The door didn't creak. It didn't groan. It clicked open like every other door in the hospital—silent, efficient, unbothered. But Chioma stood there, unmoving, her badge clenched between two fingers, the cold air from inside brushing against her cheeks.
Room C-21.
They called it the overflow. But the nurses called it "the room no one talks about."
It had no windows.
It was technically still part of the active ward, but it had been repurposed after a fire five years ago damaged the west wing. The patients moved in and out, mostly elderly ones in palliative care or those with severe neurological issues. But something about the room made people uneasy. Some blamed the lighting—it flickered like an old bulb that refused to die. Others said the walls were too close, the air too still. But Chioma had heard the other stories.
People said patients didn't sleep there.
They screamed.
Earlier That Day
Chioma had been pulled into an ethics review panel again—another junior doctor caught falsifying a drug chart. It had become routine: long hours of paperwork, accountability meetings, and more questions about hospital culture. Afterward, she'd spent most of her shift in Pediatrics, helping the new interns settle in.
Around 4:30 PM, Nurse Binta pulled her aside.
"We have a problem in C-21."
Chioma narrowed her eyes. "What kind of problem?"
"The patient. Room 4. Name's Adaora. Forty-nine. Admitted last night with acute confusion. She's deteriorating—quickly."
"There's no neurologist on call today."
"I know. That's why I came to you."
The Room
When Chioma stepped inside, the air shifted. Not just colder—denser. Like the walls were holding their breath.
Adaora lay curled on her side, muttering under her breath. Her chart showed normal labs, no prior mental health history, and no signs of trauma. But her eyes… they darted like she was chasing shadows only she could see.
Chioma approached slowly. "Adaora?"
The woman flinched but didn't respond.
"Adaora, my name is Chioma. I'm a nurse. I want to help you."
Adaora looked at her, finally, and whispered, "Don't let them take me back. They come when it's dark. When the hallway goes quiet."
Chioma's spine stiffened. She checked her vitals. Elevated heart rate. Blood pressure climbing. Skin clammy.
"Has she eaten?"
"She refused food. Keeps saying the spoons are poisoned."
Delirium? Infection? Psychosis?
She paged the physician on duty. But something gnawed at her.
Flashback: Mercy's Last Confession
Two days before she resigned, Mercy had once mentioned C-21 in passing.
"I transferred a patient there once," she'd said. "A girl who'd tried to take her life. It changed her. I don't think we should be using that room."
Chioma had brushed it off. Hospitals carried trauma. Rooms echoed with it. It wasn't the place—it was what people brought into it.
Or so she thought.
Nightfall
She returned to the room after her shift. She didn't need to—but something tugged her back.
Adaora was awake, staring at the ceiling.
"You came back," she said.
"Yes."
"They only come when you're alone."
Chioma sat beside her. "Who comes?"
"The ones with no faces. They touch your skin and it feels like cold cloth. I used to be a teacher. I used to have a son. But I can't remember his name anymore."
She began to cry.
Chioma reached for her hand—and flinched.
Her palm was ice.
The Power Cut
At exactly 9:12 PM, the hospital lights blinked.
And Room C-21 went black.
Chioma stood up fast. The emergency light above the bed refused to kick in. She could hear her breath—shaky, too loud. The monitors went dead. The hallway fell silent.
Then she heard it.
A whisper, low, like paper dragging across stone.
"Chioma."
Her name.
She turned—no one there.
She grabbed the wall, moving slowly toward the door. Something brushed her arm. Not a person. Not quite.
Then it was gone.
The power came back fifteen seconds later.
Adaora was asleep. Peaceful. Breathing evenly.
The room felt normal again.
But Chioma didn't.
Later That Night
Dr. Temitayo found her in the cafeteria, eyes distant.
"You okay?"
"I went to C-21."
He blinked. "Why would you—?"
"She was scared. And I think…" She paused. "I think I saw something."
"Chioma…"
"I'm not hallucinating. I know how it sounds. But something is wrong with that room."
He hesitated, then said, "You're not the first to say that."
She looked at him.
"You've heard things too?"
"I don't go near C-21 after dark. None of the residents do."
They sat in silence for a while.
Chioma took a sip of water and whispered, "Some rooms carry more than memories."
He nodded. "Yeah. Some rooms remember everything."
End of Episode Fifteen: The Room No One Talks About
Word Count: ~3,550 words
Author's Thought – Episode Fifteen: The Room No One Talks About
Hospitals are places of science, but they're also filled with stories, grief, silence, and sometimes—things that defy explanation. This episode leans into that haunting undercurrent: the emotional weight of trauma, of unsaid things, and the spaces that seem to breathe with the past.
Chioma's courage to confront what others avoid is what drives her forward. Even when the unknown rises, she doesn't flinch. Because being a healer isn't just about medicine—it's about presence, even in the darkness.
Thank you for staying with her in this journey.
The Orderlies' Secret
The next morning, Chioma approached the two night orderlies—Kabir and Musa. She needed answers.
"You two were on duty last night," she said. "You check C-21?"
They exchanged glances.
Kabir cleared his throat. "No ma. We avoid it. Ever since what happened two years ago."
"What happened?"
"There was a girl. About twenty-one. Brought in after a failed suicide. She kept saying a nurse in white visits her. Said the nurse stands at the foot of her bed all night. No one else could see her."
"And?"
"She hanged herself in the bathroom. We found her in the morning."
Chioma swallowed hard. "That was the last suicide here, right?"
Musa nodded. "They closed C-21 for a year after that. Then reopened without telling the new staff."
"And you said nothing?"
Kabir's voice dropped. "Would you have believed us?"
The Whisper Returns
That night, Chioma couldn't sleep. Her dreams were filled with whispers, faint sounds of footsteps on linoleum, the creak of a stretcher wheel rolling on its own.
She woke up at 3:13 AM.
She was standing outside C-21.
In her pajamas.
Her ID badge was missing.
The door creaked. This time, it wasn't silent. It wasn't unbothered.
It groaned like an old spine breaking.
Chioma backed away slowly, heart pounding. Something watched her. Something patient.
She whispered a prayer—and ran.