The Hollow Glow of Ward 9

The morning I first saw the corridor, I was sitting in the break room of the abandoned St. Dymphna’s Hospital, where I worked as a night security guard. The sun was just beginning to filter through the grimy windows, and I was nursing a cold cup of coffee, watching the dust motes dance. Suddenly, the light seemed to drain from the room, as if someone had pulled a dimmer switch. The colors bled to gray, and the edges of my vision softened into darkness. In the center, a narrow tunnel of faint, sickly light appeared, stretching ahead of me, impossibly long and yet somehow right in front of my face. At the end, I could see a shape—a figure, too thin, too still. It stood there, then turned and looked directly at me. It nodded, slowly at first, then faster, as if it were examining me through a lens. I felt a cold dread seep into my bones, but just as quickly as it came, the vision vanished. I blinked, and the break room was bathed in normal morning light. I chalked it up to exhaustion, but something felt wrong.

Later that week, I had the dream. I was walking through the corridors of St. Dymphna’s, but they were twisted, the walls bleeding rust and the floor slick with something dark. I heard a faint hum, like a fluorescent light about to die. I turned a corner and saw a door I’d never noticed before, marked with a faded number: 9. The light from beneath it pulsed, a ghastly amber. I reached for the handle, and the dream snapped. I woke up gasping, my heart pounding, but the hum remained. It was coming from the wall behind my bed. I pressed my ear to the wallpaper, and through the thin barrier, I heard a voice—a dry, papery whisper, so faint I almost missed it. It said, ‘We have been waiting for you to find us.’

That night, on my security rounds, I decided to explore the hospital’s basement. The hum grew louder as I descended, and the air grew cold and heavy with the smell of mildew and old medicine. I found a corridor that didn’t match the blueprints I’d memorized. It stretched ahead, impossibly long, lined with doors that were all ajar. At the end, a door stood open, spilling that same amber light. I walked toward it, my boots echoing too loudly. As I approached, I saw a gurney inside, and on it, a figure covered in a white sheet. The hum was now a chorus of whispers, overlapping, pleading. The sheet moved slightly, as if the figure was breathing. I reached out to lift the sheet, and the whispers stopped. A hand—cold and impossibly thin—shot out and grabbed my wrist. The sheet fell away, and I saw my own face, gaunt and pale, staring back at me. It smiled.

I ran. I don’t remember the climb back up, only the terror. When I burst into the lobby, the sun was rising, and everything looked normal. I told my supervisor I was quitting. He laughed, said I was the fifth guard to quit in a month, all complaining of the same thing: a corridor that shouldn’t exist and a light that calls you. He shrugged and handed me my last paycheck. As I left, I glanced back at the hospital, and for a split second, I saw the amber glow in the basement window, and a figure standing just inside, waving goodbye.

Now, in my apartment, I try to sleep, but the hum is always there, faint, just at the edge of hearing. Last night, I woke to find my bedroom door open, and a narrow beam of amber light spilling from the hallway. At the end of that beam, I saw the same figure, and it was not alone. There were others, all of them with my face, all of them nodding, as if to say, ‘Welcome home.’ I know now that I never truly escaped St. Dymphna’s. I brought it with me. And every time the light grows dim, I see that corridor, and I know it’s only a matter of time before I walk it again, this time for good.