Speaker 1: There was something unusual about Claire. Her obsession with death
leads to a strange discovery. My name is Edwin, and
he's a scary story. I pretended not to notice that
the guard was asleep when I came into the reception
area of Becken's hospital. The door didn't close properly, so
I gave it a little slam and watched the old
man jump up and look at me as though he
was looking at the devil himself. God knows what these
people dream of when they sleep, especially considering that it
had only been a couple of days since the incident.
Mister Gomez, he said, his voice still crackling with sticky
spits from when you just wake up, and he cleared
his throat. I'm here for Isabelle. She said she was
gonna get here a bit earlier than usual. Ah Mmm, yes,
he said, looking through a clipboard he had on the
day ask in front of him. He didn't read anything
I could tell, but he stood up and pointed me
towards the break room. The giant digital clock above the
door frame read four forty three, right on schedule. Over there,
he said, she should be over there. I was wondering
if the guard even knew who stepped foot in there,
but I took his word for it and walked over.
I tried not to look over the source of the
sound of this constant beeping, overlapping from the two rooms
down the dark hallway to my left. That hallway seemed
to never end, despite this being such a small hospital.
I think it was built back when they had more
people in there. I remember it from when I was
a kid, coming to visit my uncle a couple of times.
Even though he didn't die here, he went to die
in the city. My dad used to tell me that
nobody dies in this town, and I believed him well
up until he died in his own bedroom heart attack,
they said. I opened the breakroom and Isabelle was sitting
there looking towards the microwave, a white coffee cup on
the table next to her. Her dark hair was falling
straight down and over her shoulder. She turned around quickly,
her brown eyes locking with mine for the first time,
wide open, scared, and then relieved. Mister Gomez, she said,
standing up to come and shake my hand. Thanks for
taking the time I started. I already took the accounts
from Kate and Ruth. The first time I hear anything
like it. Isabel looked at the clock over the microwave
and then back at me, gesturing with her whole arm
for me to sit, but without even sitting down herself
just yet, she just stared punctual. It made sense for
her as a long time supervising nurse at this place
for nearly two decades. Claire was strange. Not anything against her,
but she stopped suddenly. Well, okay, this place, as you
can tell, is a little run down, old, unusually empty,
and people in town you know. She stopped again. It
was obvious that she didn't know where to begin, normal
for everyone, although people from small towns are generally more
trusting than normal, either that or overly paranoid. Tell me
about Claire, How did she get here? And did you
notice anything unusual about her? Based on how she started
and the level of detail she offered, Isabelle was definitely
a trusting person. Let's see. Claire had started along with
three other nurses, young ladies, all graduating from one of
these new programs in the city. They all came here.
I think two of them lived together and two lives
by themselves. Claire had tried to get a roommate, but
nobody wanted to room with her because of her issues.
Isabelle paused here for a moment. You know, one of
their professors stopped by not long after they started working here,
all part of the same class, everyone knew each other.
I thought she was coming here to say hi to them,
But when she came back to talk to me, she
mentioned Claire right away. She said to give her a
fair chance. She hadn't made any friends, and that her
obsession was not anything that was interfering with her professional work. Obsession.
I interrupted. That's when Isabelle told me about Claire's NonStop
conversation about death, dying, animals, near death experiences, and every
single new article that was coming out online about it,
things like how the dead could hear you for minutes
after they passed, and a recent study on reanimating rats,
and other more supernatural ideas like angels and dreams. It
was all that she talked about. Isabelle continued. Her colleagues
were concerned, but I remember the words of her professor,
give her a chance. She's all right, and yeah, it
worked for a time. For a time, was right up
until the accounts I got from the other nurses, I
thought to myself, and now with Isabel's story, I had
never heard anything remotely similar to what happened with Claire.
Isabel hesitated, her eyes flicking toward the breakroom door, as
though she expected someone or something to walk in. Her
fingers tapped rhythmically against the sight of her coffee cup,
a soft, nervous beat that was loud against the silence. Finally,
she exhaled, sharply, shaking her head. Claire was always different,
isabel said this, Her voice was almost in a whisper.
