Dark Web Care Recordings
I found the dark web care recordings six months after Mum died. Before that, I kept ringing her old mobile to hear the voicemail. I did it until the number was disconnected. I hadn’t saved the message because I thought I’d have time.
Six months later, a friend who investigates stolen personal data asked if she could show me something. She’d come across recordings from care facilities on a dark-web archive. One of the rooms looked like Mum’s.
She said it might be easier if she described it first.
I told her I wanted to see.
The thumbnail showed the paper birds I’d hung above Mum’s bed. I’d made eleven because that was how many sheets were in the packet. One was green; the others were white. The green one hung lower because I hadn’t cut the thread properly.
It was her room.
Mum had been in short-term nursing care after a stroke. She was meant to come home once we could manage the stairs and her exercises. She died on a Tuesday. The home rang me at work.
The recording was from the Monday night.
The camera was low down, opposite the bed. On screen you could see Mum’s knees beneath the blanket, the wheeled table, and part of her face when she turned towards the door.
For a long time nothing happened. She slept. A staff member came in and moved the table. He adjusted the blanket, checked something near the bed, and went out.
Then Mum woke up.
She asked for water. Her voice was thin after the stroke; we sometimes had to ask her to repeat herself. On the recording I understood her immediately.
She reached for the call bell. It was on the table, just beyond her fingertips.
We watched her try three times. My friend reached for the mouse, but I caught her wrist. I wanted to see someone come back. I knew the date and I still wanted that.
The Call Bell
Mum eventually called out. The same man returned. She asked him to bring the table closer.
He moved it. Then he looked directly at the camera.
He left the bell on a chair at the foot of the bed.
There was a small movement in the image, as though he’d nudged whatever concealed it. The picture settled. Mum lay quietly for a while, then said his name. Not loudly. Almost apologetically.
The page had comments underneath. My friend had covered them with another window before showing me the footage. I moved it.
One person complained that there was too much waiting. Another wanted the audio from closer to the bed. There were folders for other rooms, other nights. Mum’s recording had a view count.
The police took over from there. The home suspended a member of staff. Families were contacted. There was an investigation into the recordings and a separate review of Mum’s care. I won’t pretend the video proves exactly why she died. It proves what he did to her bell.
Her Voice
Dad hasn’t watched it. He asked me whether she seemed frightened, and I said she was mostly tired. That’s true, as far as it goes.
When I visited, she’d always tell me the staff were busy and I mustn’t make a fuss. I thought she was being considerate. The recording showed how long she prepared herself before asking for anything.
Near the end, she said my name.
For a second I thought she was calling for me. Then I heard the rest.
“Don’t tell Nisha I bothered you again.”
I have the voicemail now. A colleague found it on an old phone backup. Mum says to leave a message and she’ll get back to me. I wanted that recording for months. I haven’t managed to play it since.
Original horror fiction by J.Dark. Fictional narrator: Nisha Patel, 30. The named submitter and events are fictional. Read more dark web stories or explore the Horror Fiction archive.
