I work security at a hospital, and there's one rule they didn't mention in training: never answer if someone calls your name from an empty room.
Started working night security at Saint Mary's Hospital three months ago. It's mostly an easy job - walk the halls, check doors, make sure nobody breaks in. The pay is decent and I get to catch up on podcasts during quiet hours.
My supervisor Dave trained me for a week before leaving me on my own. He covered all the basics: which doors to check, how to handle medical emergencies, what to do if the power goes out. But on my last training night, he mentioned something that wasn't in any manual.
"One more thing," he said as we finished our rounds. "If you hear someone call your name from a room that's supposed to be empty, don't go in. Don't even answer. Just keep walking like you didn't hear anything."
I laughed because I thought he was messing with me. "What, is the place haunted?"
Dave's expression didn't change. "Just remember what I said. The day shift guys don't deal with this, but nights are different here."
For the first month, everything was normal. I'd walk my routes, check on the late-shift nurses, help lost visitors find their way out. The hospital at night is quiet but not creepy - just the usual sounds of machines beeping and staff moving around.
Then it started in my second month. I was doing my 2 AM rounds on the third floor when I heard someone call, "Mike? Mike, can you help me?" coming from room 314. I checked my clipboard - room 314 was empty, patient discharged that morning.
I remembered Dave's warning and kept walking. But I heard it again, clearer this time. "Mike, I'm in here. Please come help me." It sounded like an elderly woman, and she sounded distressed.
Every instinct told me to check on her, but I forced myself to keep walking to the nurses' station. I asked Janet, the night nurse, if anyone was in 314. She checked her computer and shook her head. "Empty since yesterday morning. Why?"
I didn't tell her what I heard.
It happened again a few nights later, this time from room 217. A man's voice calling my name, asking for help. Room 217 had been empty for a week. Then room 405. Always empty rooms, always someone calling my name specifically.
I started asking other security guards about it during shift changes. Most of them just shrugged it off, but one guy named Carlos pulled me aside.
"You've been hearing the voices, haven't you?" he said quietly. "Started about two months into the job?"
I nodded.
"Same thing happened to me. They know your name somehow, and they always sound like they need help. But here's the thing - I worked here for five years, and I only started hearing them after I broke the rule."
"What do you mean?"
Carlos looked around to make sure no one was listening. "About three years ago, I heard someone calling for help from an empty room. I thought, screw the rule, someone might actually need help. So I went in."
"What happened?"
"Room was empty, but ice cold. And I mean freezing, like walking into a refrigerator. But the weird part was the bed. It was perfectly made, but there was an indentation like someone had been lying there. While I was looking at it, I heard breathing behind me."
"Was someone there?"
"I turned around and the door was closed. I tried to open it, but the handle wouldn't turn. I was trapped in there for two hours until the morning shift found me. Ever since then, I hear them every night. Multiple voices, always calling my name from empty rooms."
Last week, I made the same mistake Carlos did. I heard a little girl crying and calling for help from the pediatric ward. Room 512, which had been empty for days. I couldn't ignore a child in distress, so I went in.
The room was empty and freezing cold, just like Carlos said. But what he didn't mention was the smell - like flowers at a funeral, sweet and overwhelming. And when I turned to leave, there were tiny handprints on the inside of the door window, like a child had been pressing against the glass trying to get out.
Now I hear them every night. Not just one voice, but dozens. Men, women, children, all calling my name from rooms that should be empty. Last night, I counted seventeen different voices during my shift.
The worst part? When I walk past the rooms during the day, I can see the patient records posted outside the doors. The names match the voices I've been hearing. These are people who died in those rooms, some recently, some years ago.
I'm putting in my two weeks notice tomorrow. But Carlos warned me about that too - he says even after you quit, you still hear them calling your name. Just not from the hospital anymore.
They call from empty rooms wherever you are.