Every city has a place that people whisper about. A place no one dares to enter once the sun goes down. In one forgotten part of town, hidden behind iron gates and weeds that grew taller than people, there stood an abandoned hospital. Its windows were broken, its walls cracked with age, and its halls filled with dust and silence. Yet, every night, something impossible happened. The lights inside turned on, glowing faintly through shattered glass, as if the hospital had never closed at all.
The locals avoided it. They told stories about the hospital, stories of pain, suffering, and restless souls. It had once been the city’s largest medical center, a place where people came to heal. But decades ago, a fire broke out in the surgical ward. Some patients escaped, but many did not. Nurses and doctors tried to save lives, but the smoke spread too fast. By the time firefighters arrived, dozens had already died inside. After that night, the hospital closed its doors forever.
For years, the building stood empty. Rain leaked through the roof, graffiti covered the walls, and nature slowly crept in. But when darkness fell, the lights flickered on as if the doctors still worked there, as if the patients still lay in their beds. People who dared to look claimed they saw shadows moving in the windows—figures walking through hallways that should have been empty. The horror of what happened there had not faded. It had only grown stronger.
One night, a young man named Michael decided to see the hospital for himself. He had heard the creepy stories all his life, but he didn’t believe in ghosts. He thought it was just old wiring, maybe squatters using generators, nothing supernatural. His friends dared him to go inside, and he agreed. Armed with only a flashlight and his phone, he pushed through the broken gates and stepped into the courtyard.
The building loomed above him, tall and silent. But as he watched, the hallways flickered to life. Lights glowed one by one, stretching down the long corridors. It looked like the hospital had opened its eyes after years of sleep.
Michael swallowed his fear and stepped inside.
The air was thick with dust. The smell of mold mixed with something sharper, something like burnt wood. The walls were covered in peeling paint, and old stretchers lay rusting in corners. His flashlight cut through the dark, but the hospital’s own lights glowed faintly ahead, buzzing with a low hum.
At first, nothing happened. He walked through the empty lobby, past the reception desk where old papers still sat in piles. The silence was heavy, broken only by the distant sound of dripping water. But then, he heard footsteps.
They echoed down the hallway, slow and steady. He froze, pointing his flashlight toward the sound, but the corridor was empty.
He tried to convince himself it was just the building settling, but the footsteps grew louder, closer, until they stopped just behind him. Heart racing, he turned quickly—but no one was there.
Breathing heavily, he moved forward, determined not to lose his nerve. He passed through the wards, where broken beds lined the walls. Some still had old sheets, yellowed with time. As his flashlight scanned the room, he froze. For a split second, he saw a figure lying on one of the beds—a woman in a hospital gown, her eyes wide open, staring directly at him.
He blinked, and she was gone.
The fear began to sink in, but curiosity kept him moving. He entered the surgical ward, the very place where the fire had started years ago. The lights above flickered, buzzing louder than before. The smell of smoke filled his nose, though there was no fire. On the walls, he saw black marks, as if flames had burned them long ago.
And then he heard it—a scream.
It was faint, distant, but it came from deeper inside the hospital. A scream of pain, echoing through the halls. He ran toward it, his footsteps pounding, but when he reached the room, it was empty. Only old operating tables remained, their metal surfaces cold and rusted.
That was when the whispers began.
They came from every direction, soft and low, like voices of doctors and patients speaking in the distance. He couldn’t make out the words, but he felt the weight of them pressing against his mind. His flashlight flickered, and the hospital’s lights grew brighter, filling the corridor with unnatural white glow.
He turned, and there she was—the same woman from the ward. She stood at the end of the hallway, her hospital gown stained and burned, her skin pale as ash. Her mouth moved, whispering something he could not hear.
Michael froze. His body refused to move. The woman began to walk toward him, her bare feet silent on the floor. Her eyes never blinked.
Finally, with every ounce of strength, he turned and ran. The hospital seemed endless, its hallways twisting and stretching. No matter which way he turned, the lights followed him, switching on ahead of him as if guiding his path deeper inside.
He stumbled into the children’s ward. Tiny beds lined the room, toys scattered on the floor. For a moment, he thought it was empty—until he heard laughter.
High-pitched giggles echoed in the room. The toys rattled and moved on their own, rolling across the floor toward him. He backed away, his chest tight with terror. And then he saw them—shadows of children, dozens of them, running and playing, their ghostly figures flickering in and out of sight.
One of them stopped and looked at him. Its face was hollow, its eyes black voids. It raised its hand and pointed toward the door.
He bolted, his heart pounding louder than the whispers. The halls blurred around him, the lights flashing like lightning. He finally reached the lobby, but when he ran to the entrance, the doors were gone. The wall was solid, no exit.
He screamed, slamming his fists against the wall, but it didn’t move. Behind him, the whispers grew louder, turning into moans of pain and cries of suffering. He turned and saw them all—the patients, the doctors, the nurses. Ghosts of everyone who had died in the fire. Their bodies burned, their eyes hollow, their mouths open in endless screams.
They moved toward him, reaching out with blackened hands. The air grew hotter, smoke filling the room. His flashlight fell from his hand, clattering to the floor. The hospital lights blazed with blinding brightness, and the last thing he saw was the ghostly woman standing inches away, her whisper finally clear.
“Stay with us.”
Michael never left the hospital. His friends waited outside the gates, but he never returned. When the police checked, the building was empty, with no sign of him. His name soon faded from memory, as if he had never existed at all.
But those who live nearby know the truth. Some nights, when the lights flicker on, they swear they see a new shadow among the windows—a man wandering the halls, flashlight in hand, trapped forever with the others.
The hospital remains abandoned, but it is never empty. Its lights keep burning, its ghosts keep whispering, and its horror never ends.