The Silence in Room 17

Sara never believed in ghosts. She believed in hard work, science, and what she could see with her own eyes. As a nurse in a small-town hospital, she had seen pain, joy, and even death. But never anything strange—until the night she walked into Room 17.

The hospital was quiet that evening. Rain tapped on the windows, and wind howled outside like a warning. The power had gone out earlier for a few minutes, and the backup lights made the halls glow in a dull yellow.

Sara was on the night shift, walking her usual rounds. Most patients were sleeping, and everything seemed normal. She walked past the rooms: 12, 13, 14… then stopped at Room 17.

Room 17 was supposed to be empty. The last patient had been moved out three days ago, and no new patient was assigned. She remembered clearly that it was cleaned, and the bed had fresh sheets.

But the door was slightly open.

Sara paused. She thought maybe someone had left it open by mistake. She gently pushed it, and it creaked. The room was dark, but she could see the bed was not made. The sheets looked used. There was something about the air—it felt cold and thick, like walking into a place full of smoke, but there was no smoke.

She whispered, “Is someone here?”

No answer.

She stepped in and turned on the light.

No one was in the room.

She looked around. The window was closed. The chairs were in place. But something wasn’t right. The bed looked like someone had just gotten up from it. And on the pillow... a small notebook.

It was old, with a faded brown cover. She picked it up. The first page was blank. She flipped to the second page. In messy handwriting, it said:

> “I was here. I never left.”



Her hands went cold. She looked behind her, then back at the page. The writing looked rushed, like someone had scribbled it quickly. The letters were shaky, uneven.

She rushed out of the room and went straight to the nurse’s desk. Her hands were shaking. She told the head nurse, Mr. Akram, what she had found.

He listened quietly, then said something that made her heart sink.

“You don’t know?” he asked. “A girl died in that room two years ago. Sixteen years old. Her name was Fariha. It was ruled an accident… but it never felt right.”

Sara asked, “What kind of accident?”

He looked away. “They said she fell from the bed. Broke her neck. But some nurses said they heard her screaming before it happened. The CCTV stopped working that night.”

Sara wanted to throw the notebook away, but when she looked in her hands—it was gone.

She ran back to the room. Searched everywhere. Nothing.

No notebook. No sign of anything strange.

Just silence.

Later that week, Sara spoke to the cleaning staff. One of them, an old woman named Safia, nodded quietly when Sara mentioned Room 17.

“I clean that room every week,” she said. “But the bed always looks used, even if no one goes in. I stopped asking questions.”

Sara thought maybe it was all in her head. Maybe she had imagined it because she was tired. But her heart told her something else.

That same night, while trying to sleep at home, Sara kept hearing soft whispers. Not words—just a voice. Like someone asking for help but too afraid to speak clearly.

She tried to forget it. Days passed. Weeks. But the memory of that room, that notebook, and that strange feeling would not go away.

Then, one year later, another nurse saw something.

Late at night, while passing by Room 17, she saw a shadow moving inside. She opened the door quickly.

The room was empty. Except for one thing on the bed:
A notebook. Brown cover. First page blank.

Second page: the same message.

> “I was here. I never left.”




---

Some say Fariha’s spirit still stays in the hospital, not angry… just waiting.
Waiting for someone to ask what really happened.
Waiting for someone brave enough to listen.