Mara was the night nurse for St. Helier Hospital, a crumbling building scheduled for demolition. Only one wing was still active, but generators powered the rest so the contractors could work. She rarely had to go to Floor 7—no patients were kept there since the fire 12 years ago.
One night, the elevator doors opened unexpectedly on Floor 7. A cold draft rolled inside. Mara stepped out, calling, “Hello?” Her voice echoed too long, like the hallway was swallowing it. The old burn ward was still scorched, the walls blackened and warped. She turned to leave—but the elevator doors slammed shut behind her, refusing to open.
As she searched for the stairwell, she passed a partially melted room sign: ROOM 714. Inside, a single hospital bed sat upright, restraints hanging like broken spiderlegs. And someone was sitting in the bed.
“Mara,” the figure rasped.
She stumbled back, dropping her flashlight. No patients, she reminded herself. No one alive was assigned here. The figure leaned forward, its charred skin flaking like burnt paper. “You didn’t come for me,” it whispered. “You let me burn.”
Mara’s memories slammed into her—her first year on the job, the fire alarms she’d ignored, assuming it was another drill. The screaming she heard but wasn’t brave enough to investigate. The casualty list she never looked at.
The burnt patient crawled out of the bed, dragging the melted restraints. “Now you stay,” it said.
When the contractors returned the next morning, they found the elevator stuck on Floor 7—with a brand-new name plate melted onto the door: MARA, RN. Floor 7 had its last patient again.
