4

A filing cabinet lay on its side, its drawers hanging open, files spilling out like forgotten memories.

I stopped, staring at the papers for a moment, my heart beating a little too fast.

Some of the documents were patient records, I realized.

Names, diagnoses, notes scribbled by doctors long dead.

I crouched down, picking up a brittle piece of paper and holding it to the light.

The words were faded, but I could still make out a few of them.

"Nina..."

The name sent a strange shiver down my spine.

It was ridiculous.

It was just a name, just another patient, but for some reason, it stuck with me.

I shoved the paper back onto the pile and stood, rubbing the back of my neck.

This place was getting to me, playing tricks on my mind.

I’d been in enough haunted places to know how easy it was to let your imagination run wild.

But still...

I couldn’t shake that feeling, that pull toward something... darker.

I moved on, my flashlight beam flickering as I turned the corner.

Ahead of me, the hallway stretched into blackness, an endless tunnel of shadows.

The air grew colder, biting against my skin, and for the first time, I thought maybe the stories weren’t all superstition.

Maybe there was something here.

Something waiting for me.

A soft sound echoed down the hall, and I froze.

It was faint, barely audible, but unmistakable.

A whisper.

A voice.

My heart leapt into my throat, and I tightened my grip on the flashlight.

I strained to hear it again, but the silence had returned, thick and suffocating.

I swallowed hard, telling myself it was nothing.

It had to be nothing.

But I couldn’t ignore the way my hands shook, the way my breath came too fast.

I stood there, staring into the dark, feeling that pull grow stronger, like invisible hands were reaching out, tugging me forward.

Against every instinct, I took a step toward the sound.

And then another.

My pulse pounded in my ears as I moved closer, deeper into the belly of the asylum.

The air felt thick, charged, like a storm was brewing just beneath the surface.

My EMF meter blinked again, the lights flashing red this time.

The needle spiked, then dropped back down, as if whatever had been there was now gone.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to keep moving.

The whispers came again, clearer this time, and I swore I heard my name.

“Elias…”

It was impossible.

There was no one here.

There couldn’t be.

But I heard it.

A woman’s voice, soft, almost seductive, curling around me like smoke.

“Elias…"

My flashlight flickered, and for a split second, I thought I saw something—just a glimpse of a figure, a shadow moving at the end of the hall.

My heart stuttered, and I stepped back, my pulse racing.

Then the light steadied, and the hallway was empty again.

I stood there, frozen, my breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts.

This was wrong.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

I was the skeptic, the one who never believed in ghosts, who always found a logical explanation.

But right now, standing in this dark, decaying hellhole, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

And worse, I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave.

Because deep down, despite the fear clawing at my chest, I felt something else—something darker, more dangerous.

I wanted to know her.

The voice.

The whispers.

I wanted to find her.

Even if it destroyed me.

2

ELIAS

The night descended like a shroud over the asylum, its decrepit walls crumbling in the faint light of my flickering flashlight.

The silence was thick, oppressive, like a blanket suffocating all sound except for the creak of the floorboards beneath my feet.

I was alone, or at least, I thought I was.

I set up my equipment, the camera’s red light blinking as it began to record.

Each corner of the asylum felt like a trap, hidden within shadowy alcoves, waiting for something — someone — to step too close.

But I wasn't afraid.

No, I came here with a purpose: to debunk the myths, to expose the asylum as just another crumbling ruin, long forgotten by time.