In the quiet hours of a hospital night shift, routine can feel strangely fragile.
A porter receives a transfer call just after three in the morning. No patient name. Only a ward number. The ward is in an older part of the hospital, half-empty and dimly lit, with beds left behind like the last traces of a forgotten shift.
One bed is occupied. The patient lies completely still beneath the sheet. There is no nurse waiting, no name on the board, and no explanation for where the patient is meant to go. Then the call bell lights up above the bed, and a quiet voice says one word: “Sorry.”
The transfer begins as normal. The bed moves through the corridors and down to the lifts. But when the doors open on the lower floor, the bed is empty.
A short, unsettling Fright Bites account from a hospital night worker, where the ordinary machinery of care — wards, call bells, transfer requests, and silent corridors — becomes the setting for something impossible to explain.
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