engage. Do not investigate. And above all—Yes, yes. "Do not invite it in."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.A somber note to end on, but fitting, Florence. Fitting indeed.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.Content... or unable to enter.Let us hope, Elijah.Until next we meet, dear listener.

Episodes

The Window Left Closed