The New Transfer
Rain clings to the windows of Kiyose General. Natsune Horioka shoves her hands in her coat, her eyes on the pale, boxy hospital that feels out of place in small-town Naguri. She’s just seventeen. Big-city girl, here because her parents left for work abroad. They tell her this place will do her good. She doesn’t trust it, but she doesn’t have a choice.
Inside, her cousin Emi waits with a weak smile and news: Emi’s club—’Folklore and Mystery’—hunts for stories in this old hospital on weekends. Natsune finds Emi fidgeting, too pale for her own good, gesturing for her to follow. Something seems off even with just a simple hello. Have you ever walked through a place and felt eyes on your back?
Whistling Rooms and Second Shadows
The group gathers: talkative Yuuto, moody Shinji, bright Toko, and Emi with her battered polaroid. They dare Natsune to come for the Friday overnight stay. Five kids, flashlights, snacks, a plan. Natsune eats her onigiri in silence. Yuuto pokes her knee under the desk. ‘You’ll come, right?’ She sighs. ‘Why? Is it really that scary?’
They whisper about the old east wing—abandoned after a fire. People say they hear low singing from the dark rooms at midnight. Security won’t go in. Doctors swap shifts after strange things. Shinji loves to roll his eyes. Emi fiddles with her camera. ‘Please, just one night. We can leave if it’s bad.’
The Hotel Sheets Stir
Friday, 1am. All five creep through the eastern passage. Flashlight beams stutter. Toko holds up a print: shapes in the hallway, a shadow where her hand should be. Emi stops them before the old nurse’s station. A draft rolls past. Toko shivers. ‘Did you hear that?’ There’s just a long, shaky note—someone, deep in the dark, humming a fractured tune.
Yuuto swallows, asks Natsune, ‘Could it be a person?’ Natsune watches Emi. But Emi shakes her head hard. ‘No staff here.’ The wall paint sags, torn with streaks. They find a hospital cot tipped upside down, dried sachets pinned to it with rusty needles. Toko edges back. ‘Looks like someone didn’t want it to leave.’ Isn’t it funny how human senses mess with you in the dark?
Crumpled Beds by Light
Time guesses past three. The group dares the ICU door. On the gurney: torn sheets and old toys—all gray-white plush — and a row of snapped stethoscopes. Sunless, unreal chill. ‘Last shot before we go?’ Natsune asks. Emi fishes her camera out, hands shaking.
The shot pops, blinding flash, but Emi stumbles. There’s a spatter on her sleeve—not red, not quite black—the ghostly hum raises. A child’s sigh breaks in Natsune’s right ear. ‘Don’t take my picture …’ Emi drops the photograph face-down, her own mouth pale and thin. Yuuto backs away, but Shinji scoffs. “Stupid trick.” Was Shinji right to taunt whatever lurked?
Nurse’s Humming Returns
Natsune feels a chill spread. The group rushes into the hall. As they run, the hum grows full, voices under their feet, up by the lamps. Hospital beds slot across doorways they just walked. Shinji trips and hisses. Natsune stops at the nurse’s desk. A figure flickers at the end—six feet of empty gown and veil, humming as the overhead lights cycle in and out. The cold gets worse. ‘Did you say something?’ Emi whispers. But the group is locked in, their way sealed.
The singing draws near. Everything tastes chemical, cold. Toko blurts, “My brother was here. I hear him too.” Yuuto’s phone flickers, battery dying fast, screen filled with zeros. Sharp static presses on eardrums. Was it just horror, or were they dragged together for a reason? And if so, why had Natsune—never here before—begun to recall this song?
The Failed Escape and The Tape
Doors won’t open. Their corridor pulses like a beating heart. Natsune pulls Emi close. ‘We don’t split. Whatever happens, stay where—’ Failure makes noise when you’re scared. Toko darts at an exit. Hands slam into scarred wood. Locked, sealed, no give. Shinji tries another, curses under breath. Emi snaps another print in panic and this time screams. 
Tape crackles through every speaker in the nurse’s station. There’s that child’s voice—hoarse, musical, chanting an old song about promises etched in the hall paint, about rooms left alone. Natsune sees words run beneath her shoe: ‘Never forget them’. They are not alone. Someone wants them to stay.
Old Records Unveiled
The only sound is Yuuto quaking, Toko clutching Emi, Shinji silent—odd for him. The new photo shows two heads next to them. One twisted toward Natsune, mouth missing but with tar-stained breath. A file box flipped at the desk scatters sheets—each stamped with one last word—‘APOLOGIZE’ in oily print. Natsune asks, her voice cracked: ‘Who are we supposed to say sorry to?’ No one knows. Could you figure that out in panic?
Toko answers, tears catching: ‘My brother said sorry before he died here.’ Shinji reads a registry full of child patients, highlighted names ending before age ten. Emi collapses, retching quietly. ‘She—the nurse. She wanted them to stay loyal.’ Is it a curse? A broken love not meant to last?
Bargain for Release
Natsune panics but remembers: her grandad’s tales about angry ghosts and simple bargains. She finds red medical chalk, sketches a circle on the floor. ‘Together!’ she shouts. They each must give something small—shoestring, hairtie, polaroid sheet, photo code, even a page from the patient file. They set their price for freedom.
Something begins to hum in answer. The refrain circles their shoulders. Lights die with a sigh. For a second Natsune can’t see but feels hands brush her arm—as if pleading for home. The wind peels through and the shape rushes up, melting in the chalk. Light slams in, and they sprawl free in the new dawn. But Emi looks back and sees one last ghost head, pressed to the glass, winking. Did they all leave unharmed?
Cliffhanger: Later at home, Natsune wakes in bed. She gulps air, staring at her window—on the glass, in her cousin’s handwriting, it reads: ‘Does the voice ever leave you?’ Just as she begins to answer, soft humming starts again under her pillow.
