The Lost Floor of St. Damien’s Hospital

St. Damien’s Hospital had been dying long before the city decided to put it out of its misery.

Whole wings were abandoned. Wallpaper peeled like sunburned dead skin. The air reeked of bleach and mold. A hospital that once saved lives now hoarded silence like a secret. The emergency ward had shut down over fifteen years ago. No one came here anymore. No one stayed.

Except for Eloise.

A fourth-year med student on a public health research grant, she was tasked with combing through decades-old records to trace tuberculosis outbreaks. It was cold, tedious work—hours spent in the forgotten bones of the south wing, surrounded by filing cabinets and shadows.

Until she found the elevator.



It was tucked behind a rusted metal door marked “Maintenance Access Only.” She'd been searching for a bathroom when she stumbled on it — a hallway with no lights, no sound… except the soft mechanical hum of heavy machineries.

The elevator looked old. Brass-framed, dented. And somehow, still powered.

Its display glowed faintly:
B1

There was no B1 on her hospital blueprint. No basement level. Nothing.

She pressed the call button.

The elevator groaned awake, gears grinding like bones. When the doors opened, a blast of cold air spilled out — sharp and unnatural, like a morgue had exhaled.

Eloise hesitated. Then stepped inside.

The panel inside had the usual floors: 1 through 6.

And one more.

A circular button, unlit, marked only with a single carved letter:

B

It wasn’t on the diagram. It wasn’t in the system.

Curiosity consumed her. she pressed it.

The elevator jerked downward, and the light inside flickered.



It descended far too long.

No music. No announcements. Just the mechanical drone of descent and a growing sense of wrongness. The air got colder, heavier. Her breath fogged, despite the sealed interior.

She counted looking at her watch. Thirty seconds. A minute. Then more.

Ding.

The doors slid open.

What she saw didn’t belong in a building abandoned for decades.

A hallway—clean, white, brightly lit. Pristine tile floors. Doors on both sides, all closed. A faint hum of electricity. As if this floor had been waiting.

Her footsteps echoed too loudly.

At the nurses’ station, a single lamp glowed.

Files sat stacked neatly on the desk.

She opened one.

Patient: Lydia Bram. Age: 9. Diagnosis: Persistent Unresponsiveness Following Experimental Procedure #12.

Below that:
Observation Terminated. RETURN: DENIED.

She flipped through another.
Then another.
All the same ending.

RETURN: DENIED.

No discharge dates. No signatures. Just blank observation logs that trailed off into nothing.

Her hands trembled.

This floor… wasn’t archived.

It was erased.



A sound broke the silence.

Soft.

Wet.

Footsteps.

Then, a child's giggle.

Sharp and bright, echoing down the corridor. Like glass shattering underwater.

Eloise spun around. No one. Empty hallway.

A flickering light overhead.

She turned back toward the elevator — and stopped.

It was gone.

The hallway was smooth. Seamless. No seams, no doors, just cold white walls.

She stepped forward—hesitated. Turned.

The corridor now stretched in both directions. Longer. Narrower. The air pressed against her chest like a weight.



Whispers bloomed.

Low at first. Then rising. Dozens of voices overlapping, speaking in a language she almost understood.

She pressed her back to the wall, breathing hard. The air was sterile, choking. Lights flickered overhead. A door creaked open behind her.

Room 13B.

She didn’t want to look. But she did.

Inside was a single hospital bed.

Straps. Machines. A mirror on the far wall.

But the mirror didn’t reflect her.

It showed her lying in the bed — eyes wide, mouth sewn shut.

Twitching.

Alive.

She took a step back—and the lights dimmed.

Behind her, the whispers stopped.

Something was listening.



She ran.

Down the too-long hallway. Past doors slowly opening one by one. Past cold hands brushing her sleeves. The whispering sharpened:

"You’ve already returned.”

Then, at the far end — the elevator.

It was back.

Its doors open, waiting.

She ran. Slammed the 6 button. The doors shuddered closed just as something tall and pale turned the corner behind her.

Its eyes were wrong. Its face was—

She didn’t breathe.



The doors opened to daylight.

Dust in the air. Broken windows. The ruined sixth floor.

She was back.

She ran to the filing room, grabbing her coat, phone, anything to tether her back to reality.

Then she saw it.

A manila folder lying open on the desk — one she hadn’t touched.

Patient: Eloise M. Vance
Date of Admission: 08/05/2025
RETURN: DENIED

Her heart stuttered.

The window beside her? Gone.

Replaced with white wall.

The lights above? Fluorescent again. Buzzing softly.

No noise outside.

No sirens. No wind. No world.

She looked down.

There was a band around her wrist.

ELOISE VANCE. FLOOR B.



She had never left that floor~