The Lullaby of Ward 4

Nadia had never imagined that a hospital corridor could feel so ancient. The walls, painted a sickly green, bore the cracks of a century, and the radiators groaned like tired old men. Her daughter, Lily, had been admitted to the children’s oncology wing, a place that seemed suspended in time. The ward was housed in the original building of St. Aldwyn’s Infirmary, constructed in 1876, and every corridor whispered of its age. At night, the silence was so heavy that Nadia could hear her own heartbeat.

It was their third night. Lily had finally fallen asleep after a long, tearful struggle, her small body exhausted by the chemotherapy that dripped steadily into her veins. Nadia, restless and wired, slipped out of the room, leaving the door ajar. She padded down the dim corridor to the parents’ pantry, a small room with a kettle, a microwave, and a few sad packets of biscuits. She needed something to do, to feel human.

As she fumbled with a teabag, a sound sliced through the stillness. A woman’s voice, humming. It was a soft, lilting melody, like a lullaby her own mother used to sing. The hum came from behind her, near the door. Nadia spun, but the room was empty. The humming continued, unhurried, as if the invisible singer had all the time in the world. Nadia’s skin prickled. She moved to the door, yanked it open, and peered down the corridor. The dim emergency lights cast long shadows, but there was no one. The humming stopped abruptly, as if cut off by her action. A cold draft brushed past her. Nadia’s legs felt like jelly. She hurried back to Lily’s room, not daring to look back, and locked the door.

The next night, the humming returned. This time, it was closer, almost in the room. Nadia sat by Lily’s bed, the thin hospital curtain drawn, and she heard the hum right behind her. She froze, too afraid to turn. The melody was the same, but now it seemed tinged with sorrow, a note of pure grief. She whispered, ‘Who’s there?’ Nothing. Just the hum, then a slow fade. Nadia began to see things from the corner of her eye—a flicker of a white dress, a shadow that moved against the light.

She couldn’t tell the nurses; they were already overwhelmed, and what would she say? ‘A ghost is humming to my daughter?’ But the humming grew more frequent, and one night, she saw her. It was past midnight, and Lily had been taken for a scan. Nadia, alone, was walking back from the vending machine when she saw the figure at the far end of the corridor. A woman, gaunt, with lank, dark hair, wearing a tattered white gown. She was standing outside a door, bent over, as if listening. Nadia froze. The woman straightened, slowly, and turned. Her face was hollow, with deep-set eyes. She did not look at Nadia, but at the room behind her. Then she began to hum, and the melody was unmistakable—the same lullaby. It echoed down the hall, and Nadia felt a deep, primal dread.

A nurse found Nadia shaking, and led her back to Lily. Nadia asked if there were any records about the wing. A sympathetic doctor, an older man with kind eyes, pulled her aside. He told her that the ward had once been part of the asylum, and that in the early 1900s, a mother named Margaret had been admitted with her child, both suffering from consumption. The child had died, and the mother, mad with grief, had hung herself in the very room where Lily was now staying. He said that some said her spirit lingered, humming to the children, trying to soothe them—or perhaps, trying to take them.

Nadia’s blood ran cold. She rushed back to Lily’s room. The door was ajar, and she heard the humming, louder now, a warbling, desperate sound. She pushed inside and saw Lily sitting up, staring at the corner. The humming filled the room, and for a moment, Nadia saw her—Margaret, crouched by the bedside, reaching out a pale hand toward Lily’s face. ‘Get away from her!’ Nadia screamed. The figure dissolved, but the humming echoed for a heartbeat longer.

That night, Nadia stayed awake, holding Lily’s hand. The humming returned, but now it was different—it was angry, a shriek wrapped in a melody. The hospital room grew cold. Over the following days, Nadia learned more. Margaret’s child had been about Lily’s age, and she had been convinced that a doctor had killed him with his ‘experiments’. She had killed herself in that room, and some said she now hunted for children who were weak, so that she could take them to her own child in the afterlife.

Lily’s condition began to worsen, mysteriously. The doctors were baffled. Nadia’s instincts screamed that it was the ghost. She called in a priest, a wiry man named Father Alistair, who performed a blessing in the room. But the humming persisted, even more insistent. At night, Nadia heard scratching at the window, and in the morning, there were claw marks on the glass. She moved Lily to a different room, but the humming followed, always just outside the door, or in the vent, or right behind her ear.

One night, exhausted beyond reason, Nadia fell asleep in a chair. She dreamed of a small boy, pale, with hollow eyes, standing at the foot of a bed. He pointed a scrawny finger at Lily, and mouthed, ‘Mama wants me to have her.’ Nadia woke with a scream. Lily was still breathing, but her skin felt cold.

Desperate, Nadia went to the hospital archives. She found old newspapers, yellowed, telling of a child who had died, and his mother’s body found hanging, a note in her pocket: ‘I will not let you take another from me.’ The child had been buried in an unmarked grave in the nearby cemetery. Nadia found the grave that afternoon, a simple stone with no name. She knelt and whispered, ‘Margaret, your child is at peace. Let my Lily be.’

That night, the humming was softer, melancholic. Nadia opened her eyes to see a spectral figure kneeling by Lily’s bed, and this time, it looked at her. The woman’s face was streaked with tears. She slowly shook her head, as if in refusal, and then faded, leaving the room warm. The humming stopped, and never returned. Lily began to improve, and after a few more weeks, was able to go home.

But Nadia never spoke of it. Until now, as she writes this, she hears a faint humming from her own home, drifting from Lily’s room. But Lily is asleep, and the humming is getting louder, and a cold draft touches her neck, and a voice, soft, like a mother’s, whispers, ‘I didn’t take her… but I followed you home.’