By the time Emily Pierce started at Blackridge General, the building already had a reputation. The locals called it "The Maze." Originally built in 1914, Blackridge had been expanded so many times, its blueprints were useless. Stairwells led to nowhere. Some doors opened to blank brick walls. Nurses whispered about a room on the top floor that shouldn't exist.
But Emily didn't care. She was 23, fresh out of nursing school, and needed the job.
Besides, it was only nights. Fewer patients. Quieter shifts.
She had no family. No friends in the city.
Just the uniform. Just the halls.
The first thing she noticed was her coworkers.
All of them were older. Much older.
Nurse Margot had to be pushing 80, but her posture was ruler-straight. Nurse Allen walked without making a sound. The others—Nurse Hale, Nurse Voss, and a pale, sharp woman called Head Nurse Myra—moved like they had practiced every step.
Emily was the only one under 60.
She tried to connect. Smiled. Asked questions. She was met with blank stares and soft "mm-hmms."
They never used the break room. Never drank coffee. Never used the staff bathroom.
But they always arrived exactly at 8:00 p.m., and left exactly at 6:00 a.m.
No earlier. No later.
Her first three nights were normal, except for one strange thing:
Ward Nine didn't exist.
She noticed it during her rounds. Rooms were labeled 1 through 8... then jumped to 10. At first she assumed it had been closed, maybe condemned. But when she asked Head Nurse Myra, the woman's expression didn't change.
"There's no Ward Nine," she said. "Must be a misprint."
Emily would've believed that... if she hadn't seen the light.
On the fourth night, passing by a door labeled "Service Access," she noticed a dull, yellow glow coming from beneath the crack. She leaned close. Something on the other side moved. It was slow, shuffling—like bare feet on tile.
She reported it to the others.
They only stared.
Head Nurse Myra eventually answered, "If you hear anything strange at Blackridge... ignore it."
That night, Emily couldn't sleep.
Her apartment above the laundromat was freezing. Her dreams were strange. Every time she closed her eyes, she stood in an endless hallway lined with open doors. Something waited in one of them, breathing too loud. Always just out of sight.
At work the next night, her cart had a new patient listed:
"Room 901 – D. Helms – Code S."
She stared at the slip.
Room 901?
There was no ninth ward. And there were no rooms past 830.
She showed it to Nurse Hale. The older woman looked for a moment too long before saying, "Clerical error. Toss it."
But she didn't.
She kept the slip in her pocket.
By 3:00 a.m., her curiosity overpowered her.
She returned to the service access door. This time, it opened.
It led to a stairwell spiraling downward. No lights. Concrete walls. The air smelled like ammonia and iron.
She walked slowly, phone light shaking.
At the bottom was a hallway with no number. No signs.
At the far end: a door marked "901."
The moment she touched it, the lights flickered overhead. Her phone buzzed, then died. Static filled her ears.
She pushed the door open.
Inside was a man.
He sat up in a hospital bed, hooked to nothing. His skin was raw and grayish. His lips were sewn shut with coarse black thread. His eyes snapped open the moment she entered.
Emily backed away.
Then the lights went out completely.
In the pitch-black, she heard the snip of thread snapping.
Then the sound of something crawling—fast and wet—across the floor.
She turned and fled.
The door slammed behind her. She ran up the stairs, heartbeat in her ears, until she was back on the main floor.
When she turned around, the service access door was gone.
Just smooth wall.
The next day, she searched the hospital records.
There was no D. Helms. No patient named that had ever been admitted.
But in the microfilm archives, she found something else: a headline from 1968.
"Nurse Found Dead in Ward Nine."
The article described a young nurse, Margaret Helms—age 23—who died under "unusual circumstances" in a sealed wing of Blackridge Hospital.
She stared at the photo.
It was her.
Same face. Same eyes.
Same last name.
Helms.
Her grandmother had worked at Blackridge. But no one ever told her how she died.
On her sixth night, she confronted Head Nurse Myra.
"You knew. You all knew."
The woman stared at her. "You were born to return. The house calls its own."
"What the hell is Ward Nine?"
"It's not a ward. It's a wound. This place is dying... but it doesn't want to die alone."
That night, every room had the same patient slip.
Room 901. D. Helms. Code S.
The lights flickered constantly. The walls felt damp. At one point, she saw Nurse Voss walking upside-down across the ceiling, her head twisted at a 90-degree angle, whispering something backwards.
At 3:33 a.m., her pager buzzed once.
"You're late."
She tried to leave. The front doors led to a hallway of teeth. The windows showed only static. The emergency exit was bricked over.
She tried to call the police. Her phone dialed itself. The voice on the other end whispered, "Return to your post, Nurse."
Then she felt the floors shift.
The hospital was descending.
She found her way back to the service stairwell. It had returned.
The door to Room 901 stood open.
Inside was the same man—but he was standing now, his limbs too long, his mouth wide open and missing a tongue.
Carved into the walls, over and over, were the words:
"WE TREAT THE SICK."
"WE TREAT THE SICK."
"WE TREAT THE SICK."
He stepped toward her, and in that moment, she remembered.
She had worked here before.
She had been Margaret Helms.
She had died in 1968.
But the hospital wouldn't let her go.
Emily screamed, but it came out dry. No sound.
The man grabbed her hand, placed something in it.
A nurse's badge.
It was hers.
The next night, Blackridge had a new shift nurse.
She arrived at 8:00 p.m. sharp.
Young. Pale. Quiet.
When asked her name, she answered: Nurse Helms.
The others smiled and nodded.
And in Room 901, the lights never turned off.
Because the hospital was still hungry.
And now, it had her forever.