The Hospital Wing They Erased From Memory
They called it Castle Hill Medical Center.
Perched atop a lonely cliff, surrounded by woods that never fully bloomed, it was more fortress than hospital.
Angela hated it the moment she arrived.
Her little brother, Mark, had fallen from a tree—cracked ribs, mild concussion. They were just supposed to stay one night for observation.
But on that first night…
Mark disappeared.
“It’s a mistake,” the nurse said.
“He’s been discharged,” another added.
“No, he hasn’t,” Angela growled. “I was here all night. He never left this room!”
But the chart was gone. His name was wiped from the system. The bed was freshly made.
Angela’s mother—tired, distracted, trusting—believed the staff. But Angela knew the truth:
Something had taken him.
She began to search.
Hallways that turned when she wasn’t looking.
Doors that were locked at night but wide open at dawn.
And elevators that stopped on floors that didn’t exist.
One evening, she found herself in a wing she'd never seen before.
The walls were different—lined with slick, dark green tiles that pulsed faintly under the lights.
No signs. No nurses.
Just silence.
Until…
She heard it.
Whispers.
Breathing.
Machines humming.
And… sobbing.
She followed the sound.
Turned a corner.
And froze.
Down the hall, shadows moved behind curtains.
Shapes lay in beds, hooked to thick, fleshy tubes.
Veins—long and rubbery—ran from machines into people.
Into children.
And there… was Mark.
Eyes open. But empty.
A pale, vein-covered tube ran from a machine into his chest.
Angela choked back a scream.
“Can I help you?” a voice asked.
She turned.
A man in a lab coat. Too tall. Too still. His eyes glowed faintly under the flickering lights.
“What are you doing to him?” she demanded.
“He’s helping us,” the man replied.
“Helping you how?” she spat.
The man smiled.
“Human blood… is the most powerful conductor we’ve found.”
She backed away.
He stepped closer.
“You’ve seen it now. That’s a problem.”
Angela ran.
Through corridors that shifted. Past patients who reached out with bony, trembling hands.
“Let us go,” one whispered.
“Please… we’re still awake,” said another.
She reached the elevator—slammed the button again and again.
But it never came.
Behind her, the doctor’s footsteps echoed.
She turned… and screamed.
His coat was gone.
Replaced by a twisted lab apron. His veins… were on the outside. Coiled. Writhing.
He raised a hand.
“Your blood… will open the rest of the doors.”
She woke up in a hospital bed.
A nurse smiled down at her.
“You fainted. Stress, they think.”
“My brother,” Angela rasped. “Where is he?”
The nurse paused.
“Angela,” she said gently. “You don’t have a brother.”
Angela sat up.
“No. No! His name is Mark! He’s ten—”
The nurse shook her head.
“I’m sorry. Your parents said you’ve always been an only child.”
That night, Angela returned.
No one stopped her.
She found the hallway again—this time behind a supply closet wall.
The beds were still there. So were the tubes.
And so was Mark.
His eyes opened as she entered.
She held his hand. Whispered to him.
“I’m here.”
His lips moved.
One word.
“Run.”
She didn’t.
She pulled the tube out of his chest.
The machines screamed. The walls pulsed. Doors slammed open.
She dragged Mark down the hallway, dodging grasping arms and flickering lights.
They burst into the parking lot—just as the sun began to rise.
Later, at another hospital, she told everything.
They said the Castle Hill wing had been shut down for decades.
"No one goes there," one doctor said. "Too much... history."
They never found it again.
But sometimes, when Angela closes her eyes, she hears it.
The pulse.
The veins.
The whisper:
“We need more blood.”