The Pallid Ward

In the early 2000s, my mother’s partner, Keith, had moved into a refurbished apartment complex that had once been a sanatorium for children in the late 1800s. The building, called Cedar Crest, stood on a hill overlooking the town, its brick facade softened by new paint but still retaining an institutional air. I was six, and I tagged along as my mother helped Keith unpack.

Inside, the hallways were long and white, with a sterile sheen that felt out of place even though the walls were freshly plastered. The apartment itself was oddly shaped, with a high ceiling and a large window that let in a weak, milky light. It was clear that the original hospital rooms had been preserved: the space was just big enough for two beds and a dresser, and the layout seemed to hint at where medical equipment once stood. The floor was cold under my feet, even with socks on, and I noticed a constant chill that seemed to seep through the walls, despite the Australian summer heat outside.

That first night, I lay in the small bedroom while my mother and Keith talked in the living room. I had trouble sleeping; the cold was biting, and the silence was heavy, broken only by the occasional creak of the old building settling. Then, a sound tore through the stillness: a scream, high-pitched and agonized, echoing as if from a great distance yet painfully close. I jumped out of bed and ran down the dark hallway, my heart pounding. I found my mother and Keith in the kitchen, both frozen, their faces pale. ‘Did you hear that?’ I whispered. Keith nodded, his eyes darting to the door. ‘It came from the basement,’ he said. ‘There’s no basement here,’ my mother replied, her voice trembling.

We tried to brush it off as a prank or a stray cat, but sleep was impossible. The next morning, Keith discovered a small door in the back of a closet that I hadn’t noticed before. It was painted over, blending seamlessly with the wall, but a faint outline of a keyhole remained. He pried it open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. A musty smell wafted up, carrying a hint of antiseptic and something sweeter, like decay. Despite our protests, Keith went down, flashlight in hand. We waited for what felt like an eternity, then heard his sharp intake of breath and a clatter. He emerged, ashen-faced, holding a dusty porcelain doll with a cracked face. ‘There’s a room down there,’ he said, his voice hollow. ‘It’s like a nursery, but the walls are covered in writing. Children’s handwriting. They all wrote the same word: ‘Again.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The cold seemed to intensify, and I felt a presence in the room with me. I pulled the covers over my head, but I could hear a faint, rhythmic breathing, and then a child’s voice, soft and pleading: ‘Help me.’ I screamed, and my mother rushed in. She held me, but I could see that she was shaking. Keith stood in the doorway, his face gaunt. ‘We have to leave,’ he said. ‘This place is wrong.’ But as we tried to gather our things, the front door slammed shut and locked on its own. We were trapped.

Over the next hours, the atmosphere grew suffocating. The lights flickered, and the temperature dropped further. We huddled together in the living room, listening to the sounds of crying and laughing echoing through the empty corridors. I saw a small, pale face peer at us from the hallway, then vanish. My mother grabbed me, and Keith rushed to the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Then, the writing we had seen in the basement began to appear on our walls, scrawled in a childish hand: ‘Stay with us.’ ‘You’re ours now.’

In the early hours of the morning, we found a way out through a broken window, stumbling into the cold night air. We didn’t look back. We never spoke of Cedar Crest again, but sometimes, in the quietest moments, I still hear that scream, and the whispered word, ‘Again,’ and I know that part of us never truly escaped.