The Marrow Ward

In the sweltering August of 1988, I was an area inspector for a private security firm, overseeing several abandoned properties across the city. My beat was the outskirts, where forgotten buildings sagged under the weight of neglect. One such site was the former St. Elian’s Infirmary, a Victorian-era hospital closed for a decade, its red brick facade now streaked with soot and ivy. My friend and colleague, Marcus, had been stationed there with two others, and we’d planned to meet for coffee during my check-in. The infirmary had been a target for squatters and vandals, so a permanent team of three was posted, along with a dog handler on rotation. The layout was a maze: the original 1800s block, connected by long, glass-roofed corridors to newer wings. I arrived just after sunrise, the air already heavy with the promise of heat. Marcus met me at the gate, his face slick with sweat despite the early hour.

We walked through the main entrance, the door groaning on corroded hinges. Inside, the air was cool and stale, a musty smell of damp plaster and old medicines. Marcus led me to a makeshift break room in the old nurses’ quarters, where the other guard, a quiet man named Ellis, was brewing instant coffee. ‘Quiet night,’ Marcus said, handing me a mug. ‘Except for the dog handler last night – she said she heard something in the old maternity ward.’ I shrugged; such reports were common. After a quick tour of the perimeter, I decided to explore the wing that had once housed the maternity and pediatric units. I wanted to verify the locks on the doors and check for any new breaches.

The corridor leading to the maternity ward was long, lined with peeling paint and broken windows that let in shafts of light. At the end, a heavy steel door stood ajar, its lock snapped. I pushed it open, the hinges screaming. Inside, the room was vast, with a high ceiling and rows of rusted iron beds, their mattresses long gone. A strong smell hit me, like spoiled meat and antiseptic. In the center of the room, a child’s crib, enameled white but rusted at the edges, sat strangely pristine. On its mattress, I noticed a dark stain, shaped like a handprint. As I stepped closer, the handprint seemed to pulse, but I put it down to a trick of light.

I radioed Marcus to bring the dog, but he was already on his way. When he arrived with Thor, a German Shepherd, the dog froze at the threshold. Thor’s hackles rose, and he let out a low growl. Marcus pulled him back, whispering, ‘He’s never done that before.’ We both felt a sudden coldness, despite the heat outside. The crib began to emit a faint, rhythmic creaking, as if someone were gently rocking it. My skin prickled. Ellis, who had followed us, pointed to the far corner where a shadow seemed deeper than it should be. ‘There’s something there,’ he stammered.

I stepped forward, my flashlight cutting through the murk. The shadow coalesced into a small figure, no taller than a toddler, but with elongated limbs and a head too large. It was featureless, save for a gaping mouth that opened soundlessly. The figure took a step, and the creaking grew faster. Then it vanished. I spun around, but the crib was still. Thor whimpered, pressing against Marcus’s leg. I didn’t need more evidence; I told the others to pull back. As we retreated, I glanced back – the figure was now standing beside the crib, its head tilting as if watching us leave.

Back in the break room, we sat in silence, the coffee cold in our hands. Ellis admitted he’d seen the same figure on his night rounds but had dismissed it as a hallucination. Marcus said the dog handler had seen it too, and she’d refused to return. I made a decision: we would seal that wing and request a higher-level inspection. As I radioed for backup, the lights flickered, and a faint cry echoed through the building, like a baby’s wail. It came from the maternity ward. Thor began to bark uncontrollably, straining toward the door. We locked the internal doors and waited, the cry growing louder.

Hours later, when the backup arrived, they found the three of us huddled in the break room, the dog cowering under a table. The wailing had stopped, but a new sound had replaced it: a rhythmic scratching, from inside the walls. The backup team reported that the crib in the maternity ward had been overturned, and on the floor, scrawled in what looked like dried blood, were the words ‘Let me out.’ The station was closed permanently the following week. I never returned, but I still dream of that crib, and the small, faceless figure that haunts it. Sometimes, in my waking hours, I hear that faint cry, just out of reach, as if it’s following me home.