The Fourth Floor

St. Mercy’s Regional was been built in 1911, back when hospitals were places people went to die quietly. Over the years it expanded, modernized, added glass wings and cheerful murals. But the original building remained at its core - brick, narrow windows, and hallways that smelled faintly of antiseptic and something older, like damp paper and rust.

Everyone knew about the fourth floor.

Officially, it was closed after a fire in the 1980s. Electrical failure, they said. Unofficially, nurses said all the patients weren't evacuated in time. Records vanished. Names were missing. Death certificates were… incomplete.

The elevators skipped the fourth floor entirely. But there were rumors that sometimes, at night, they stopped there anyway.

Mara started working nights because she needed the money and because she liked quiet. She had heard about strange happenings at St. Mercy’s Regional, but she told herself she didn’t believe in ghosts.  If anything, hospitals were emotional places - grief lingered, and fear had a way of filling empty space. That was all. 

Her first couple of weeks went smoothly. There was nothing out of the ordinary. On her third week, she noticed something strange. Patients’ call lights would activate from empty rooms, particularly rooms 417, 419, and 423. They were all on the fourth floor.

“Glitch,” her supervisor said without looking up. “Just reset them.”

“But those rooms aren’t...”

“Reset them!”

The call panel for the fourth floor was still active, even though the floor itself was sealed. The doors at the stairwell were chained shut. The fire exit alarms screamed if anyone tried to open them. So how were the calls coming through?

At 2:17 a.m., Mara answered one quite by accident. Her hand slipped. The line crackled with static, then a voice came through... thin, wet, struggling.

“Please...” it whispered. “They left us.”

Mara’s stomach clenched. “Hello? This is nurse...”

“They locked the doors,” the voice said again. “It’s getting hot in here.”

Then the line went dead. Her screen flashed **CALL ENDED - ROOM 404**.
But there was no Room 404!

After that, things escalated. Monitors beeped in empty corridors. Wheelchairs rolled themselves into corners and faced the walls. IV pumps drained overnight without being connected to anyone. And sometimes, when Mara passed the old wing, she heard coughing behind the sealed doors - ragged, desperate coughing, like lungs full of smoke.

She began to dream of hospital beds lined up in endless rows. Sheets stained dark. Patients staring at her with blistered skin and bandaged eyes. Every dream ended the same way - a bell rang, and no one came.

One night after dinner Mara rode the elevator to go to the supplies room on the fifth floor. But the elevator stopped on the fourth floor. Mara's heart skipped a beat. She hadn't pressed the wrong button, and there shouldn't be anyone coming on from that floor.

The doors slid open and she could see the hallway lights flicker weakly, revealing peeling paint, scorched walls, and beds still lined up exactly where they had been left. Burn marks crept up the walls like grasping fingers. The air smelled of smoke and melted plastic.

Mara tried to press the button, but nothing happened. Not knowing what else to do, and against her better judgement, she slowly stepped out of the elevator. Behind her, the doors immediately closed. She was startled and let out a weak scream.

Then she heard movement. Beds creaked, and IV poles rattled. Curtains whispered as something shifted behind them.

“You came back,” a chorus of voices said, overlapping, hopeful and furious. “You came back this time!”

Figures began to rise from the beds - blackened hands reaching, skin cracked and peeling, faces frozen mid-scream. Their eyes were cloudy, unfocused, but somehow they all turned toward her.

Mara ran. She slammed into a stairwell door and pulled. It opened easily as there were no chains or alarm. She tumbled down the steps, screaming, until she hit the first floor and burst into the brightly lit lobby. There were doctors, other nurses, and visitors who were all astounded. A security guard rushed over.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, sobbing and almost out of breath. “The fourth floor... it’s open. There are people up there!”

His face drained of color. “The fourth floor’s never been closed,” he said quietly.

“What!?” exclaimed Mara.

He pointed up. The hospital directory listed every floor.

**Fourth Floor: Long-Term Care**

Mara looked around. Everyone in the lobby, including patients in wheelchairs and gurneys had their eyes on her.

And then, all at once, the call lights began to ring. From every floor. Especially the fourth.