Speaker 1: 12 AM . fm . It's nearly midnight when I arrive at the pharmacy, the only beacon of light in this forgotten part of town. The streets are empty, the buildings hunched and shadowed like tired old men. The pharmacy's flickering neon sign hums, casting an eerie green glow on the cracked sidewalk. I glance up at it as I unlock the door, a strange unease settling in my chest.
The night shift is usually quiet, just me and the of the fluorescent lights with the occasional late night customer. It's why I took this job. Peaceful, mindless work that lets me breathe after the chaos of my day job. But tonight something feels off. The door chimes softly as I step inside, the cold air from the AC sending a shiver down my spine.
I lock the door behind me, out of habit more than anything. The aisles stretch out in front of me, their shelves lined with countless remedies and products, all bathed in the sterile light that buzzes overhead. I flick the lights on in the back office and settle behind the counter, pulling out the old ledger to begin the night's inventory check. The first hour passes uneventfully, but the stillness is unsettling. I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched, though I know that's impossible.
The only movement comes from the clock ticking on the wall and the flicker of the fluorescent lights overhead. Around 1 AM, the bell above the door rings. I look up, startled, as an old man shuffles in, his clothes hanging off him like rags. He doesn't meet my eyes as he approaches the counter, a crumpled prescription slip in his hand. Can I help you?
I ask, trying to sound cheerful, but my voice echoes strangely in the empty store. He mumbles something under his breath, placing the slip on the counter. I pick it up, frowning as I smooth it out. The paper is yellowed with age, the handwriting a shaky scrawl I can barely read. But what really catches my attention is the date.
It's from 1952. This can't be right, I mutter, flipping the slip over as if I'll find an explanation on the back. But there's nothing. I glance up at the man, but he's staring blankly at the floor, his breath coming in raspy gasps. Sir, this prescription is very old.
I I can't fill this. He doesn't respond, just stands there, his fingers twitching at his sides. For a moment, I consider calling the police, but something about him stops me. There's a sadness in his eyes, a deep ancient sorrow that makes my stomach churn. I'm sorry, I say again, my voice softer.
I can't help you. The man's gaze finally lifts, and when his eyes meet mine, I feel a coldness seep into my bones. His lips move silently, mouthing words I can't hear. Then, without another word, he turns and shuffles out the door, disappearing into the night. I stand there for a moment, frozen, the prescription slip still clutched in my hand.
The bell jingles again as the door swings shut, leaving me alone in the eerie silence. I glance down at the slip once more, my heart pounding. The date blurs in front of my eyes, 1952. How could that be? I grab my phone, intending to text someone, anyone, about what just happened, but my hand shakes so badly that I nearly drop it.
Suddenly, the lights overhead flicker, plunging the store into brief darkness before buzzing back to life. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and toss the prescription slip into the trash. It's just a mistake, I tell myself. An old man with an old slip, nothing more, but the chill in the air lingers and I can't shake the feeling that something is very, very wrong. The next few nights pass without incident, though I can't shake the memory of that old man and his impossible prescription.
It's silly, really. There's no logical explanation, but the more I try to forget, the more it lingers in the back of my mind, gnawing at me like a splinter under the skin. Tonight, the air feels different, heavier almost. The pharmacy is unusually quiet, the kind of silence that presses in on you from all sides. It's as if the very walls are holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.
I try to focus on my tasks, stocking shelves, counting inventory, but I keep glancing at the door, half expecting another strange visitor. Around 2 AM, the bell chimes again. This time, it's a young woman, maybe in her late twenties, with dark hair pulled back into a tight bun. She's dressed in old fashioned clothes, like something out of a black and white movie, and she clutches a small handbag tightly against her chest. There's a haunted look in her eyes and she's trembling as she approaches the counter.
Good evening, I say, trying to keep my voice steady. How can I help you? She doesn't respond right away. Instead, she fumbles with her bag, pulling out a folded piece of paper. When she hands it to me, I notice her fingers are ice cold, like she's been standing outside in the dead of winter.
I unfold the paper, my heart skipping a beat, when I see it's another prescription. This one is even older, dated 1947. My eyes scan the page, noting the faded ink and the strange, unfamiliar script. The medication listed doesn't even exist anymore, replaced by modern treatments decades ago. I'm sorry, I begin, but she cuts me off with a desperate look.
Please, she whispers, her voice trembling. I need this filled. It's important. He needs it. There's something in her voice.
Fear, maybe? Or is it guilt? I can't tell, but it sends a shiver down my spine. Who needs it? I ask.
But she doesn't answer. Instead, she just stares at me, her eyes wide in pleading. I glance back down at the prescription, trying to figure out what to do. The rational part of me knows this is impossible. Like the old man's prescription, this can't be real.
