Episode 28

The air in the old Sacred Heart Chapel, tucked away in a quiet corner of Salt Lake Regional Hospital, always felt different. It was a stillness that wasn't quite empty, a silence punctuated by a faint, almost imperceptible hum. Even after the hospital had been modernized and expanded, parts of the old chapel remained, a testament to its origins as a place of solace for the miners and the sick who had once been tended by the Sisters of the Holy Cross.

I’d often find myself drawn there during my quieter moments, perhaps seeking a respite from the ceaseless demands of the hospital floor. It was during one such visit, late on a Tuesday afternoon, that I first truly felt their presence. The sun, beginning its descent, cast long, ethereal shafts of light through the stained-glass windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the hushed air. I sat on one of the hard, wooden pews, letting the quiet wash over me, when I heard it.

It was faint at first, like a distant choir practicing scales. A melodic, almost mournful humming, rising and falling with a gentle, rhythmic cadence. I strained my ears, trying to pinpoint its source, but it seemed to emanate from the very walls, from the air itself. It wasn't the sound of a recording, nor was it the wind. It was too pure, too… human, yet not.