The Whispering Ward: A Nurse's Frightful Night

The night was as still as the grave, and the moon hung like a silver coin in the sky. The psychiatric hospital's old ward, long abandoned, was a silent sentinel of forgotten souls. It was here, in the whispering ward, that nurse Eliza had taken her first shift.

Eliza had never been one for the supernatural, but she had heard the whispers before. They were faint, almost indistinguishable at first, like the distant call of a lost soul. The stories of the ward were many, and they were as old as the hospital itself. They spoke of the ward being haunted, a place where the line between the living and the dead was as thin as the veil of a ghost's shroud.

The air was thick with dust and the scent of decay, a stark contrast to the sterile cleanliness of the new hospital wing. Eliza's flashlight flickered as she navigated the dark corridors, her footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls. She had been working at the old hospital for only a few weeks, but she had already grown accustomed to the silence that whispered secrets of the past.

As she reached the end of the corridor, the whispers grew louder, more insistent. They seemed to be calling her name, a siren song that promised to lead her to a place she dared not go. She ignored them, her professional demeanor kicking in. She was here to care for the patients, not to chase after the specters of the past.

But the whispers did not stop. They followed her, like a shadow that never left her side. She turned the corner, and there it was, the ward. The door was slightly ajar, and the light from the flickering bulbs cast eerie shadows across the room. The patients were all sleeping, their faces peaceful, but Eliza could feel the presence of something else.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was filled with the scent of antiseptic and the faint hum of machinery. She checked the patients, their charts in hand, but something was off. The machines were quiet, and the patients seemed to be staring at her with hollow eyes.

Eliza's flashlight beam danced across the walls, revealing a series of strange marks. They were handprints, but not like any handprints she had seen before. They were deep, almost as if they had been pressed into the stone with great force. She shivered, but she pushed the fear aside. It was just her imagination, the ward's reputation getting the better of her.

She turned to leave, but something caught her eye. On the wall, just above the bed of the patient in the corner, there was a handprint. It was larger than the others, more pronounced, and it seemed to be moving. Eliza's heart skipped a beat. The handprint was lifting itself off the wall, and it was turning towards her.

"Stay back!" she shouted, but her voice echoed in the empty room. The handprint continued to rise, and as it did, the walls seemed to come alive. The dust that had settled for years began to swirl, and the shadows grew longer, more ominous.

Eliza backed away, her flashlight beam now a flickering beacon of hope in the darkness. The handprint reached towards her, and she could feel the cold touch of it as it brushed against her cheek. She screamed, and her scream echoed through the ward, a sound that seemed to cut through the silence and the whispers.

Suddenly, the room was filled with movement. The machines sprang to life, their beeps and whirs a cacophony of noise. The patients in the beds began to stir, their eyes opening to reveal something other than peace. The handprint, now fully formed, reached out and grasped Eliza by the arm.

"Run!" she whispered to herself, but her feet were rooted to the spot. The handprint pulled her closer, and she felt the cold fingers wrap around her neck. She struggled, her flashlight beam now pointing directly at the handprint, illuminating its twisted, unnatural form.

Then, without warning, the handprint let go. Eliza stumbled backwards, her flashlight clattering to the floor. She reached for it, but her hands were numb, her vision blurred. She felt herself being pulled, being drawn into the darkness of the ward.

"Eliza!" she heard a voice shout, but it was too late. She was pulled into the darkness, into the whispers, and into the heart of the haunted ward. The last thing she saw was the handprint reaching out once more, as if beckoning her to come closer.

The next morning, the hospital was in an uproar. The staff had found Eliza's body, but she was gone. Her flashlight lay on the floor, its beam still pointing towards the handprint on the wall. The whispers had stopped, but the handprint remained, as if waiting for the next nurse to venture into the whispering ward.

The ward was sealed off, and the old hospital was scheduled for demolition. But the whispers continued, carried by the wind through the corridors, a reminder that some secrets are better left buried in the past. And for Eliza, there was no coming back, no escape from the whispers that haunted her until the end of her days.