Chioma stared at the medical logbook on her lap. Its pages were wrinkled, ink smudged by the passing of time and sweaty palms. This wasn't just any logbook—it was the off-the-record patient chart from Ward Delta, hidden between stacks of discontinued files that no one bothered to check. It was Mercy who had whispered about it before leaving. "If you want to understand what happened in C-21," she had said, "read the midnight ledger."
The book began like any other: patient IDs, treatment regimens, vitals. But after page 26, the ink changed. The writing got shakier. Notes shifted from clinical to disturbing.
*"Refused sleep again. Kept chanting names. Room cold despite functioning heater. Nurse Evelyn requested transfer, denied."
"Third consecutive episode of patient hallucinating a faceless figure. Said it stood behind me. I saw no one."
"Screaming again. No apparent trigger. Sounded like more than one voice."
Chioma flipped faster, hands trembling. Most entries were by two night nurses—Evelyn and Mofe. But after a certain date, only Mofe wrote anything. And then the entries just… stopped.
Present Day — Investigation Begins
Dr. Temitayo had reluctantly agreed to assist. He arranged for one of the older, off-duty security guards—Mr. Lawal—to speak with them. Lawal had worked the night shift for nearly two decades and had his own stories.
"C-21 used to be storage," he began. "Till the fire. After that, they didn't have enough space in the new wing. They said it was temporary."
"Did anything happen there?" Chioma asked.
He didn't answer directly. "They say the fire didn't kill anyone. That's not true. There were patients. They couldn't move fast enough. One of the nurses was locked in. No one mentions her name now."
Chioma and Temitayo exchanged a glance.
"And what about Adaora?" she asked.
He looked down. "She's the fifth person admitted to that room this year who started showing similar symptoms. Confusion. Paranoia. Memory loss. And one more thing…"
"What?"
"Each one said they saw the same thing: a nurse in a burnt uniform. Always watching."
The Photo Archive
Chioma accessed the restricted photo archive with the help of a resident IT staff member, Uzo. "I'm doing this once," he warned. "If they find out…"
"I know," she said. "I'll owe you jollof forever."
They scanned the patient ID numbers from the midnight ledger. One name jumped out—Ifunanya Okeke.
She'd been admitted for postpartum psychosis four years ago. Discharged after stabilization. But Chioma clicked on the hospital portrait and froze.
Adaora.
Same woman.
Different name.
Different year.
"How is that possible?" Temitayo whispered.
"Unless…" Chioma began. "She was readmitted under a different file. Or maybe she never left."
They reviewed security camera logs. Most nights had corrupted files around Room C-21. Blackouts. Static. One showed a single figure standing by the window at 3:03 a.m. There was no window in C-21.
Adaora Speaks Again
Later that evening, Chioma returned to the room. Adaora was calm. Distant.
"Do you remember the fire?" Chioma asked.
Adaora nodded.
"I remember screaming. But not mine. Hers."
"Whose?"
"The nurse. Evelyn. She said we weren't meant to be moved. That the fire doors would lock. And they did."
Chioma pulled up a photo on her phone. "Was this her?"
Adaora looked—and gasped.
"Yes. That's her. But her eyes were different. Sadder. She didn't want to leave us. She came back."
The Whisper Network
Nurse Binta later confessed that there was an unspoken code among older staff—don't question what you see on Night Duty. Some wore headphones. Others refused to chart in that room.
Chioma and Temitayo compiled every unexplained code call, missing medication report, and patient behavioral shift linked to C-21 over the last six years. Patterns emerged: they spiked near the anniversary of the fire.
That was three days from now.
The Plan
Temitayo didn't want to go back in. Neither did Chioma. But they needed answers. They decided to stay in C-21 during the next night shift. Record everything. Cameras. Notes. No patients.
Uzo rigged surveillance with a backup power source.
"I don't want to believe in ghosts," Temitayo muttered.
"It's not about ghosts. It's about grief. Trauma that lingers."
Still, Chioma packed her rosary and tucked it into her pocket.
Midnight Vigil
At 11:50 p.m., the room was quiet.
At 12:30 a.m., the lights dimmed.
At 1:13 a.m., the camera caught a blur. Not a figure. A distortion, like heat waves. It moved across the floor.
At 2:47 a.m., Chioma heard crying. Not Temitayo's. It came from under the gurney. They both crouched, flashlight in hand—nothing there.
At 3:00 a.m., the temperature dropped.
Then the intercom clicked on—an old recording.
"Please evacuate. Code Red. Room C-21—fire risk."
The voice was Evelyn's.
She was dead.
The sprinklers activated, but no water came. The monitor glitched. The room shook slightly.
Chioma held Temitayo's hand tightly. "We have to end this."
She took out the midnight ledger and placed it in the center of the floor.
"Say her name," Chioma said.
"Evelyn," Temitayo whispered.
The room went still.
The temperature returned to normal.
The door opened on its own.
Morning
Adaora had been transferred in the early morning to a regular psychiatric ward. She was stable.
Chioma and Temitayo submitted a confidential report. Administration promised to review it. No promises were made.
But C-21 was locked permanently the next day.
Uzo wiped the tapes.
Some truths weren't meant for mass consumption.
But they were real.
The Break Room Revelation
Later that night, Chioma, Dr. Temitayo, and Binta sat in the break room.
"I'm starting to think," Binta said slowly, "that Room C-21 is not just a room. It's a wound. And we've been trying to cover it with bandages."
Chioma nodded.
Temitayo added, "Maybe it's time we stop pretending the wound doesn't bleed."
They looked at each other. Not sure what the next step was. But knowing it had to start somewhere.
"Do we close the room?" Binta asked.
Chioma shook her head. "No. We go back in. We document. We witness. Whatever it is—it's part of our hospital's story. We owe it that much."
Midnight Entry
At 12:03 AM, Chioma entered Room C-21 alone.
She left the lights on.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
Notebook in hand.
She wrote down everything: the hum of the air, the flicker of the light, the sudden cold breeze that had no source.
Then she whispered, "I'm here. And I'm not afraid of you."
Silence.
But this time, the silence didn't threaten. It listened.