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| Colonial Hospital Ghosts |
A Quiet Night, or So It Seemed
It’s always the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for. I’d been working night shifts at this ancient colonial hospital for a few weeks now, and I’d started to get used to its eerie quietness. The kind of quiet that isn’t comforting, but suffocating. The kind that settles in your bones like the cold you can’t shake, even when the heaters are blasting.
The hospital, an old Dutch colonial structure, looms large with its towering ceilings and creaky wooden floors. During the day, it’s a marvel—imposing and full of history, with antique fixtures and dark corridors that speak of a bygone era. But at night? That’s when the place truly comes alive. Or maybe, I should say... when the dead come alive.
I didn’t realize how deep the stories ran until I started working here. Sure, they told us about the rich history during orientation—about the doctors who walked these halls, about the rooms where pioneering procedures were performed—but what they didn’t tell us were the whispers that echo in empty rooms, the sudden chills that grip you when you’re alone, or the faces you see in the corner of your eye when no one else is around.
The Whispering Walls of Room 14
Room 14 was where things first got... real. I had just begun my shift when an elderly patient in that room mentioned hearing voices. She insisted she wasn’t alone in her ward, that the other three beds were occupied by people she couldn’t see. I pulled back the privacy curtains and showed her the empty beds, trying to reassure her. But she remained pale, eyes wide with a kind of knowing fear.
“The voices haven’t stopped,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “they’re waiting for something.”
I figured she was confused, perhaps just delirious. But the next patient in the same room a week later described the same phenomenon—whispers, barely audible, spoken in an unfamiliar language. Not a language we spoke, not even one we could recognize. It was... unsettling.
The other nurses call it “The Lingering Ward.” They swear that the room’s haunting is tied to the hospital’s past. A past where overcrowding was rampant, and patients, many of them dying, shared beds. Some of the older staff joke that the whispers are just the ghosts of those crowded nights, still echoing through the halls. But I wasn’t laughing.
Shadows in the Storage Room
It wasn’t just the patients who were affected. I had my own experience that convinced me this place wasn’t just a relic of history—it was a prison for the past. During a break, I decided to nap in the storage room. It’s a dimly lit, cluttered space where staff occasionally take a rest. I’d been warned about it, but I figured a quick power nap wouldn’t hurt.
I was wrong.
I woke up to the feeling of someone standing over me, watching me. My heart pounded in my chest as I forced my eyes open. In the corner of the room, barely visible in the dim light, stood a shadowy figure. It didn’t move. It didn’t make a sound. But it was there, looming.
My first thought? A prank. But when I reached for the light switch, the bulb flickered once and died. My throat tightened. I tried to call out, but no sound came. I felt paralyzed, unable to move. The figure drew closer, its outline becoming sharper, more distinct. And then, the worst part—its face. The features were blurred, like an old painting, the strokes of the paint smeared by trembling hands.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t scream. And when I finally snapped out of it—really snapped out of it—the figure was gone. But the dread lingered.
I never napped in that storage room again.
The Ghostly Nurse Who Never Leaves
The scariest experience, however, wasn’t mine alone. A coworker, who had been here longer than me, shared her own chilling encounter. She’d been resting in the staff room when a bright light from the adjoining locker area suddenly snapped her out of sleep.
“At first, I thought it was just someone being inconsiderate,” she said, her voice trembling. “But then... I saw her.”
I leaned in, even though I didn’t want to hear more. “Saw who?”
“A nurse,” she replied, glancing around nervously. “But not like any nurse you’d see today. She was wearing the old-school uniform—the starched cap, the blue pinstripe scrubs... like the ones in the museum display by the lobby.”
I felt a chill crawl up my spine. Those old uniforms were relics, preserved for the displays, a tribute to the nurses who had worked here during the hospital’s colonial days. Many of them had died of the very diseases they tried to treat.
“What happened?” I asked, barely able to keep my voice steady.
“She just stood there,” my coworker whispered. “Looking through the glass window... like she wasn’t looking at me, but through me. Like she could see something I couldn’t.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine. Patients in Room 9 had reported similar sightings. One patient had even screamed, saying she’d woken up to find the “old-fashioned nurse” sitting at the foot of her bed.
A Face in the Hallway: A Close Encounter
I tried to shake off the unease. Maybe it was just stress. Maybe it was the exhaustion, playing tricks on my mind. But then, one night, I had an encounter I couldn’t explain.
I was walking down the hallway, past Room 14, when I froze. There, standing at the doorway, was the nurse. Her pinstriped scrubs seemed to glow faintly in the corridor’s light. She was staring into the room, her head cocked at an unnatural angle.
My heart skipped a beat. I took a step forward. “Excuse me?” I called out, my voice shaky.
She turned. Slowly. Unnaturally. And her eyes met mine—hollow, empty. It wasn’t just that she was staring at me. It was that she wasn’t *looking* at me. It was as though she was looking *through* me, into something beyond.
I should’ve run. But I didn’t. I moved closer, drawn toward her. But when I reached the corner of the hall, she was gone. No doors had opened, no footsteps echoed. Just silence.
When I checked on the patients in Room 9, one elderly woman was clutching her blanket, shivering.
“It’s freezing in here,” she said, her voice quivering. “Can you get me another blanket?”
I nodded and turned to leave. But then she spoke again.
“That other nurse said she’d bring one. But she’s taking too long.”
I froze. “What nurse?”
“The one who was just here,” she said, pointing to the doorway. “She was standing right there.”
Echoes of the Past
The more time I spend in this haunted colonial hospital, the more I begin to believe in the whispers. The echoes of the past refuse to stay buried. Whether it’s the voices in Room 14, the shadows that linger in the storage room, or the ghostly nurse who still roams the halls, there’s something in the air here. Something that connects the living and the dead, binding us together in a chilling reminder that history never truly leaves.
Every night, as I step into this old building, I feel the weight of the past pressing down on me. And though I’m terrified, part of me wonders—are the spirits trying to scare us? Or are they trying to remind us of the sacrifices made in these very halls?
I don’t know what’s waiting for me on my next shift. But I’ll be ready. Sort of.