But the part of me that remembers those haunted eyes and that cold touch wonders if maybe, just maybe, there's something more to this. I can't fill this, I finally say, shaking my head. It's too old. I don't even know what this medication is. Her face falls, and for a moment, I swear I see tears welling up in her eyes.
Please, she says again, softer this time. He's been waiting for so long. He needs this. I'm about to respond when the lights overhead flicker, plunging the store into darkness for a brief terrifying moment. When they come back on, the woman is gone.
The door hasn't opened. The bell hasn't rung. She's just vanished. I stare at the empty space where she stood, my heart pounding in my chest. My hands tremble as I pick up the prescription, the paper still cold to the touch.
This is wrong. All of this is wrong. I grab my phone and start searching the pharmacy's history, my fingers flying over the screen. What I find sends a chill down my spine. This place was built over the ruins of an old sanatorium, a place where the sick and desperate were promised cures that never came.
And now, it seems, they're still waiting. The next day, I can't shake the dread gnawing at my insides. The encounters with the old man and the young woman replay in my mind, their ghostly presence haunting me long after I've left the pharmacy. I tell myself it's just my imagination, that the late hours are messing with my head, but deep down I know there's something more. I decide to dig deeper, determined to uncover the truth behind this place.
I need to know why these spirits, or whatever they are, are coming to me. After my shift ends, I head to the local library, poring over old records and newspaper clippings about the area. It takes hours, but eventually I find it, an article from 1953 detailing the closure of the Willowbrook sanatorium. The name sends a shiver down my spine. Willowbrook was notorious in its time, a place where the desperate sought miracle cures for ailments the medical world couldn't yet treat.
But behind its walls, the patients endured horrific experiments prescribed untested treatments that often did more harm than good. The article mentions several patients who disappeared under mysterious circumstances, their records lost, their fates unknown. The sanatorium was eventually shut down due to numerous scandals and the building was demolished in the early sixties. I stare at the old photograph accompanying the article, my hands trembling. The sanatorium once stood exactly where the pharmacy is now.
It all starts to make sense, the old prescriptions, the haunted eyes, the cold touch. These spirits are the lost patients of Willowbrook still seeking the treatments they were promised but never received. They come to me because I'm the one standing in the place where they died, the place where they were betrayed. But what do they want? Are they simply looking for closure?
Or is there something darker at play? I think about the woman's words. He's been waiting for so long. Who is he and why is he waiting? That night, I return to the pharmacy with a sense of dread I can't ignore.
The air is thick with tension, the silence oppressive. I spend most of my shift in a state of heightened anxiety jumping at every small sound. By 3 AM, I'm exhausted, both mentally and physically, but I know I have to keep going. I have to find out what's really happening here. I decide to check the back room, the part of the pharmacy I rarely enter.
It's mostly used for storage but tonight, something pulls me toward it as if an invisible hand is guiding me. The light flickers as I open the door, revealing shelves filled with dusty boxes and old medical supplies. I search through them, my fingers brushing against brittle paper and rusted metal. Then at the back of the room, I find it, a locked cabinet. The key is still in the lock, cold and heavy in my hand.
My pulse quickens as I turn it, the sound of the tumblers clicking into place echoing in the quiet room. The cabinet creaks open, revealing a collection of old files, their edges yellowed with age. I pull out the first file, my breath catching in my throat. It's a patient record from Willowbrook, dated 1952. The name on the file matches the old man who came into the pharmacy a few nights ago.
The prescription he brought was his last, a medication that was supposed to cure him but was never administered. He died before it could be filled. I flip through more files, finding records for other patients, all with similar stories. They all died waiting for treatments that never came, their lives cut short by the very place that was supposed to save them. As I read, a sense of dread settles over me.
These spirits aren't just seeking closure. They're seeking revenge. And I'm the one who has to finish what Willowbrook started or risk becoming another lost soul trapped in this cursed place. The lights flicker again, and I hear it. A faint whisper, growing louder by the second.
I turn, my heart pounding, to see a shadow moving across the wall inching closer. My hands shake as I clutch the files to my chest, the truth weighing heavy on my soul. I'm not alone in the pharmacy anymore, and I'm not sure I ever was. The next night, I returned to the pharmacy with a sense of inevitability hanging over me. The files from the cabinet weigh heavily on my mind, each name a silent accusation.
These people, these souls, have been waiting for decades for their final prescription, the one that was supposed to free them from their suffering. And now, they've turned to me to fulfill that promise. I don't know if I can do it, but I know I have to try. The pharmacy is eerily quiet as I begin my shift. The usual of the fluorescent lights seems distant, as if the building itself is holding its breath.
