The Ghost of St. Agatha’s

The neon sign above St. Agatha’s Hospital flickered weakly, spelling “CLOSED” in broken letters that hummed like a dying insect. Lena, a curious med student, had snuck in after midnight, drawn by the legend of Nurse Crane—the woman who vanished in 1952 after a patient’s death, her white uniform spotted with blood that wasn’t hers.
The air smelled of antiseptic and decay. Lena’s sneakers squeaked on cracked linoleum as she wandered past empty beds and rusted IV stands. Moonlight spilled through shattered windows, casting bars of light over peeling “QUIET” signs and a nurses’ station cluttered with yellowed files. Then she heard it: the soft shush of starched fabric, like someone smoothing a uniform.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed down the hallway. A door slammed shut ahead, making her jump. When she turned a corner, she saw a figure in the distance—a woman in a vintage nurse’s cap, her back to Lena, gloved hands clasped neatly in front of her. “Miss?” Lena called. The nurse didn’t move. As Lena stepped closer, the woman turned slowly, her face hidden in shadow. Only her neck stood out, pale and smooth… too smooth, like porcelain.
Lena froze. The nurse’s head tilted, and a low, guttural moan escaped her throat. Then she began to move forward, feet silent on the floor, arms outstretched. Lena ran, but the hallway seemed to stretch endlessly, doors multiplying on either side. She ducked into an operating room, slamming the door behind her—but there was no lock. The room was cold, the metal table stained with brownish smudges that looked like old blood. On the wall, someone had scribbled in faded red: SHE TAKES WHAT WAS LOST.
The door creaked open. The nurse stood there, her face now visible—skin waxy and gray, eyes milky white, lips peeled back in a grin that revealed jagged teeth. Lena screamed as the creature lunged, its hands clamping around her arms like vices. The last thing she felt was a cold breath on her neck, and the whispered word: “Mine.”
The next morning, Lena’s friends found her bag in the hospital lobby, her phone still open to a search: “St. Agatha’s Nurse Crane disappearance.” But there was no sign of Lena—only the faint echo of a nurse’s shoes on linoleum, and a new stain on the operating table, fresh and red, where her story had ended.