The Unnumbered Ward

It was a Tuesday in late October when the humidity in the maternity ward finally broke, and with it, the last of our patience. My wife, Clara, and I had been living in a small, windowless room adjacent to the newborn nursery for nearly two weeks, ever since our son, Leo, had been admitted to the pediatric ICU with a mysterious viral encephalitis that had left him in a state of profound unconsciousness. The staff at St. Augustine’s Hospital, a sprawling complex in the humid coastal city of Veracruz, had been extraordinarily kind, even offering us this room when they learned we refused to leave the property. But on that Tuesday, a sudden influx of premature births, a result of a bacterial outbreak in the city’s water supply, forced a change. A nurse with apologetic eyes and a pinched expression informed us that our room was needed, and that we would be moved to another ward, a place she did not name. My husband, Rafael, eager to avoid the two-hour drive home at midnight, agreed without hesitation. I was too exhausted to protest.

The ward was on the fourth floor, at the end of a corridor that smelled of stale disinfectant and something else, something faintly sweet and metallic, like old copper coins. The nurse led us past a set of double doors that creaked with a sound like a dying animal. She did not turn on the main lights, instead guiding us by the pale glow of a single emergency lamp near the nursing station. The station itself was unmanned, a dusty computer monitor displaying a screensaver of swirling stars. The ward was divided into small rooms, each with a metal bed and a bedside table, the kind you’d see in an old sanitarium. The paint was a peeling institutional green, and the windows, when I tried to open one, were painted shut.

We chose the room at the far end, as it had two beds side by side, and we could sleep close. The nurse handed us a set of keys and a buzzer, saying, ‘If you need anything, press this. But please, try not to leave your room after midnight. The staff are few, and we don’t want you getting lost.’ Her words were meant to be reassuring, but they hung in the air like a warning. I didn’t sleep that night. Rafael, on the other hand, fell into a deep, dreamless slumber, his breathing a soft metronome in the dark. I lay awake, listening to the hum of the ancient air conditioner, which rattled in a rhythm that almost sounded like a heartbeat. And then, I heard something else: a soft, rhythmic padding, like bare feet on linoleum, coming from the corridor outside. It would stop at our door, pause, and then continue. It went on for hours.

The next morning, I tried to find a nurse to ask about the noise, but the corridor was empty. The ward had no name, no number on the door, just a faded plaque that read ‘Temporal Care.’ When I finally located a janitor, he looked at me with a mixture of pity and something else, and simply said, ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ He walked away, pushing his cart, the wheels squeaking in a way that echoed. I found our way back to the room, but the layout seemed different. The doors were numbered, but the numbers were all ‘0’, as if the ward had no identity. I counted the rooms: there were twelve, but the corridor seemed longer than it had the night before.

On the third night, I started seeing things. At first, it was just a flicker in my peripheral vision, a shadow that would dart away when I turned. Then, I saw a figure at the end of the corridor, a woman in a long white gown, her hair hanging over her face. She was standing perfectly still, as if waiting for something. I blinked, and she was gone. I told myself it was the stress, the lack of sleep, but then I heard a baby crying. It was a thin, reedy sound, like a kitten, coming from the room next to ours. Rafael stirred but didn’t wake. I pressed my ear to the wall, and the crying stopped, replaced by a low, guttural whisper, a voice that seemed to be speaking in a language I didn’t recognize, though it felt familiar, like a forgotten melody from a nightmare.

On the fifth night, I decided to investigate. I waited until Rafael was in a deep sleep, then I crept out of the room, the cold linoleum biting my bare feet. The corridor was dark, but I brought a flashlight. I walked past the other rooms, all with their doors ajar. I saw beds, some empty, some with shapes that might have been patients, but they were so still, so silent, I couldn’t tell. At the end of the corridor, there was a door I hadn’t noticed before, marked ‘Staff Only.’ I pushed it open, and it led to a stairwell. The stairs spiraled down, but also up, to a roof access. I climbed up, the air becoming warmer and more humid with each step. At the top, the door was ajar, and I pushed it open, stepping onto the roof.

The roof was vast, dotted with old air conditioning units and rusted ducts. The city lights twinkled in the distance, but here, the darkness was tangible. And then I saw them: rows of bassinets, like a makeshift nursery, but they were covered with dusty sheets. I walked among them, and I felt a cold draft that carried the scent of ammonia and rotting flowers. One of the sheets was partially pulled aside. Underneath, I saw a baby, but its skin was gray, and its eyes were open but milky. I stumbled back, my heart pounding, and I heard that faint crying again, but this time it was all around me, a chorus of tiny voices that seemed to be pleading.

I fled back down the stairs, through the corridor, and into our room. Rafael was still asleep, but his breathing was labored now, as if he were having a nightmare. I shook him awake, and he gasped, ‘There was a woman, she was pressing on my chest. She said, ‘You shouldn’t have come.’ He was sweating, his eyes darting around the room. I told him what I had seen, but he didn’t believe me. He said I was hallucinating from exhaustion. But I knew what I had seen.

On the seventh night, we finally left. We couldn’t take it anymore. We quietly packed our things, and we made our way to the elevator. But the elevator wouldn’t come. The button glowed, but nothing happened. We tried the stairs, but they led to a floor we didn’t recognize, and then back to the same corridor. We were trapped. We eventually found a janitor, the same one from before, and he told us, ‘You have to go through the basement. There’s a tunnel that connects to the main building.’ He led us to the basement, a place of concrete and pipes, and he pointed to a dark tunnel. ‘It’s a straight line. Don’t look back, no matter what you hear.’ We followed his instructions, but halfway through, we heard the sound of many little footsteps behind us. We ran, the tunnel seemed to stretch forever, and the footsteps grew louder, until they were right at our heels. We burst through a door, and we were in the main lobby, the bright lights blinding us.

We never returned to that ward. Leo eventually woke up from his coma, but he would often tell us about the ‘blue ladies’ who visited him in his dreams. And to this day, I still hear that faint, reedy crying, sometimes, in the quiet hours. The hospital eventually closed that wing, citing structural damage. But I know the truth: that ward never existed. It was a place built by our fears, a corner of the hospital where time went to die, and the babies who never got to live were given a new, silent home. We were never meant to leave, and sometimes, in the dead of night, I feel a cold hand on my shoulder, and I hear a whisper: ‘You shouldn’t have come.’