Chioma stood outside Room C-21 again, this time at noon. There was no flicker of light. No eerie chill crawling under the door. Yet her skin crawled as if touched by unseen fingers.
She wasn't alone.
Dr. Temitayo, Binta, and a new consultant psychologist, Dr. Uche, stood with her. They had agreed to a monitored entry. Not because they expected ghosts—but because something was wrong, and it wasn't just medical.
"Cameras on. Audio recording. Minimal staff inside. We stay together," Temitayo said.
Chioma stepped in first.
The room felt like it had exhaled. The tension that usually strangled the air was momentarily loosened, but not gone.
Dr. Uche sat near the window, noting details.
"There's a sound," he said. "Low frequency. You feel it more than hear it. Like vibrations under the floor."
Binta turned pale. "She used to complain about that—the patient. Said her bones vibrated."
They opened a floor panel near the back wall—something they'd never done before. Beneath it wasn't plumbing or wiring. Just an old wood plank covering a second layer of concrete.
And under that?
A crawl space.
The Crawl Space
They pulled the panel away, exposing a narrow opening just wide enough for one person to squeeze in.
Chioma offered to go first.
Dr. Temitayo protested, but she insisted. "If I don't face it now, I never will."
She slid inside, flashlight gripped tightly, phone set to record.
The air smelled of dust and old copper. Walls lined with stone and cement. And then—she saw them.
Etchings.
Names, dates, some over a century old. Symbols—both Christian and tribal. And beneath one section: "They sealed her here. She still listens."
The crawl space ended at a bricked-up wall. But the brick wasn't original. It was newer. Pale.
She pressed her ear to it.
Silence.
Then, faintly, from within: a thump.
Not an echo.
A response.
She scrambled out.
"We need a forensic team," she gasped. "This isn't just about haunting. Something—or someone—is back there."
Adaora's Notebook
That evening, a box arrived at Chioma's apartment.
From Adaora's mother.
Inside was her daughter's diary. Tattered. Heavy. Full of frantic scribbles and lucid reflections.
She had titled one page: "The Woman in the Wall."
Adaora described seeing her in dreams. A nurse, not a patient. Pale, with her hair tucked under a cap. A deep gash across her collarbone. And eyes that never blinked.
"She said I'm not sick. She said I'm listening too closely."
Chioma shivered.
Flipping further, she found sketches. The symbols from the crawl space. Names that matched the etchings.
This wasn't mental illness.
It was memory.
Adaora remembered something no one had told her.
The Secret Archive
Binta pulled strings with the Records Department.
They were granted limited access to the old facility archive.
There, in a separate ledger from 1963, they found what they didn't know to look for:
Sister Ezinne, Nursing Assistant.
Reported missing. Declared dead in absentia.
Last seen—Room 3 of the isolation wing. Which, after remodeling, was now...
C-21.
Dr. Uche murmured, "They never moved her. They sealed the room. Converted it. That's why the energy's concentrated here. It's not just trauma. It's containment."
Chioma gripped the file. "We've been working over a grave."
The Intervention
They gathered hospital administration.
Met in a closed boardroom.
Chioma presented the recordings, the diary, the ledgers.
Dr. Uche explained the psychological impact. Not just on patients, but staff.
The Medical Director sat quietly. Then sighed.
"There's history here. Too much swept under the rug. But we can't shut the hospital down."
Temitayo replied, "No one's asking you to. But we need to exorcise the silence. Turn Room C-21 into a space of truth, not shame."
They agreed to document everything.
And to memorialize Sister Ezinne.
The Ceremony
They held a small service.
C-21 was cleared. The false wall opened.
Inside, no body—just bones. A nurse's pin. A broken crucifix.
The air was still. Reverent.
A priest blessed the room.
Dr. Uche spoke a few words. So did Chioma.
And finally, the plaque was mounted:
"In memory of Sister Ezinne. You were not forgotten. You were simply unheard."
A New Chapter
Weeks passed.
C-21 became a meditation room. Open to patients and staff.
The vibrations ceased.
Chioma still heard echoes sometimes. But now, they didn't frighten her.
They reminded her: stories survive when we stop hiding them.
She often sat by the window. Notebook open.
Sometimes, she wrote Adaora's name in the margin.
Sometimes, she wrote her own.
Because in the end, the wounds we tend become part of our healing.
And some scars must be seen to be believed.