Every school has its story, and ours belonged to Dormitory C—the oldest building on campus, three floors of creaking wood and flickering exit lights. It wasn’t haunted in the usual way. No shadows moving by themselves, no faces in mirrors. Just a voice. A woman’s voice, soft and slow, echoing through the hallway every night at exactly 12:03.

People called her “the Dorm Grandma.” No one had ever seen her, but everyone claimed to know someone who had heard her clearly—too clearly. It wasn’t a ghost wail or a scream; it was the kind of voice you’d hear in a dream where someone is tucking you in and asking you to stay. Some said she asked for help. Some said she was humming. Others swore she was counting.

The first time I heard her, I was half-asleep. The hallway light outside my room glowed sickly orange, buzzing like an insect. Then came the whisper, just above that hum:  

“...three... four... five...”  

It was so gentle I thought it was someone practicing for a play. Then the voice stopped. When I opened the door, the corridor was empty. The air was cold and still, as if the building were holding its breath.

The next morning, everyone pretended nothing happened. My roommate, Kenji, laughed when I mentioned it. “Old pipes,” he said. “Sound travels weird in these walls.” But he never met my eyes. I realized later he kept his earbuds in at night, even when he wasn’t listening to music.

The following week, a student from Room 203 was sent home after collapsing in the bathroom. He’d fallen, they said, or maybe fainted. But in whispers, people said he’d woken up screaming about a woman calling his name through the ceiling vent. He couldn’t repeat what she said—just that her breath smelled like dust and flowers.

The school never made an announcement, but everyone knew: you don’t stay in the hallway after midnight.

By October, we’d made the story into a game. New students were dared to sit outside their rooms at 12:03 with the lights off. The bravest would record audio, hoping to catch the whisper. None of the recordings ever worked. You could see the timestamp, hear a faint static pop, but the air itself sounded blank, as if silence were swallowing the sound before it reached the mic.

Then, one night, a girl named Yura from the literature club decided to go live on her phone. She wanted proof. Half the dorm tuned in. Her stream showed the corridor—dim, empty, lined with old bulletin boards and peeling paint. The second hand on her watch hit 12:03. For a few seconds, nothing. Then came it—the soft voice, clear and close:  

“...Don’t stay up so late, dear...”  

Her camera jerked. The stream froze. When it came back, the hallway was empty again, but Yura was gone. Her phone lay on the floor for three minutes before someone found it. She showed up in her room the next morning, asleep, unharmed, with no memory of leaving. She stopped attending club meetings after that.

The janitor, an old man who’d worked there since before we were born, once said he remembered a house matron who used to patrol the dorms decades ago. She’d check if students were asleep, whispering softly as she walked: “...time for bed now...” Then, one winter, she slipped on the stairs and died instantly. After that, her footsteps stopped—but her voice never did.

No one could confirm it. Records from that era were gone, and the janitor retired the next week without collecting his final pay.

Now, every generation of students adds a new version of the story. Some say the whisper asks questions you should never answer. Others say she hums a lullaby that ends differently depending on who listens. A few swear that if you follow the sound toward the end of the hall, the hallway stretches longer and longer, like it doesn’t want to end.

Last semester, Kenji packed his things early. “I’m transferring,” he told me. “It’s too noisy here.”  

“Because of her?” I asked.  

He didn’t answer. He just turned off the light and said, “Don’t open the door after midnight. Even if she knocks.”

I still live in Dormitory C. Most nights are quiet, until they’re not. Sometimes, when I’m studying too late, I hear her again—closer than before, right outside the door.  

A whisper, patient, almost kind:  

“...you should be sleeping by now...”  

I tell myself it’s the pipes, or the wind, or an old building remembering how to talk. But sometimes, I think she’s looking for the students who still listen.

And every night at 12:03, I leave the hallway light on—just bright enough to see if the shadow under my door stops moving.