Good evening, listeners, and welcome back to The Frightengale Files—the only place for tales that tickle the spine and numb the soul.Charming as always, Florence. I’m sure the listeners feel appropriately spooked already. For those tuning in for the first time, you’ve stumbled upon an archive of the eerie, the inexplicable, and, frankly, the downright unsettling. I’m Elijah Blackwood—a surgeon by necessity, a skeptic by inclination.He's also our resident grumbler, for those taking notes.And you’re Florence Frightengale, whose idea of bedside manner is convincing her patients they’re being haunted.Not convincing, Elijah. Just observing. Spirits rarely care about bedside manners.Rarely? From what I’ve seen, they’re downright rude. Doors slamming, windows shattering—Don’t forget the whispering voices. You’re fond of those.Yes, well. A warm welcome to our familiar faces—and to any brave new souls joining us tonight, I would recommend keeping a light on. Just in case.Or turn it off, if you’re feeling adventurous. The darkness has its own stories to share. Now, shall we—?Yes, before the spirits lose their patience.Speaking of spirits with little regard for patience, the fire at Hollow Hill began with ether and gunpowder—a disastrous combination. The west corridor was engulfed in minutes, trapping four soldiers on the supply wing's far side.Ether, highly flammable. Gunpowder, volatile at the best of times. Whoever left them together was courting calamity.And calamity answered. Those men had no chance. By the time we could reach them... their bodies were beyond recognition. Skin and limbs fused, their dog tags melted into bone. Four lives, robbed of their faces, their names.Unclaimed casualties of the fire. That’s what they became. One coffin, a scribbled label, and silence. The kind of silence that lingers. Suffocates.It’s why the ritual mattered. The tolling of four bells to honor the dead. One for the body, one for the breath, one for the name, and one for their final release. It wasn’t superstition—it was mercy. A guide, you might say, for their disoriented souls.Florence, you’d appreciate this. During the Crimean War, there was a burial. They called it a “nameless trench.” Hundreds of men, hastily interred. Nurses tried to reconcile the loss, but... over the following weeks, many couldn’t sleep. They swore they could hear footsteps pacing the halls at all hours.Let me guess. Violent dreams? Feverish spinning in their bunks?Exactly. One nurse reported a figure standing at her bedside, its uniform charred beyond recognition. She quit nursing the very next day. It’s funny, isn’t it? How the body can adapt to war, but the mind falters when confronted with the unseen.It’s not the unseen that haunts. It’s what’s unfinished. Names unspoken. Rituals left undone. And at Hollow Hill, the bell ritual was what kept the dead at peace.And it all unraveled with one omission. Just one.Sister Lamenta stood in the chapel that night, the bell trembling in her grasp. All eyes were on her, the weight of what had been left undone pressing heavy in the room. The four solemn tolls awaited her, the only thread left to guide the restless dead.Four deaths. Four tolls. A simple rhythm, if you will. But she only—Rang it once.Yes. Once. That single, lonely chime. And then... she locked herself away. Locked the chapel, shut the doors, and vanished from sight.It was as if finishing the ritual would... unleash something. Or perhaps she thought she already had. Either way, the silence left behind—it wasn’t peaceful. It was electric. Like the air before a storm.And what followed wasn’t subtle. Ghostly echoes of boots in the hallways, windows fogged by handprints scorched into the glass—three stories up where no one could have reached.And the patients. Do you remember what they said?Unfortunately, yes. They claimed shadowy visitors lingered by their beds. The descriptions were oddly consistent. Silent figures standing at attention, staring—but without mouths. And one patient—Tearing out his IVs and running barefoot through the ward. He said they were trying to speak. To scream. But nothing came out.It was madness. The mind turns the unexplained into monsters. Hallucinations bred from grief, fear, exhaustion.Madness explains many things. Not shadows in locked halls. Not handprints where no hand can reach. And certainly not the sound of bells when no one is there to ring them.Bells? Wait. Are you saying—I heard it once. Not in the chapel, but in the west wing, near where the fire started. A single toll, echoing through the night. It was... wrong. Hollow. Like it shouldn’t have been heard by the living.Florence, you—I mean, really, what did you—Feel? Dread. It wasn’t fear. Fear is