Chapter 10: The Whispering Walls

The over head lighting at Salt Lake Regional Hospital hummed with a weary, insistent drone, a sound that had long since settled into the marrow of my bones. It was a sound that usually faded into the background, a constant companion to midnight rounds and the sterile scent of disinfectant. But tonight, it felt different. Tonight, the hum seemed to carry a sub-audible tremor, a vibration that tickled the back of my neck and made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

I was making my way through the East Wing, a section of the hospital that had seen better days. It was the oldest part of Salt Lake Regional Hospital a labyrinth of dim corridors and sparsely populated rooms. Most of the patients had been moved to the newer, brighter West Wing years ago, leaving the East Wing to gather dust and whispers. Tonight, the silence here was thicker than usual, broken only by the distant whir of a ventilation fan and the echo of my own footsteps.

As I passed room 312, a chill, entirely unrelated to the ambient temperature, snaked down my spine. It wasn't a sudden gust of cold air, but a creeping, pervasive dampness that seemed to seep from the very plaster of the walls. I paused, my hand hovering over the doorknob. The room had been empty for weeks, a forgotten space awaiting some unknown fate. Yet, I could have sworn I heard a sound, a faint, breathy sigh that seemed to emanate from within.