I spend the first hour nervously tidying the shelves, trying to keep my mind occupied. But the silence is oppressive, and every creak and groan of the old building sets my nerves on edge. At 1 AM, the bell above the door rings, and I freeze. Slowly, I turn to see a figure standing in the entrance, a man in his forties wearing a suit that looks decades out of style. His eyes are dark, sunken, and filled with a sorrow so deep it makes my heart ache.
He doesn't speak as he approaches the counter, but I know who he is. His file was the last one I read last night, the man who died waiting for the medication that could have saved him. He places a prescription slip on the counter, just like the others. But this one is different. The handwriting is neater, more precise, as if the writer took extra care with each letter.
The medication listed is the same experimental drug that had appeared in the other files, the one that was supposed to cure mine, pleading, desperate. I swallow hard, my mouth dry as I take the slip in trembling hands. The paper feels cold, almost damp, as if it's been pulled from the ground. I know what I have to do, but the thought of it terrifies me. This is no ordinary prescription.
This is the last link in a chain of suffering that has stretched across decades. I move to the back room where the old files are still spread out on the table. The cabinet looms in the corner, its door ajar, as if inviting me to reach inside. I hesitate for a moment, then pull open a drawer marked experimental treatments. Inside, I find a vial of dark liquid, the label faded and cracked with age.
The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine. This is the drug that was meant to cure them, the one that never reached them in time. I return to the counter, the vial clutched tightly in my hand. The man watches me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl, his eyes never leaving mine. I prepare the prescription as instructed, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop the vial.
When I finish, I place the bottle on the counter, sliding it toward him. His gaze shifts to the bottle then back to me. For a moment, he just stands there, as if unsure of what to do. Then, with trembling hands, he picks up the bottle and nods in silent gratitude. Thank you, he whispers, his voice filled with a mixture of relief and sorrow.
I nod, unable to speak. As he turns to leave, the bell rings again and I look up to see the pharmacy filled with figures, ghostly, translucent, all watching me with expectant eyes. Each one clutches a prescription, waiting for their turn, waiting for their release. They line up silently, and 1 by 1, I fill their prescriptions. Each time the lights flicker, the air grows colder, and the room feels smaller, as if the walls are closing in.
By the time the last prescription is filled, I'm drenched in cold sweat, my hands numb from fear. The spirits begin to fade, their forms dissolving into mist, their eyes finally at peace. The pharmacy is empty once more, the silence deafening. But I know it's not over. There's one more prescription left to fill, and it's mine.
The pharmacy is silent now, the oppressive atmosphere lifting as the last of the spirits fade into the darkness. I stand behind the counter, my heart still racing, the cold sweat on my skin slowly drying. The vial I use to prepare the prescriptions is empty, but the weight in the air tells me there's one last task to complete. I glance down at the counter where a single prescription slip lies waiting. My name is written across the top in neat precise handwriting, the same handwriting that had appeared on all the others.
My hands tremble as I pick it up, my eyes scanning the text. It's a prescription for the same experimental drug I've been dispensing all night. The realization hits me like a cold wave. This is my final prescription, the one that ties me to this cursed place. The spirits weren't just seeking release, they were preparing me to take my place among them.
I feel the room grow colder, the shadows deepening as I stare at the slip. It all makes sense now. The spirits wanted closure, yes, but they needed someone to carry the weight of their unfinished business. Someone to continue the cycle, to keep the pharmacy's doors open to the lost souls still searching for their final rest. But I have a choice.
I can follow their plan, fill this last prescription, and join them in the shadowy realm between life and death. Or I can refuse, break the cycle, and leave this place behind, but I know the cost of refusing. If I don't complete the ritual, the spirits will return angrier and more desperate than before, and the next person who takes this job will face horrors far worse than what I've experienced. The weight of the decision bears down on me as I stare at the prescription. The silence in the room is suffocating, the darkness pressing in from all sides.
My thoughts race, fear clawing at my insides as I try to find the courage to decide. I think of my life outside these walls, my friends, my family, the dreams I had before I took this job. I'm not ready to let go of them, but the ghosts of Willowbrook are relentless. They've waited decades for this, and they won't wait much longer. With trembling hands, I tear the prescription slip in half, then quarters, then eighths.
The pieces flutter to the floor, and for a moment, the pharmacy seems to hold its breath. The shadows writhe, the lights flicker, and a cold wind blows through the aisles, sending the scraps of paper scattering. The darkness thickens, and I brace myself for what comes next, but instead of anger, the shadows retreat, and the room gradually warms. The spirits are gone, truly gone this time. The curse is broken, but as I step out of the pharmacy, the dawn's light creeping over the horizon, I can't help but feel a lingering unease.
I may have escaped, but I know the darkness of Willowbrook will never fully leave me. I'm free, but the cost of that freedom is a burden I'll carry forever. 12 AM . fm.