The Hollow Night Sister

The rain came down in sheets against the windows of the children’s wing at St. Jude’s Memorial, a sprawling concrete structure that had seen better decades. I was on the night shift, alone, as usual, and the storm outside seemed to seep through the walls, making the fluorescent lights flicker with an unease that settled deep in my bones. I had felt it since I clocked in—a cold dread that clung to me like wet clothes, a sense that something terrible was poised to happen, just beyond my line of sight.

The day nurse, a cheerful woman named Patricia, handed me the keys and the medication cart with a tired smile. ‘Quiet tonight, hopefully,’ she said, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of worry. ‘The maternity ward is swamped, so Sister Margolis asked for help. I’ve left the roster and the drug log. Call if you need anything.’ She squeezed my arm, and I felt her pulse through her sleeve—it was racing, though she tried to hide it.

I began my rounds, the soft squeak of my shoes echoing in the hallway. The ward had six children tonight. In the first cubicle, there were two toddlers, twins, both asleep but restless, their small chests rising and falling in tandem. The second cubicle held a boy of four, recovering from pneumonia, his breathing labored but steady. The third cubicle housed the two older girls: Emily, a beautiful seven-year-old with curly blonde hair, and her roommate, a five-year-old named Sophie, who had been admitted with a mysterious fever.

As I checked their vitals, the storm outside intensified. A bolt of lightning illuminated the corridor, and I saw something that made me freeze—a shadow that didn’t belong. It was tall, thin, and seemed to hover near the children’s beds, but when the thunder clapped, it was gone. I shook my head, chalking it up to exhaustion and the storm’s oppressive energy.

My phone rang, shrill in the empty room. It was Sister Margolis from maternity. ‘We’re swamped. I need you to handle any admissions tonight. I’ll send a porter if we get something urgent.’ I assured her I would, but as I hung up, I felt a sudden cold draft, as if a door had opened somewhere, and I realized the phone line had a faint, crackling static, like someone was breathing on the other end.

I went to check on Emily and Sophie. Emily was awake, her eyes wide, and she clutched her teddy bear. ‘There’s a lady in the corner,’ she whispered, pointing towards the window. My heart lurched. I followed her gaze, but saw nothing but the rain-slicked glass reflecting my own pale face. ‘It’s just the storm, sweetheart,’ I said, trying to soothe her, but a coldness crept over me. Sophie was asleep, but her face was flushed, and her skin was clammy.

Suddenly, the lights flickered and went out, plunging the ward into darkness. The emergency bulbs kicked in, casting the room in a sickly yellow glow. I heard a child’s cough from the second cubicle, followed by a gurgling sound. I rushed over and found the boy, Daniel, choking. He had pulled his IV out, and his mouth was filled with foam. I pressed the call button, but the line was dead. I had to act fast.

I was in the middle of clearing Daniel’s airway when I felt a presence behind me. I turned, and there stood a woman in a soaked nurse’s uniform, her face obscured by shadows. She held a syringe in her hand, filled with a dark, viscous liquid. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ she said, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. ‘The children are mine.’

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. She advanced, and I saw her eyes—empty sockets with a faint glimmer of malice. I backed away, but she was relentless. She raised the syringe and plunged it into my arm. I felt a burning cold spread through my veins, and my vision blurred. The last thing I saw was the woman standing over the children’s beds, her arms outstretched, as if she were claiming them.

I woke in a pool of my own blood, the syringe lying beside me. The ward was silent, except for the steady hum of the machines. I crawled to my feet and checked the children—they were all fine, sleeping peacefully, their monitors beeping normally. But something was wrong. The room felt empty, hollow. I looked at the clock; it was 3 AM, and I had been unconscious for only a few minutes? No, the clock showed 3:15, but my shift started at 11. An entire shift had passed.

I stumbled to the nursing station, desperate to call for help. The phone line was dead. I turned to look back at the ward, and through the glass windows, I saw the children sitting up in their beds, all of them staring at me with blank, white eyes. In unison, they whispered, ‘You let her in.’

I understood then—the woman in the nurse’s uniform was not a ghost; she was a nurse who had died here decades ago, and she had been waiting for someone to bring her a fresh body. I had been the one to wake her, to give her form in the reflected storm. And now, she was wearing my skin, walking the corridors, and the children were her puppets.

I ran, but there was nowhere to go. The exits were locked, and the walls seemed to close in. I heard a voice behind me—my own voice. ‘Why fight it? You’re part of me now.’ I turned, and I was looking at myself, my own face, but with those empty, void-like eyes. She wore my clothes, my name tag, my smile.

She held up the syringe, now empty. ‘It’s time for your new shift,’ she said, and she laughed, a sound that was both mine and not. I felt myself fading, becoming a shadow, drifting through the walls, joining the countless other souls trapped in this hospital.

The next morning, day staff found the night nurse at her station, asleep, with a serene smile. She claimed she had a wonderful night, no incidents. The children were all healthy, and the storm had passed. But if anyone had glanced closely at her eyes, they might have seen something else, something that was not entirely human.

And in the darkest hours, when the storm returns, the children hear a whisper, a lullaby from a woman who wears the night nurse’s face, promising them sweet dreams and eternal slumber.

I am one of them now, forever patrolling these halls, forever waiting for a new soul to replace me.