The Mystery of Room 312-B
All the nurses who cared for a man in a coma for more than three years began to fall pregnant—one after another—leaving the supervising physician completely baffled. At first, Dr. Adrian Velasco believed it was nothing more than coincidence. In a public hospital in Metro Manila, where life and death crossed paths every day, an unexpected pregnancy was hardly shocking. Night shifts were long, exhaustion wore everyone down, and people sought comfort wherever they could find it.
But when the second nurse assigned to Room 312-B announced her pregnancy—and then a third—Dr. Velasco felt his scientific certainty begin to crack.
The patient’s name was Miguel Santos.
He was thirty years old, a volunteer firefighter and disaster responder who had been critically injured when a residential building collapsed during a massive fire in Tondo, as he tried to rescue a trapped child. Since that night, Miguel had remained in a deep coma at San Isidro General Hospital, motionless, connected to machines, showing no voluntary response of any kind.
Every All Souls’ Day, his family sent candles and white flowers, along with a small framed image of the Santo Niño. The nurses often said Miguel looked peaceful—almost serene—as if he were simply sleeping, not trapped inside a body that no longer responded. No one expected anything more from him. Not until the pregnancies began to repeat, forming a pattern that could no longer be ignored.
Every pregnant nurse had worked night shifts and had spent weeks assigned to Miguel’s room. Some were married, others single, but all swore they had not been with anyone outside the hospital. Fear crept through the corridors, and rumors spread in hushed voices. Some blamed contaminated medication, others whispered about chemical exposure. A few spoke of things far less rational—spirits, souls that never left, forces that lingered between worlds.
Dr. Velasco reviewed Miguel’s neurological tests again and again. The EEG results never changed: minimal brain activity, stable vital signs, no physical movement. There was no medical explanation. When the fifth nurse, Liza Moreno, entered his office in tears, clutching a positive pregnancy test and swearing she hadn’t been with anyone for months, Adrian knew this was no longer coincidence.
Under pressure from hospital administration and fearing a scandal that could reach national news, he made a desperate decision. Late on a Friday night, when the corridors were nearly empty and silence filled the building, he entered Room 312-B alone and discreetly hid a small camera inside a wall-mounted fan, aimed directly at the patient’s bed. As he left, a strange chill ran down his spine, as if he had crossed a boundary that should never be crossed.
Before dawn, Dr. Velasco locked himself in his office and reviewed the footage. For several minutes, nothing happened—only the steady hum of machines and the mechanical rhythm of assisted breathing. Then, at 3:42 a.m., the lights in the room flickered.
Miguel Santos, motionless for years, slowly opened his eyes.
His arms rose stiffly, unnaturally, as the brain monitor spiked with sudden activity. Adrian leaned closer to the screen, holding his breath—and then he saw the impossible.
Miguel’s form began to separate from his body.
A translucent figure, identical to him, slowly lifted itself free and drifted toward the nurse sleeping upright beside the bed. The shadow reached out and touched her shoulder. She shuddered in her sleep but did not wake. A faint bluish glow filled the room, and seconds later, everything returned to normal.
Miguel lay still once more. Unmoving. Silent.
Nauseated, Adrian replayed the footage again and again. The same phenomenon appeared on multiple nights, always involving different nurses. Trembling, he contacted the authorities and handed over the recordings.
Days later, Room 312-B was sealed without public explanation. Miguel Santos was transferred to an isolated wing of the hospital. The official statement cited a “technical malfunction.”
Dr. Adrian Velasco resigned soon after. He left medicine entirely and was never seen again.
To this day, people say Room 312-B remains empty and locked. And in the quiet hours before dawn, the red monitor light can still be seen blinking softly in the darkness—
even though no one lies in the bed.