The Unfinished Ward

Dr. Elara Voss had been assigned to St. Cathan’s Medical Institute for a month, and Wednesdays were her nights to stay on call. The hospital was an aging labyrinth of abandoned wings and half-finished renovations, its corridors echoing with the distant hum of broken machinery. On her first Wednesday, she learned the layout of the interns’ quarters, a small room at the end of a poorly lit hallway that smelled of stale antiseptic and dust. Beside her room, an unfinished operation theater sat dark and hollow, its gaping doorway like a mouth frozen mid-scream.

At 9 p.m., after the evening rounds, she trudged down that hallway, her footsteps cavernous against the linoleum. The reception desk was manned by a tired nurse named Suresh, who nodded as she passed. ‘I’ll be in the interns’ room if anything comes up,’ she said. He waved a hand, already absorbed in a crossword puzzle.

She ate a bland dinner of rice and lentils, then lay on the narrow cot, scrolling through her phone until sleep tugged at her eyelids. At around 11 p.m., she switched off the light and drifted into an uneasy rest, the hum of the faulty fluorescent light in the hallway seeping through the walls.

At midnight, she jolted awake. A woman’s voice, raw with terror, sliced through the silence: ‘Bhagini, rakshas!’ (Sister, protect me!). The voice seemed to come from just outside her door, then recede down the corridor toward the reception. Heart pounding, Elara threw on her white coat and rushed out, her mind racing with images of a burn victim, perhaps a scalded woman from the nearby villages.

The hallway was empty. The lights flickered, casting long, wavering shadows. She reached the reception area, breathless, to find Suresh calmly sipping tea.

‘Is there an emergency? A woman with burns?’ she asked, scanning the empty waiting room.

Suresh looked up, puzzled. ‘No, Doctor. No one has come in. Why?’

‘I heard a woman screaming for help,’ she insisted.

Suresh set down his cup. ‘I’ve heard that voice before. It comes from the old wing, near the unfinished theater. Sometimes it’s a woman crying, sometimes a man shouting. The construction workers say they heard it when they were building, but they never found the source. It’s just the wind, they say.’

Elara frowned. ‘That wasn’t wind. It was clear, human.’

Suresh shrugged. ‘Perhaps you were dreaming.’

She returned to her room, but sleep was impossible. She lay in the dark, ears straining, but heard nothing more until dawn.

The next Wednesday, she was determined to ignore it. But at precisely 12 a.m., the same voice screamed, ‘Bhagini, rakshas!’ This time, she did not rush out. Instead, she tiptoed to the door and peered through the gap. The corridor was shrouded in shadow, but near the entrance to the unfinished theater, she saw a faint, bluish glow. It pulsed like a heartbeat, then vanished.

Her curiosity overcame her fear. She grabbed a flashlight and crept into the theater. The room was cavernous, with gaping holes in the ceiling and wires hanging like dead vines. In the center, where an operating table would have been, there was a cracked ceramic tile. On it, she found a faded inscription in a language she didn’t recognize. The glow seemed to emanate from the tile, then faded as she approached.

She touched it. A jolt ran through her, and she saw a flash: a woman in a blood-stained sari, lying on a table, while men in masks argued over her. The woman’s mouth was open, but the words were distorted, as if underwater. Elara jerked her hand back, breathing hard.

The next day, she asked an old janitor about the tile. He paled. ‘That is a relic from the old hospital, before this one was built. They say a woman was killed here, a patient who was refused surgery because she couldn’t pay. Her spirit lingers, calling for someone to save her. But no one ever does.’

Elara felt a chill. She wanted to leave the hospital, but her duty required her to stay. The following Wednesday, she did not sleep. She sat in her room, flashlight in hand, waiting. At midnight, the voice came again, but this time it was softer, almost a plea. ‘Bhagini, rakshas.’

She knew she had to go to the theater. She opened the door and walked into the darkness. The tile was glowing brightly now, illuminating the entire room. She knelt and placed her hand on it. This time, the vision was clearer. The woman was young, perhaps thirty, her body covered in burns. The doctors were deliberating, but one of them, the chief surgeon, was arguing to let her die. ‘Her family cannot pay. It is not worth the resources.’ The woman heard him, and her eyes, filled with agony, fixed on Elara. ‘Sister, save me.’

Elara pulled away, tears streaming down her face. She realized the voice had been reaching out to any woman who could hear, hoping for help. She returned to her room and, for the rest of the night, she could not stop thinking about the vision.

The next morning, she reported the incident to the hospital administration. They dismissed it as a prank or a psychological artifact from sleep deprivation. But Elara could not let it go. She researched the history of the site and found a record: a woman named Savita, a laborer, had been brought to the old hospital with burn injuries. She was denied treatment and died in the corridor, her last words being ‘Bhagini, rakshas.’

The unfinished theater had been built on the exact spot where she had died.

On her final Wednesday, Elara decided to do something. She brought a small candle and a photo of Savita, which she had found in an old newspaper, and placed them on the tile. She said a prayer for the dead, promising to remember her. The glow flickered, and for a moment, she felt a warmth spread through the room, as if a hand had touched her cheek in gratitude.

When she left the hospital that morning, she knew she would never forget. But the voice never came again. Yet, she always wondered: what if she had been able to save her? What if every woman who heard that call could rewrite the past? The question haunted her for years. And sometimes, in the dead of night, she would still hear that voice, faint and desperate, calling out across time: ‘Bhagini, rakshas.’