Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
I worked nights as a nurse for about three years
in a small hospital outside Denver. It wasn't glamorous and
it wasn't easy money, but it paid the bills. Nights
were usually quiet, half the floors were empty, and most
patients were asleep by midnight. You'd think that would make
things easier, but anyone who's worked in a hospital at
(00:21):
night will tell you the silence makes you notice things
you normally wouldn't. Our wing had eight patient rooms, but
only five were occupied most of the time. Room six
B was always empty. Officially, it was under maintenance because
of faulty wiring, but the lights worked fine, the equipment
(00:42):
was functional, and housekeeping still cleaned it every week. I
always wondered why it wasn't used. One night, around two am,
I was doing rounds when I noticed the door to
six B was open. That was strange because we kept
it locked. I poked my head in and sure enough,
the light was on, the bed was neatly made, monitors off,
(01:06):
everything spotless. I figured maybe housekeeping had left it open
and thought nothing of it. I shut the door and
kept moving. An hour later, when I came back down
the hall, the door was open again. This time I
stepped inside, the air was freezing, way colder than the
rest of the floor. I stood there for maybe ten seconds.
(01:30):
Then something made the hair on my neck rise. The
bed was unmade, the sheets were pulled back, wrinkled, like
someone had just gotten out of it. I backed out fast,
closed the door, and practically jogged to the nurse's station.
I asked one of the older nurses, Linda, if she'd
been in six B. She gave me this look like
(01:52):
I'd stepped on a land mine and said, don't go
in there again. Just don't. Of course, that only made
me more more curious. Later that night, while updating charts,
I thought I heard movement, like shuffling footsteps coming from
down the hall. I glanced up and saw, for just
a second a figure slip into six B, A patient gown,
(02:17):
pale skin, moving slowly. I rushed over, thinking maybe one
of our patients had gotten confused and wandered. But when
I looked inside, the room was empty. The bed was
perfectly made again. I told myself I was tired, maybe
imagining things. But then came the whispers. Every time I
(02:38):
passed six B. After that, i'd hear faint voices through
the door. Not words I could make out, just the
low murmur of someone talking. Once I leaned closer to listen,
and I swear I heard my own name. I stopped
doing rounds alone after that. Two weeks later we had
a new admission, a man and his seventies. I was
(03:01):
checking his vitals when he nodded toward the hall and said,
there's someone in that room. Why don't they shut the door.
I looked he was pointing at six B. The door
was open again. I asked him what he saw. He
described a thin woman with long black hair standing by
the bed, watching him. His voice shook as he said it.
(03:24):
He begged me to close the door. That night, I
dreamed of six B. I was inside, the lights buzzing,
the sheets pulled tight over something that moved beneath them.
The heart monitor beaped steadily, though it wasn't plugged in.
When I reached to pull the sheet back, something grabbed
my wrist. Cold fingers stronger than they should have been.
(03:49):
I woke up with a bruise. I didn't tell anyone,
but Linda noticed. She pulled me aside one shift and said,
Room six B hasn't been right since nineteen ninety eight,
a patient coded in there. Young woman came in after
a car rack. She died on the table, but the
monitor kept flatlining and then spiking over and over for hours,
(04:16):
even after they disconnected everything she told me. Staff started
hearing her at night, crying, calling for help. Patients moved
out of the room, refusing to stay. Finally, administration shut
it down a month later. On my last week before
transferring to another hospital, I was finishing rounds at three
(04:39):
am when the intercom buzzed. It was the call button
from six B. That was impossible. The room wasn't connected
to the system anymore, but there it was. Six B.
Assistants needed. I stood frozen. Linda wouldn't even look up.
She muttered, I don't answer it. The buzzer went off again,
(05:03):
longer this time. I swear I could hear faint sobbing
through the speaker. I almost walked down there, almost, but
then I saw something move past the end of the hall,
someone in a gown, hair hanging over their face, dragging
an ivy stand. They stopped right at six B, turned
(05:24):
and looked straight at me. I didn't move, didn't breathe,
and then slowly they stepped backward into the room and
closed the door. The call button went silent. I transferred
the next week. I haven't been back, but sometimes when
I dream, I'm standing in front of that door again.
(05:45):
It's always slightly open, waiting for me to go inside,
and part of me knows if I ever do, I
won't come back out.
