I’ve been a nurse for three years now, working at St. Margaret’s Hospital in Manchester, and I thought I’d seen everything. Night shifts, difficult patients, the occasional code blue—I could handle it all. But what happened on Christmas Eve 2024, that’s something I’ll never forget. I mean, I still think about it every single day.
They’d assigned me to the North Wing that night, which was basically empty. Budget cuts, you know. Most patients had been transferred to other wards or sent home for the holidays. It was just me, doing rounds in a corridor of vacant rooms, the fluorescent lights humming overhead like they were singing some off-key carol.
I should have known something was off around nine o’clock.
I was at the nurses’ station, updating charts on my laptop, when I heard it. Singing. Faint, but definitely there—”Silent Night” drifting down the hallway. I looked up, listening. It was coming from the direction of room 12.
Room 12 had been empty for two weeks.
“Hello?” I called out, grabbing my torch. The singing stopped immediately.
I walked down the corridor, my trainers squeaking against the linoleum. The door to room 12 was closed, no light showing underneath. I knocked. Nothing. When I pushed it open, the room was dark and silent, exactly as it should be. Empty bed, curtains drawn, that antiseptic smell hanging in the air. Maybe I was just paranoid. Christmas Eve in an empty hospital wing—it was enough to make anyone’s imagination run wild.
I went back to my station. Obviously, I was just tired.
But then, about forty minutes later, I heard it again. “O Holy Night” this time, the melody wavering and thin, like it was coming from very far away. Or very close, but whispered.
My heart started pounding. I stood up, and the singing cut off, just like before. I felt my hands shaking as I walked back to room 12. Again, the door was closed. Again, it was dark inside.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered to myself. But my voice sounded too loud in the empty hallway.
I checked the room thoroughly this time—bathroom, behind the curtain, even the wardrobe. Nothing. The window was locked from the inside. I stood there for a moment, trying to rationalize it. Old building, strange acoustics, maybe the heating system. I didn’t want to seem crazy, ringing security over some carol singing.
Looking back, I realize that’s when things started getting really wrong.
It happened three more times before midnight. “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” then “The First Noel,” then “Joy to the World.” Each time, the moment I stood up to investigate, silence. Each time, room 12 was empty and dark. By the fifth occurrence, my scrubs were damp with sweat despite the December chill seeping through the windows.
I should have trusted my instincts. I should have called someone.
Instead, at quarter to midnight, I decided to check the security footage. My hands were trembling as I logged into the system at the nurses’ station. I pulled up the camera that covered the North Wing corridor and scrolled back to nine o’clock.
What I saw made my blood run cold.
There I was, on the screen, sitting at the nurses’ station. Then, at 9:07, I stood up and walked down the corridor. I watched myself approach room 12, open the door, and go inside. The timestamp ticked forward. Three minutes passed. Four. At 9:12, I emerged, pulling the door closed behind me.
I was smiling.
Not a normal smile. This was wide, serene, like I’d just heard the most wonderful news. I watched myself walk back to the nurses’ station and sit down, that strange smile slowly fading from my face as I returned to my laptop.
I had no memory of this. None.
“No, no, no,” I whispered, scrolling forward. At 9:47, there I was again, standing up, walking to room 12. Entering. Staying for several minutes. Emerging with that same unsettling smile.
Every. Single. Time.
Five visits total, and I couldn’t remember any of them. On the footage, I looked completely normal—calm, purposeful, like I knew exactly what I was doing. But sitting there at 11:53 PM, watching myself move like a sleepwalker through my own shift, I felt my heart drop into my stomach.
The clock on the screen hit midnight.
Behind me, from down the corridor, I heard singing again. All the carols at once, overlapping, a discordant choir of voices that might have been one voice or a hundred.
Something wasn’t right. Something had been happening in room 12 all night, and I’d been part of it without even knowing.
I ran. I mean, properly ran—grabbed my bag and coat and bolted for the stairwell. I didn’t stop until I was in my car, doors locked, engine running. I called in sick for the rest of my shift. Told them it was food poisoning. They were annoyed, obviously, but I didn’t care.
I requested a transfer the next day. Told my supervisor it was for personal reasons, closer to family, whatever excuse I could think of. She tried to talk me out of it—good nurses are hard to find—but I was insistent. I’ll never work a night shift again. I made that promise to myself in the car park that night, and I’ve kept it.
To this day, I still don’t know what happened in room 12. I don’t know what I saw in there during those visits I can’t remember, or why I came out smiling each time. The hospital security kept the footage, but I’ve never asked to see it again. I don’t want to know.
Sometimes, late at night, I catch myself humming Christmas carols I don’t remember learning. I stop immediately when I realize, my heart racing, checking to make sure I’m still in control of my own actions.
Because the worst part? The part that keeps me awake?
I’m not entirely sure I ever left room 12 at all.