But the night of the incident, it was like something changed,
Like she wasn't just obsessed anymore. She was convinced. I
leaned forward, lowering my voice to match hers, convinced of
what that death wasn't the end, that it was just
another kind of beginning. She told the other nurses that
she had proved. Isabelle's words hung in the air like smoke,
suffocating and heavy. She said she had been seeing things,
hurt things, that this hospital wasn't empty, and I mean
I knew that he would hear footsteps and voices here
and there in all my time, here in an old
building that has seen it all. They're sort of bound
to right. A cold prickle crept up the back of
my neck. Then the others did they see anything? Isabelle
nodded the movement, stiff and reluctant. Kate said she saw
Claire talking to someone in the hallway one night during
her shift, but when she got closer there was no
one there, just Claire standing in front of the window.
Isabelle's voice faltered. Kate swear she saw Claire's reflection smiling
at something, but it wasn't the kind of smile you
would give to a friend. It was wrong, too wide,
too empty. I finished for her the word, leaving the
strange taste in my mouth, like chewing gum after the
flavor's gone. She nodded again. And then there was the incident.
I noticed her hands trembling as she gripped her coffee cup.
The steam had long since stopped rising, but she clung
to it like a lifeline. It was two nights ago.
She began, her voice breaking on the last word. Clara
was on shift with Kate and Ruth. The patients were
all asleep. The halls were quiet, at least that's what
they thought. Isabel's gaze drifted toward the door again. I
could feel the weight of the silence pressing against us.
Kate said she heard humming. It was coming from room six.
My eyebrows kind of furrowed. Room six. The other said
that room was empty. Oh it is, Isabel whispered, her
voice almost inaudible. It has been for years. We technically
can't use it for storage, but we keep some of
the bedding in there sometimes. Kate swore Claire was in there,
humming to herself. She went to check, and Ruth followed her.
Where they opened the door, Isabel paused, swallowing hard as
if trying to push the memory back down, and adjusting
her neck. I leaned in. My breath was barely a whisper.
What did they see? They found Claire standing in the
middle of the room, holding one of the patient monitors.
Her words were now slow and deliberate, but it wasn't off.
It was on beeping. My stomach twisted, beeping, tracking what.
Isabel's eyes locked onto mine. They were wide and filled
with the fear that I could almost feel in my chest. Heartbeat,
she said, a strong, steady heart beat. The shiver ran
through me, and for the first time I noticed how
cold the room had become. The faint hum of the
refrigerator in the corner seemed louder now, almost like it
was vibrating against the side of my head. Did they
check the equipment, I asked, my voice firmer than I felt.
There's no way. It didn't have time, Isabelle interrupted, Her
voice cracked and she gripped her coffee cuff tighter. The
lights just started flickering, and then the monitor stopped. The
beating just cut out. But Claire, she just smiled. She
looked at them and said, it's not death if they
never leave. What happened next? By the time I got there,
Claire was gone. Isabelle said she had two days off
after that, and I'm not sure if she's going to
show up. I hope she doesn't. The weight of her
words were pressing down on me. They were heavy and oppressive,
and I opened my mouth to ask another question, but
then a sudden, faint noise cut me off. It was humming, soft, melodic,
and echoing faintly from the hallway. Isabelle froze, her face
draining of color. That's her. Her eyes darted toward the
door and then back at me. It's clear I could
tell She kind of wanted to send up to meet her,
but she held back. The lights flickered over her head,
and the room plunged into brief darkness. When the fluorescent
bulbs buzzed back to life, isabel was already on her feet,
backing toward the corner. I stood, my heart pounding in
my chest and strained to hear the sound again. And
the humming grew louder, impossibly clear, and then, just as
suddenly as it started, stopped. The silence that followed was deafening.
Stay here, I said, with my knees catching on at
the last second. When I stood up, I stepped out
into the hallway, the air heavy with the smell of
antiseptic and something else, something metallic. The beeping from Room
six had started again. The hallway was colder than it
should have been, and the faint hum of the machinery
seemed louder with each step. The fluorescent lights above buzzed
in ratom patterns, casting shadows that flickered and danced in
the walls. Room six was straight ahead, its door slightly open,
revealing a sliver of darkness. I hesitated, glancing back at
the break room. Isabelle stood frozen, in the doorway. Her
face was pale, her lips were forming silent prayers, I
could tell, and the humming had stopped, but the beeping,
the beeping from inside Room six was growing louder. It
was insistent. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the room.
