The Forgotten Room

Radha sat on the edge of her bed in St. Vincent’s Psychiatric Facility, staring at the pale blue walls that seemed to close in on her more each day. Her mind was a puzzle, fractured pieces that refused to fit together. She had been here for years—or was it months? Time blurred, the days indistinguishable from one another.

“Radha, breakfast,” Nurse Anita called, her voice soft but firm. Radha ignored her, fixated on the faint scratch marks near the corner of the wall. She didn’t remember making them, but they felt familiar, like a part of her she’d forgotten.

Anita sighed and left. Radha was often difficult, but she wasn’t violent or loud like some of the others. Instead, she was eerily quiet, always observing, her dark eyes scanning every detail of the room, the hallways, the staff.

The patients whispered about her, calling her “The Shadow.” Some claimed she could appear and disappear at will; others said she knew things—dark, hidden things about the hospital. But Radha kept her distance from the others. She wasn’t like them, she told herself. She wasn’t crazy.

Yet her memories didn’t make sense. She couldn’t remember arriving at the hospital. She couldn’t remember her life before it. The doctors said she’d suffered a traumatic breakdown after a fire, but no one could tell her where the fire had been or who had been with her. Every time she pressed for details, she was met with silence or deflection.

One night, Radha woke to the sound of whispers. At first, she thought it was another patient, but the voices were too close—inside her room. She sat up, her heart pounding. The faint sound of a child’s laughter echoed through the walls.

“Who’s there?” she whispered.

No response.

The next morning, she told Dr. Mehra, her psychiatrist, about the voices. He smiled kindly, jotting something down on his clipboard.

“Radha, sometimes our minds play tricks on us. You’ve been through a lot.”

“I’m not imagining it,” she snapped. “There’s something in this place. Something wrong.”

Dr. Mehra leaned forward, his expression serious. “Radha, you’re here because you’re not well. The voices you hear are a symptom of your condition. Trust the process. We’re here to help you.”

But Radha didn’t trust him—or anyone else. There was a secret in this hospital, and she was determined to uncover it.

That night, Radha stayed awake, listening. At exactly 2:13 a.m., the whispers began again. This time, she followed them.

She slipped out of her room, careful not to alert the night staff. The hallways were eerily quiet, the flickering fluorescent lights casting long shadows. The whispers grew louder, leading her to a wing of the hospital that had been sealed off for years. A rusty chain barred the door, but Radha noticed it wasn’t locked. She pushed it open and stepped inside.

The air was heavy with dust and the scent of mildew. Old patient files and broken furniture littered the corridor. The whispers grew louder, guiding her to a room at the end of the hall. The door was slightly ajar, and she pushed it open with trembling hands.

Inside, she found a small, windowless room with faded wallpaper and a single chair. On the walls were scratch marks—identical to the ones in her room. In the corner, she saw a child’s doll, its porcelain face cracked and painted with a disturbing smile.

Radha’s head throbbed, flashes of memory flooding her mind: a fire, a child’s scream, her own hands clawing at the walls. She stumbled back, her breath quickening.

“Radha,” a voice said behind her.

She spun around to see Dr. Mehra standing in the doorway, his face grim. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“How did you know where I was?” she demanded.

“You’ve been here before,” he said. “You just don’t remember.”

“What are you talking about?” Radha’s voice wavered. “What is this place?”

Dr. Mehra stepped inside, his hands raised in a gesture of calm. “This was your room, Radha. Before the fire. Before everything fell apart.”

Radha shook her head, her heart pounding. “No. You’re lying.”

“Think, Radha,” he urged. “Why do you feel like you’ve been here forever? Why do you hear whispers? This isn’t your first time in St. Vincent’s. You lived here as a child. You were a patient.”

The memories hit her like a tidal wave. The fire had started in this very room. She had been locked inside, screaming for help, clawing at the walls. The staff said it was an accident, but she remembered the truth: they had left her there on purpose. She had been a burden, a child no one wanted.

“No,” she whispered, sinking to her knees. “That can’t be true.”

“It is,” Dr. Mehra said softly. “You’ve blocked it out for years, but your mind is trying to piece it together. That’s why you came back here.”

Radha looked up at him, her eyes burning with anger. “And you knew? You’ve known all along?”

Dr. Mehra hesitated. “I was here when it happened. I was just an intern then. I didn’t know how to stop it. But I’m trying to help you now.”

“You’re a liar,” Radha spat. “You’re just like the rest of them.”

Dr. Mehra’s face darkened. “You need to calm down, Radha. You’re not well.”

But Radha wasn’t listening. She grabbed the doll from the corner and hurled it at him, shattering it against the wall. Beneath the broken porcelain, she saw something glinting. She crouched down and picked it up—a key.

“What’s this?” she demanded.

Dr. Mehra’s expression faltered. “Radha, don’t—”

She bolted past him, clutching the key. She ran through the hospital, the whispers growing louder, guiding her to a locked door she had never noticed before. The key fit perfectly. She turned it and stepped inside.

The room was filled with files, photographs, and medical equipment. On the wall was a large board covered in newspaper clippings about the fire at St. Vincent’s. At the center was a photo of her younger self, her name written beneath it.

“They knew,” she whispered. “They knew and did nothing.”

Behind her, Dr. Mehra appeared, his face pale. “Radha, you shouldn’t be here.”

Radha turned to him, her voice steady. “This isn’t a hospital. It’s a prison. And you’re keeping us here to hide the truth.”

Before Dr. Mehra could respond, the alarms blared, and Radha felt hands grabbing her, dragging her away. As she was restrained and sedated, she whispered to herself, “I know the truth now. They can’t erase it.”

When Radha woke, she was back in her room, her wrists bound. The scratch marks on the walls seemed deeper, darker. And in the silence, she heard the whispers again, louder than ever.

They weren’t just voices. They were memories. And they weren’t going to let her forget.