The Last Call from Room 6

It was a quiet night shift at St. Mary’s Hospital. The kind of silence that feels heavier than noise, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. I sat behind the nurse’s station, flipping through patient charts, sipping stale coffee to stay awake. The old building groaned under the weight of time, and the flicker of fluorescent lights made the air feel colder than it was.

Room 6 was at the far end of the west wing—a place I rarely had to visit. Not because it was far, but because it was… empty. It had been empty for years. The hospital records said it was closed due to “structural issues,” but the whispers among the staff told a different story. Some said a patient had died there under mysterious circumstances. Others claimed a nurse had gone missing, her body never found. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but the unease in my stomach whenever I passed that door was real.

The wall clock ticked to 2:17 AM when the phone on my desk rang. I jolted.

The display showed: Room 6.

My first instinct was that it was a prank. Maybe one of the doctors messing with me. But when I picked up, there was no laughter—only breathing. Shaky, desperate breathing.

“Hello?” I said cautiously.

A woman’s voice came through, barely above a whisper. “Help me… please.”

Her tone wasn’t playful. It was raw. Terrified.

“This is the nurse’s station. Who is this?”

There was a pause, and then… “He’s coming back. I can’t… breathe.”

I froze. The line crackled, then went dead.

I told myself it had to be a wiring issue—old buildings have quirks. But something in my gut screamed that wasn’t it. Against every logical bone in my body, I stood up and began walking toward the west wing.

The hallway to Room 6 was darker than the rest of the hospital. The motion-sensor lights flickered as I passed, and my footsteps echoed too loudly, like the corridor was swallowing the sound.

When I reached Room 6, the door was slightly ajar. My chest tightened. No one had keys to this room except maintenance, and it was supposed to be locked.

Pushing the door open, I was hit by the scent of dampness and something metallic—like old blood. The air was colder inside, and my breath came out in visible puffs.

“Hello?” My voice shook.

The room was empty… at least at first glance. Bed stripped bare, monitors unplugged, dust dancing in the dim light from the window. I stepped further in.

That’s when I saw it.

In the corner, etched into the peeling paint, were scratch marks—deep, frantic lines—as if someone had clawed at the wall trying to escape. And beneath them, smeared in something brownish-red, was a single word: RUN.

My heart hammered in my chest. I backed toward the door, but it slammed shut behind me with a deafening bang.

“Who’s there?!” I yelled, my voice cracking.

From the darkness, the same woman’s voice whispered, “Too late.”

The lights went out.

Something moved in the shadows. I could hear footsteps—slow, deliberate—approaching. My hand fumbled for my flashlight, but it wouldn’t turn on. My breathing became ragged. The air felt thick, suffocating.

And then I saw him.

A tall figure, face hidden in shadow, standing just inches from me. The air around him was ice cold. His head tilted unnaturally, like a predator studying prey. His voice was deep, almost inhuman, when he spoke:

“She didn’t leave. Neither will you.”

The next thing I remember is waking up at the nurse’s station, my coffee spilled, the phone off the hook. The clock read 2:18 AM—only one minute had passed.

Security swore the west wing was locked all night. No one else reported hearing a phone ring.

I requested the call logs the next day. There was no record of an incoming call from Room 6. In fact… the hospital phone system showed that the line for Room 6 had been disconnected in 1997.