It smelled wrong. Beneath the sterile scent, there was something
sour and metallic, like old blood. The monitor by the
empty bed was lit. It's green, displaying a rhythmic heartbeat,
but the bed was empty. What the hell, I muttered,
leaning closer to inspect the machine. The monitor wasn't connected
to anything, no electrodes, no wires, just the faint, steady beep,
beep beep. And then suddenly a voice spoke behind me.
You see it, don't you. I spun around. This must
have been Claire. She was standing in the doorway. Her
dark hair was messy, her eyes were gleaming with the
strange intensity. She looked thinner than the photos Isabel had
shown me. Her eyes were deep, her cheeks were hollow,
and her skin almost translucent in the flickering light. Claire,
I said, forcing my eyes to remain steady. You've got
people worried about you. Isabel's been She doesn't understand, Claire interrupted,
stepping into the room. Her voice was calm, measured, but
there was an edge to it, a dangerous certainty. None
of them do. I glanced at the monitor again, and
then back at her. Claire, what's going on here? What's
with the monitor and the beeping? It's proof, she said,
a smile spreading across her face, proof that they're still here.
They the patience, the ones who passed, They don't go anywhere.
They linger waiting, watching, I've been trying to show them,
to prove it to them. They wouldn't listen, and until
that night, my throat felt dry. The night of the incident,
Claire tilted her head, smiling. The old man in room three,
mister Kalderon, He was dying. We all knew it. I
stayed with him that night. I watched over him, waited
for the moment his heart stopped, and then her voice
dropped to a whisper. And when it did, I felt it.
I felt him stay. I took a cautious step back.
My hand was brushing against the doorframe. What do you
mean you've felt him stay? Claire's expression darkened. You wouldn't understand.
None of you would. But I proved it. I've been
proving it every time someone dies in this hospital. Their
energy lingers trapped between life and death. It's not death
if they never leave. The room seemed to grow colder.
My breath missed it in front of me, and I
realized with the jolts that the bee being from the
monitor had stopped. Claire took another step closer, her eyes
locked on mine. You don't believe me, but you will.
You'll see. What did you do, Claire. My voice was
firmer now, though my pulse was racing. Her smile returned wider,
this time, almost not human. I've been helping them stay
just a little longer, just enough for me to understand.
You can talk to them if you know how to listen.
The soft creak echoed from behind me. I turned to
see the ped It was empty, still neatly made, but
the faint impression of a body seemed to press against
the sheets, as though someone invisible had just lain down.
I stepped back instinctively, my heart hammering, Claire, this needs
to stop. Whatever you're doing. You're playing with things you
don't understand. Her laughter was sharp and hollow. I understand perfectly.
You're the one who doesn't see it. The lights flickered again,
and the air grew colder. Still, the faint sound of
a voice, a low, raspy whisper, seemed to drift through
the room. It was impossible to make out the words,
but the tone was unmistakably mournful. I want to talk
to us, Claire said, her voice trembling with excitement. They're
trying to talk to us. And then the monitor lit
up again. The steady beap was replaced by an erratic,
frantic rhythm. The impression on the bed grew deeper. The
sheets were wrinkling, as if unseen hands were clutching at them.
Claire stop, I shouted, my voice breaking. She didn't listen. Instead,
she stepped closer to the bed, her hands outstretched. It's okay,
she whispered to the empty space. I'm here, I'll help you.
The whispering grew louder, overlapping voices filling the room, and then,
just as suddenly as I had begun, it stopped. The
monitor flatlined. Claire turned to me. Her eyes were wide
and her face was pale. They're gone, she said, her voice.
It's barely audible. They'll be back. They always come back.
I didn't wait to see what would happen next. Grabbing
her arm, I pulled her out of the room, slamming
the door shut behind us. What are you doing, she protested,
struggling against my grip getting you out of here. I said,
this isn't right, Claire, whatever you're messing with, it's not natural.
She stopped struggling and turned to face me. Her expression
was calm, almost serene. You can't stop it, she said.
Death isn't the end, This is just the beginning. Her
words echoed in my mind as we walked on the hallway,
the faint sound of humming following us like a shadow.
