Episode 21

The sterile white of the hospital room did little to soothe the unease that had settled deep within my bones. I was a patient now, not a caregiver, but the spectral activity seemed to follow me, a relentless shadow clinging to my heels. I’d been moved to Mountain West Medical Center, a place I’d hoped would offer a respite from the hauntings, but the universe, it seemed, had other plans. My nurse, Abigail, a kind woman with gentle hands and a perpetually worried brow, was with me. We were talking about anything and everything, a desperate attempt to fill the silence that always seemed to precede *them*. It was then, as I was recounting the day’s small victories – a decent meal, a moment without pain – that I saw it. Directly across from my bed, bathed in the harsh fluorescent light, sat a figure. It was cloaked in white, the hood pulled low, obscuring its face entirely. But the posture, the slump of the shoulders, spoke of profound sorrow. A soft, almost inaudible sound emanated from beneath the hood, a low, mournful cry, like a child lost and alone. My breath hitched. I glanced at Abigail, my eyes wide with a familiar terror. She followed my gaze, her own expression shifting from gentle concern to a stunned disbelief that mirrored my own. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound escaped. The white-hooded figure continued to weep, a silent, heartbreaking lament that seemed to seep into the very fabric of the room. We were both frozen, witnesses to something that defied logic, something that chilled us to the core. The air grew heavy, thick with an unseen presence. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the figure simply wasn't there anymore. The chair was empty, the weeping silenced, the oppressive atmosphere lifting as abruptly as it had descended, leaving only the echo of its despair and the shared, wide-eyed terror on Abigail's and my faces.