Bed Seven

Thomas Granger had never been a superstitious man. An accountant by profession, logical by nature, and mildly annoyed by anything remotely paranormal. He believed in data, not ghosts. But what happened to him at Brookridge Memorial Hospital changed everything—if not for him, then for those who still remember.

It began on a cloudy afternoon in October 2022. Thomas checked himself into Brookridge after experiencing a sudden dizzy spell while driving. The hospital was old, built in 1954, and had changed hands more than once. The exterior was solid brick, but the hallways smelled faintly of mold and history
too much history.

He was placed in Room 307, Bed Seven.

It was a quiet room on the third floor. Clean, well-lit, and uneventful. But one thing caught his eye: etched into the metal frame of the headboard was the number “7”, almost like someone had scratched it in with a knife. When he asked the nurse about it, she simply shrugged and said, “Just an old tag, probably from inventory. Nothing to worry about.”

But Thomas felt something strange the moment he laid down that night. An uneasy heaviness settled in his chest not physical, but like a whisper pressing against the back of his mind. And at exactly 3:07 AM, he heard it.

A voice.
Not loud.
Not angry.
Just close.

“You’re the seventh. The others never left.”

He bolted upright. The room was still. No one around. The hallway empty.

The next day, he mentioned it to a nurse. She smiled nervously. “You probably dreamed it. It’s a quiet floor. Nothing happens here.”

But something did happen. Again.

On the second night, he dreamt of a little girl standing beside his bed. Her dress was outdated, her hands cold, her eyes wide and too still.

She whispered, “This pillow was his. The one who never woke up.”

Thomas jolted awake. The sheets were damp with sweat, and the room smelled faintly of something old something like rusted water and forgotten spaces.

The next morning, he requested a different bed. The staff complied and moved him to Room 306. But by nightfall, Thomas somehow woke up again in Bed Seven.

No one saw him move. No cameras captured anything unusual. But there he was, lying in the exact same position, on the same bed.

A nurse named Abigail, the only one who spoke freely, eventually sat down beside him and said, “Look… you’re not the first to ask about Bed Seven. Over the past fifteen years, five patients have died here in their sleep. All cardiac arrest. All unrelated. All… in this bed.”

Thomas’s voice trembled. “And I’m the sixth?”

“No,” she said. “You’re the seventh.”

He didn’t wait for discharge papers. He wanted to leave that night. But the hospital rules didn’t allow overnight exits without clearance. He agreed to stay one last night. The staff gave him a sleep aid. Just something mild. Just to help him rest.

He never woke up.

His body was found the next morning, cold, rigid, and twisted sideways, as if he had tried to scream with his whole body but not with his mouth.

The death certificate said: "Sudden cardiac arrest during sleep."

His family was devastated. But his mother
bless her stubborn instinct requested his personal items. Among them was the pillow he had slept on. Sewn inside the cover, on the underside near the zipper, was a tag stitched decades ago.

It simply read: “Property of Brookridge Bed #7”

His mother swears that on some nights, when the room is quiet and the wind brushes the curtains, she hears a faint whisper:

“When does the eighth arrive?”

Some objects remember more than we realize. And some places… aren’t done with us, even after we leave them behind.

Thank you very much for reading!🥰