sharp. Instinctual. No, this was something... deeper. Heavier. I felt it in my bones, like the sound was... pulling the marrow from them. That toll wasn’t for me, but it needed me to know it had been rung.And you think the dead are... what? Listening, waiting, unfinished because of her refusal?Not listening. Searching. Searching for what was taken from them: their breath. Their names. Their release. Without it, how could they go anywhere?If they can’t go anywhere... then they remain. Trapped. Restless.And hungry for remembrance.The chapel floor couldn’t hold their weight. Cracks began spreading like veins, the same path the fire had taken. At first, we thought it was structural damage, something mundane, but then… the whispers started. Low, persistent, and coming from beneath the stones.The coffin split. Split from within.Yes. And inside... well. Let’s just say it defied the boundaries of natural decay. The remains were... rearranged. Limbs moved. Parts missing. Burnt flesh, torn and shifted in ways that—I I hesitate to even call it human anymore.Something—or someone—had disturbed them. It wasn’t random. I mean, you could almost see... intent in the way they’d been repositioned.Intent, or malice? If the body is just... what remains of the physical, then why would fragments of restless souls—Need them? That’s the question, isn’t it?I believe the answer lies in the ritual. The incomplete tolling of the bells. One chime... it’s barely acknowledgment, let alone a farewell. It left them fragmented—caught between, searching for... something. And without their names tied to their remains, how do they even know who they are?A name anchors us. In life and in death. Without it, you’re unmoored. Lost. Forgotten. Perhaps that’s the worst of it. You’re here, but you’re no one.But does it matter to the dead? They’re gone,. I mean—Are they? We’re speaking of fragments, not ghosts. Pieces of a soul, broken apart and wandering, listening for a toll that refuses to come. Do you remember what Sister Lamenta said? “The body is here. The name is not.”So without the name, there’s no... resolution? They can’t move on?Exactly. Hospitals, they’re full of unfinished stories. Lives cut short, promises unfulfilled, words left unsaid. Is it any surprise they echo like this?It’s more than echoes we’re dealing with here. The physicality of what happened in that coffin—it... it suggests a thirst for something. A hunger for completion, maybe. Perhaps even vengeance.Or just a craving to be remembered.And in their unrest lies a warning. For us, for anyone who forgets. Names matter. Rituals matter. Because when they’re unfinished——The dead don’t rest.And if the dead don’t rest, what does that say about the living? About the weight of the names we carry and the unfinished tolling of our own stories? It’s a lesson etched in every echo we've heard tonight—a haunting reminder of remembrance, resonance, and the bells that demand to be answered.Remember, in the delicate balance of life and death, it seems names and rituals hold more weight than we’d ever imagine. Who knew the living could forget so easily, while the dead... refuse to let go?Perhaps it’s a reminder to all of us. To say the names. To honor the lives. After all, you never know who's listening in the shadows.Yes, let’s not invite restless visitors into our lives, shall we?Oh, come now, a little mystery never hurt anyone... much.Speak for yourself. I prefer my mysteries to remain... hypothetical. For all our sakes.Fair enough. Now, a small housekeeping note for our devoted listeners. If tonight’s story kept you on the edge of your seat, there’s more waiting for you in the pages of The Frightengale Files: The Grimoire of Hollow Hill. Written by yours truly, with the wonderfully begrudging assistance of Liv Kancz. Find it where the shadows meet the shelves, or, well, online.And if a page isn’t quite enough to quench your curiosity, you can step even deeper into the shadows by visiting patreon.com/FlorenceFrightengale. Exclusive content, lost chapters, the whole spectral shebang. Worth every penny—Says the man who scoffs at superstition but never skips dessert. Charming hypocrisy.It’s not hypocrisy, Florence—it’s pragmatism. The unexplained should stay unexplained, but dessert can always be indulged.Listeners, you heard it here first. Supernatural truths overruled by pudding.And on that note, we’ll bid you good night. Until next time, keep your candles lit and your bells unwrung.Or, if you’re feeling brave, put them both away. Who knows what might decide to pay you a visit once the light and sound fade?Truly a comfort, Florence. Thank you.It’s my pleasure. Good night, dear listeners. And sweet dreams.

Episodes

The Bell Ritual at Hollow Hill