I worked nights as a nurse for about three years
in a small hospital outside Denver. It wasn't glamorous and
it wasn't easy money, but it paid the bills. Nights
were usually quiet, half the floors were empty, and most
patients were asleep by midnight. You'd think that would make
things easier, but anyone who's worked in a hospital at
(00:21):
night will tell you the silence makes you notice things
you normally wouldn't. Our wing had eight patient rooms, but
only five were occupied most of the time. Room six
B was always empty. Officially, it was under maintenance because
of faulty wiring, but the lights worked fine, the equipment
(00:42):
was functional, and housekeeping still cleaned it every week. I
always wondered why it wasn't used. One night, around two am,
I was doing rounds when I noticed the door to
six B was open. That was strange because we kept
it locked. I poked my head in and sure enough,
the light was on, the bed was neatly made, monitors off,
(01:06):
everything spotless. I figured maybe housekeeping had left it open
and thought nothing of it. I shut the door and
kept moving. An hour later, when I came back down
the hall, the door was open again. This time I
stepped inside, the air was freezing, way colder than the
rest of the floor. I stood there for maybe ten seconds.
(01:30):
Then something made the hair on my neck rise. The
bed was unmade, the sheets were pulled back, wrinkled, like
someone had just gotten out of it. I backed out fast,
closed the door, and practically jogged to the nurse's station.
I asked one of the older nurses, Linda, if she'd
been in six B. She gave me this look like
(01:52):
I'd stepped on a land mine and said, don't go
in there again. Just don't. Of course, that only made
me more more curious. Later that night, while updating charts,
I thought I heard movement, like shuffling footsteps coming from
down the hall. I glanced up and saw, for just
a second a figure slip into six B, A patient gown,
(02:17):
pale skin, moving slowly. I rushed over, thinking maybe one
of our patients had gotten confused and wandered. But when
I looked inside, the room was empty. The bed was
perfectly made again. I told myself I was tired, maybe
imagining things. But then came the whispers. Every time I
(02:38):
passed six B. After that, i'd hear faint voices through
the door. Not words I could make out, just the
low murmur of someone talking. Once I leaned closer to listen,
and I swear I heard my own name. I stopped
doing rounds alone after that. Two weeks later we had
a new admission, a man and his seventies. I was
(03:01):
checking his vitals when he nodded toward the hall and said,
there's someone in that room. Why don't they shut the door.
I looked he was pointing at six B. The door
was open again. I asked him what he saw. He
described a thin woman with long black hair standing by
the bed, watching him. His voice shook as he said it.
(03:24):
He begged me to close the door. That night, I
dreamed of six B. I was inside, the lights buzzing,
the sheets pulled tight over something that moved beneath them.
The heart monitor beaped steadily, though it wasn't plugged in.
When I reached to pull the sheet back, something grabbed
my wrist. Cold fingers stronger than they should have been.
(03:49):
I woke up with a bruise. I didn't tell anyone,
but Linda noticed. She pulled me aside one shift and said,
Room six B hasn't been right since nineteen ninety eight,
a patient coded in there. Young woman came in after
a car rack. She died on the table, but the
monitor kept flatlining and then spiking over and over for hours,
(04:16):
even after they disconnected everything she told me. Staff started
hearing her at night, crying, calling for help. Patients moved
out of the room, refusing to stay. Finally, administration shut
it down a month later. On my last week before
transferring to another hospital, I was finishing rounds at three
(04:39):
am when the intercom buzzed. It was the call button
from six B. That was impossible. The room wasn't connected
to the system anymore, but there it was. Six B.
Assistants needed. I stood frozen. Linda wouldn't even look up.
She muttered, I don't answer it. The buzzer went off again,
(05:03):
longer this time. I swear I could hear faint sobbing
through the speaker. I almost walked down there, almost, but
then I saw something move past the end of the hall,
someone in a gown, hair hanging over their face, dragging
an ivy stand. They stopped right at six B, turned
(05:24):
and looked straight at me. I didn't move, didn't breathe,
and then slowly they stepped backward into the room and
closed the door. The call button went silent. I transferred
the next week. I haven't been back, but sometimes when
I dream, I'm standing in front of that door again.
(05:45):
It's always slightly open, waiting for me to go inside,
and part of me knows if I ever do, I
won't come back out.
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