5

That was until I heard the first whisper.

At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me.

Isolation and the dark tend to stir the imagination, conjuring sounds out of nowhere.

I stopped, holding my breath, listening intently to the dead air, waiting for any sign of life.

"Elias..."

The whisper was soft, intimate, like a lover’s breath against the back of my neck.

I turned sharply, my heart hammering in my chest.

My flashlight darted across the room, but there was nothing there.

Just the emptiness and the peeling walls staring back at me.

My rational mind dismissed it as a trick of the wind, perhaps the faint echo of my own thoughts.

But there was something about the way my name was spoken—like it wasn’t just a sound, but a call.

A beckoning.

As I moved deeper into the asylum, the shadows in the corners of my vision began to shift, almost imperceptibly.

I blinked, my eyes straining to adjust, but every time I looked directly, the movement was gone.

It was as if the darkness itself was alive, watching me, waiting for something.

I set up more cameras, methodically placing them in each room I passed, determined to catch whatever was out there.

A part of me—more than I was willing to admit—felt excited.

The thrill of the unknown tugged at my curiosity.

The whispers, the shifting shadows—they were what I had been searching for.

I felt alive in a way I hadn’t in years.

It was the first sign of activity.

My skepticism was cracking.

Something about this place... it wasn’t just stories.

There was something more.

I could feel it.

Every time I brushed my hand against the decaying walls, it felt like I was touching something alive, something that pulsed just beneath the surface.

But I told myself it was only the weight of history—of tragedy, madness, and death—that hung in the air.

It had to be.

Until something touched me.

It was subtle at first.

A slight chill on the back of my neck, the kind of sensation that creeps under your skin and makes the hair stand on end.

I stopped, breathing deeply, scanning the empty corridor around me.

But it was dark, silent, save for the hum of my equipment in the distance.

Then it happened again—this time unmistakable.

The touch was soft, deliberate.

A brush of fingers along my arm, trailing down toward my hand like the caress of a lover.

But I was alone.

I knew that.

I knew it.

My breath hitched, a mixture of disbelief and fear rooting me in place.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice sounding too loud, too desperate.

The response was another whisper, so close, so intimate that I swore I could feel warm breath against my ear.

“Elias...”

The voice was unmistakably feminine, sultry, almost seductive.

My pulse quickened, but not just from fear.

There was something disturbingly familiar about the touch, the voice, the way it seemed to know me, calling me by name as though it had always been watching.

I reached for my camera, my hands trembling slightly as I fumbled with the equipment.

I wanted to document everything, but as I set up the shot, something in me began to falter.

Was I really alone in this place?

Something cold—so cold it burned—pressed against my neck.

It was more than just a touch now.

It was intimate, purposeful.

It lingered, sliding down my spine with a slow, deliberate pace.

I gasped, stumbling back, but the touch followed me, clinging to my skin, like invisible hands pulling me toward something I couldn’t see.

My flashlight flickered violently before plunging the hallway into total darkness.

I froze, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my heart thudding painfully against my ribs.

I reached out, waving the light frantically, but all I saw was emptiness.

I wasn’t alone anymore.

I could feel it.

Whatever it was, it was here with me, watching, touching, and whispering my name with a kind of dangerous familiarity.

“Elias…”

My knees buckled as I tried to retreat, but it was too late.

The darkness wrapped around me, and in that moment, I knew that the asylum wasn’t just haunted by the dead.