I held Claire by the arm, her body very light,
as if she were barely tethered to this world. She
didn't resist. Her eyes were fixed on something I couldn't see,
her lips still moving, as though she was carrying a
silent conversation. Where are we going? She asked, her voice soft,
almost dreamy. Some were safe, I said, though the words
felt hollow and truth that I wasn't sure were safe,
even was anymore. We reached the reception area and a
glance toward the old security guard. He was slumped in
his chair again, but something about his posture seemed off.
I froze. His head was tilted back, his mouth slightly open,
his chest unnaturally still is He began stepping closer. He's
not gone yet, Claire said, her voice serene. Before I
could respond, the lights overhead dimmed, and a strange, oppressive
stillness settled over the room. And to this day I
can't explain this. A faint mist seemed to gather around
the guard's chair, srolling in lazy spirals. The air grew colder,
and the faint scents of lilies sweet filled my nostrils.
Then the whispering began. It was soft at first, like
wind rustling through leaves, but it grew louder, overlapping voices
that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, all at once.
The words were unintelligible. The tone was desperate, pleading, almost
Claire stepped forward, her face illuminated by the eerie globe
of the reception desk's digital clock, four fifty seven a m.
The numbers flickered, glitching in and out. They're here, she said,
Her voice was trembling. Who's here? I demanded, though My
own voice felt small, swallowed up by the whispers, the
ones who stayed, the ones who can't go. The mist
was thicker, now, coil around the guard's chair, and for
a moment, I thought I saw shapes in the fog,
faces contorted with grief and longing. Their eyes were hollow
and searching. One of them leaned closer to the guard.
It's a misty hand reaching toward his chest. Stop, I shouted, instinctively,
stepping forward, but Claire caught my arm, her grip surprisingly strong.
You can't stop it, she said, her eyes glistening with tears.
It's not something you fight, it's something you understand. All
you can do is watch. I turned to her, anger
boiling beneath my fear. Watch what that you've been playing
with forces. You don't comprehend that you've turned this hospital
into some kind of portal or gateway. Their expression softened,
and for the first time, she looked almost human. It's
not a gateway bridge that we all have to cross
without realizing it. Probably crossed it already. Her words struck
something deep within me, a memory I had long buried.
My father slumped in his favorite chair in his bedroom,
clutching his chest, his eyes wide with fear as a
life drained out of him. I had been too late
to save him, and for years I had carried the
weight of that failure, convinced I could have done something, anything,
to change the outcome. Claire must have seen the shift
in my expression, because she smiled faintly. You've felt it,
haven't you, The moment when someone leaves that thin veil
between here and there. It's not emptiness, mister Gomez, it's connection.
The mist began to dissipate, and the guard stirred, coughing
and gasping as if he had been under water. He
looked at me, his eyes wide with terror, and whispered,
they're waiting. I didn't have time to ask him what
he meant, because a clock on the wall hied a low,
resonant tone that seemed to reverberate through my entire body.
It was five am. Claire stepped away for me, her
form seeming to blur at the edges, like an image
out of focus. They've always been here, she said, her
voice distant, watching, listening, waiting for someone to understand, understand
what I demanded, But she didn't answer. Instead, she turned
and walked back down the hallway, her figure dissolving into
the darkness. I stood there, the whispers fading into silence,
the cold air slowly warming. The guard looked at me.
His face was pale and drawn, and then he muttered,
get out of here. I didn't need to be told twice.
As I stepped outside, the first rays of dawn pierced
through the trees, casting long shadows across the empty parking lot.
I stood there for a moment, the events of the
night strolling in my mind like a storm. Claire's words
echoed in my head. It's not death if they never leave.
I thought of my father, of the nights I had
spent in his old bedroom after he passed, Convinced I
could still feel his presence. Was it grief, guilt, or
had there been something more? I didn't have the answers,
but for the first time in years, I felt the
strange sense of peace. Maybe Claire was right, Maybe death
wasn't the end. Maybe, just maybe it was a bridge.
The bridges are dangerous places. I realized they connected two worlds.
They could also collapse under the weight of too many
crossing at once. As I drove away from Becken's hospital,
the sun rising behind me, I made a silent vow
to let the dead rest and to focus on the living.
Whatever Claire had found, whatever she had proven, it wasn't
meant for people like me to understand. This podcast has
written and produced by me Edwin kowar Ugyez. I have
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