The Glass Partition

It was the winter of 1982 when I started my night shifts at St. Jude’s Children’s Ward, a sterile corridor of pastel walls and the faint smell of antiseptic. The hospital was old, its corridors long and uneven, and the children’s ward sat directly above the maternity wing, a fact that seemed to unsettle the senior nurses more than it did me. I was twenty-two, fresh out of training, and I had never believed in ghosts. I thought the stories were just the product of exhausted minds and too much coffee.

My first night on the ward, I was assigned to monitor the five children under our care. They were all under the age of seven, each with their own little cubicle, save for the last one, which held six beds but was rarely used. That night, it was empty, its glass walls reflecting the dim hallway lights. I did my rounds after handover, checking on each child, their breathing soft and steady. The ward was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you hear your own pulse.

At around two in the morning, I was sitting at the nurses’ station, filling out charts, when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. In the reflection of the glass partition, I saw a figure standing in the sixth cubicle. I turned quickly, but the room was empty. I told myself it was a trick of the light, a shadow from the moon outside. But the feeling lingered, a cold knot in my stomach.

An hour later, I heard a faint noise from the sixth cubicle. It sounded like a child humming a lullaby, soft and off-key. I got up, my steps echoing on the linoleum, and pushed open the door. The room was empty, but the air was colder than the rest of the ward. I checked the beds, all made, no sign of anyone. I was about to leave when I noticed one of the pillows had an indentation, as though someone had just lain there.

I tried to shake it off, but the feeling grew. Every time I glanced at that cubicle, I saw a flicker of movement. I decided to call the charge nurse on the floor above, but the line was dead. I tried again, but nothing. I felt a sudden urge to leave, but I couldn’t abandon my patients. I went back to the station and sat down, my hands trembling.

Then I heard a child’s voice, clear and distinct, coming from the direction of the sixth cubicle. ‘Don’t be scared,’ it said. ‘She doesn’t mean any harm.’ I spun around, but there was no one there. The voice had sounded like a young girl, gentle and reassuring. But that only made it more unsettling.

I decided to do another round, to check on the children. As I passed the glass partitions, I saw that all five children were asleep, peaceful. But as I approached the sixth cubicle, I noticed something on the floor. A small, faded photograph, face down. I bent down and picked it up. It was a picture of a little girl with pigtails, holding a teddy bear. On the back, written in faded ink, was a date: 1967. That was fifteen years ago.

I felt a chill run down my spine. I looked up, and in the reflection, I saw her again, a young girl in a white nightgown, standing at the foot of the empty bed. She was staring at me, her eyes dark and hollow. I dropped the photograph and stumbled back. When I blinked, she was gone.

I rushed to the nursing station and tried the phone again, but it was still dead. I was on my own. I took a deep breath, trying to rationalize. Maybe it was a prank, maybe someone was hiding in the ward. But I had checked, and there was no one. I decided to sit with my back to the glass, facing the hallway, so I couldn’t see the reflection. But the feeling persisted, a weight pressing on my shoulders.

At four in the morning, I heard a soft sobbing coming from the sixth cubicle. It was the kind of crying that sounds like it’s been going on for hours. I couldn’t ignore it. I got up, my legs shaking, and walked to the door. I pushed it open slowly. In the dim light, I saw a little girl sitting on the floor in the corner, her head buried in her knees. She was wearing a white nightgown, her hair tangled. She looked up at me, her face wet with tears.

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t leave me.’

I knelt down, my heart pounding. I reached out to comfort her, but as my fingers touched her shoulder, she vanished. I was left kneeling on the cold floor, my hand in empty air. The sobbing stopped. The room was silent again.

I stood up, my mind reeling. I walked back to the station, but my hands were shaking so much I could barely hold a pen. The night seemed endless. Finally, the morning shift nurse arrived at six. I told her what I had seen, and she looked at me with a strange expression. She said that years ago, a little girl had died in that cubicle. She had been abandoned by her mother and had called for her all night. They said her ghost still waited for someone to hold her.

I never worked that ward again. I requested a transfer the same day. But the image of that little girl stayed with me, and sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I still hear her voice whispering, ‘Don’t leave me.’ I never told anyone that I once held her hand, because I know they wouldn’t believe me. But I know what I saw, and I know that some places hold onto their sorrows.

That ward was closed down a few years later, and the building was demolished. But I still think about that cubicle, the glass partition, and the little girl who was left behind. And I wonder if she ever found peace, or if she’s still waiting for someone to come back.