The Last Ward

In November 2011, I was a nursing student completing a clinical rotation at a decaying rural hospital that had been closed for years but still held a reputation among locals. The building, St. Agatha’s, was a looming brick structure with peeling paint and shattered windows, perched on a hill overlooking a fog-choked valley. A group of us—myself, a skeptical guy named Marcus, a nervous girl named Priya, and two thrill-seekers, Leo and Dana—decided to spend a night there, using a homemade spirit board we’d constructed from an old wooden cabinet door. We’d heard that the hospital’s basement morgue was haunted by the ghost of a nurse who had died in a fire there in the 1970s. Our goal was to make contact, but we were also armed with the knowledge I had gleaned from online forums: we’d ask only ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions, and we’d banish any negative entities with a circle of salt and a iron nail. We set up in a dusty patient ward on the second floor, where a single window gaped open, letting in the cold night air—our planned escape route. We lit candles, placed the board on a cracked linoleum floor, and drew a large circle of salt around us. I held a notebook, ready to record, while the others placed their fingers on a small, heart-shaped planchette we’d carved from a piece of oak.

We began with the usual: ‘Is anyone here?’ The planchette slid to ‘YES’ with a jolt, sending a thrill through us. Marcus snickered, calling it parlor tricks, but Priya’s eyes were wide. We then asked, ‘Are you from the sun or the moon?’ The planchette moved deliberately to ‘MOON’. I wrote it down. Then, ‘Do you love God?’ The planchette hovered, then slammed to ‘NO’. A cold gust blew out one candle, and we felt a drop in temperature. Leo, trying to be brave, asked, ‘What is your name?’ The planchette spelled out: N-O-R-A. We all knew the legend—Nora was the nurse who perished in the fire. But then, as if excited by our recognition, we asked, ‘How did you die?’ The planchette began moving erratically, tracing letters: B-U-R-N-T. My blood chilled, and I noticed the salt circle was disturbed—a small gap, as if something had been dragged through it.

Priya, terrified, wanted to stop, but Leo insisted we ask one more question. Dana, who had been silent, suddenly spoke: ‘Ask if it’s still here.’ I asked, ‘Are you still here?’ The planchette shot to ‘YES’. Then, without prompting, it spelled: ‘BEHIND YOU’. We all turned, heartbeats pounding, but saw nothing. A cold hand seemed to brush my neck, and I heard a faint, guttural whisper: ‘Mine.’ The planchette flew off the board, and the candles blew out. In the darkness, we heard a scraping sound from the hallway, like nails on wood. We flicked on our flashlights, and the beam revealed the salt circle was broken in three places. Marcus, shaken, said, ‘We need to leave. Now.’ We scrambled toward the window, but the casement was jammed. Panic rose as the scraping grew louder, closer. Leo shoved a chair through the window, and we climbed out onto a rusty fire escape. Behind us, the ward door slammed shut with a force that echoed.

As we descended, I noticed my notebook was gone—I must have dropped it in the chaos. But that night, when I got home, I found a scrap of paper in my pocket. On it, in smudged pencil, was a message: ‘You left something behind. She is not done.’ I shuddered, knowing we had opened a door. Over the next weeks, each of us began to experience strange occurrences. Marcus found char marks on his bedroom ceiling. Priya heard a woman crying in her closet. Leo’s reflection in a mirror smiled when he didn’t. Dana started speaking in a monotone, repeating phrases we hadn’t used. And I began to dream of a burning hallway, with a figure at the end gesturing for me to follow. One night, I woke to find my notebook on my nightstand, opened to a new page, with my handwriting that I didn’t remember: ‘I am still here. I will always be here. You cannot forget.’ The last ward of St. Agatha’s is still in my mind, but now it’s not the building that haunts me—it’s the knowledge that we never truly closed the door, and Nora is waiting for us to return, so she can finish what she started.

Months passed, and we tried to move on. But the occurrences escalated. Marcus became obsessed with fire, and one night he set his own apartment kitchen ablaze, nearly dying. Priya was admitted to a mental health facility after claiming she saw Nora in her mirror. Leo disappeared without a trace; his car was found abandoned near the old hospital, with a single burned photograph of us on the dashboard. Dana stopped speaking altogether and took to drawing the same symbol over and over—a circle with a gap in it, like the broken salt ring. I knew I had to go back, to apologize, to banish whatever we had invoked. I convinced myself it was the only way to end it. I drove to St. Agatha’s on a moonless night, carrying a new iron nail and a fresh bag of salt, but as I walked the empty halls, I heard my own voice echoing: ‘She is still here.’ The air smelled of smoke, and the floorboards were warm underfoot. I found the ward where we had started, the salt ring still visible, but the board was gone. In its place was a scrap of paper with the words: ‘You came back. Now you can stay.’ I turned to flee, but the door slammed shut, and the room filled with a searing heat. In the last moment, I saw a figure in a nurse’s uniform, her face partially melted, and she smiled. I woke up in my bed, drenched in sweat, but in the mirror, a small burn mark on my arm in the shape of a hand. The notebook on my nightstand had a new entry: ‘You are now part of the board. The game is only beginning.’ And from somewhere in the house, I heard a faint, rhythmic knock—as if someone was testing the walls, searching for a way in.

Now, I keep the salt circle around my bed every night, and I nail an iron cross to the door. But I know it’s only a matter of time. I can feel her presence, growing stronger. Last week, I found a matches in my pocket, unsolicited. And tonight, as I write this, I see a shadow under my door that doesn’t match anything in the hallway. She told me the truth: she is from the moon, she does not love God, and she has claimed me. The last ward of St. Agatha’s was only the beginning. The true horror is that we invited her in, and she will never leave. I only hope that someone reads this and avoids making the same mistake. Some doors, once opened, can never be truly shut. And some names, once spoken, will always answer. My name is Alex, and I have become her tool. If you hear a knock at your window tonight, don’t answer. It might be me, carrying her message. But you won’t know until it’s too late. The salt is running low, and the iron is rusting. She is patient, and she is waiting. The game will end, one way or another, and I fear the only way to win is to lose everything.

I’ve stopped asking questions. There are no more answers. Only the fire that burns within, the words on the page, and the door that opens to the moon. I know now that the board our hands touched was nothing but a trigger. The real connection was us—our fear, our curiosity, our arrogance. We thought we were playing a game, but we were the playthings. And when the last ward is sealed, and the hospital crumbles, she will walk among us, wearing the faces we wear, speaking the words we speak. Do not look into a mirror without asking who is looking back. Do not light a candle without wondering who might be drawn to it. And if you ever find yourself in an abandoned place, with a piece of wood and a planchette, I beg you: walk away. Because the only message you’ll receive is your own doom. And the only name you’ll call out in the dark will be the one that answers.

This is my warning. I hope it reaches you in time. But even as I write it, I feel the pull, the call of the moon, the heat of the fire. She is here, in the room, with me. Her breath is cold, but her touch burns. And she is asking me to play one last game. The board is set. The planchette is ready. And I am afraid I am going to say yes. The last words I will ever write in this notebook are not mine, but hers: ‘You are mine now, and you will never leave.’ And so I shall, but not by choice. For in that hospital, we did not simply speak with the dead; we gave it a voice. And now, that voice is mine. But it will also become yours, if you let it. The story is not over. It never is. It just changes hands.

Fin.