Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S5 Ep275: Episode 275: Asylum Horror

Episode Date: September 15, 2025

Use the promo code SUPERBAD for 10% off your T-shirt! https://dr-creepens-vault.creator-spring.com/listing/the-devil-is-in-the-detail Today’s phenomenal opening story is ‘After 10 Years I Returned to the Danvers Asylum to Solve the Unsolvable’, an original work by Margot Holloway; shared directly with me via my sub-reddit and read here with the author’s express permission:  https://www.reddit.com/user/EquipmentTricky7729/ All of tonight’s other stories have been shared on the Creepypasta Wiki and read here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license, or were posted on my subreddit and are read here with the author’s express permission.  Our next tale of asylum terror is ‘Eery Asylum’ by Eeheeheeh.  https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:Eeheeheeh  https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Eery_Asylum Next up, we have ‘Ginger’s Asylum’ by LoVeLy MoNsTeR.  https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Ginger%27s_Asylum Our fourth horrifying nightmare is ‘Pennhurst Asylum’ by XHeartless105x.  https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:XHeartless105x  https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Pennhurst_Asylum Our penultimate tale of the macabre is ‘The Asylum’ by Raaxis.  http://www.scp-wiki.net/the-asylum https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/The_Asylum We're rounding off tonight with ‘I Used to Be a Dangerous Man, but Something Happened at my Asylum’ by Trappist01x.  https://www.reddit.com/user/Trappist01x

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please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepen's Dungeon. Asylum's terrifies because they embody the fear of losing control over our own minds and bodies. Once places meant for healing, their decaying halls and barred windows now symbolize abandonment, mistreatment and forgotten lives. The thought of being locked away, silenced and deemed mad, folks are primal dread. What if we were trapped in a place where reality itself could be questioned,

no one would believe us? In the darkness of asylum, the line between medical care and horror blurs, leaving behind an atmosphere heavy with the echoes of suffering and secrets best left undisturbed, as we shall see in tonight's collection of tales. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution, tonight's stories may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. Then let's begin.

Ten years later, I returned to the haunted Danvers Asylum, to solve the unsolvable. by Margo Holloway. Part one. Ten years ago I walked away from the badge, but there are some things you can never, ever leave behind. They stick with you like scarves, deep, jagged things that don't heal, not really.

For me, it was the case of Emily Fields. She was a 13-year-old girl, bright-eyed full of life, the kind of kid you never think could just vanish. But she did, without a trace. I vividly remember the day her parents came in Their faces equal parts terror and hope They truly believed I'd bring her back As if my reputation as a detective meant I could work miracles

But I couldn't Oh, we found bodies Plenty of bodies, too many But not hers sadly There were bodies nonetheless, mingled, broken As if whoever or whatever had done it Wanted to leave a message that would be found We followed the trail for weeks

Through abandoned buildings and countless back alleys Until it eventually led us to Danvers' asylum I'll never forget the feeling in my gut when we first approached that place Even in the daylight it felt wrong Like the air itself was heavier there The asylum had been shut down for decades Bored it up forgotten by most But not by me

Not by the whispers It was that strange things happened in there long before it closed its doors, experimental treatments, patients vanishing, staff turning up dead under mysterious circumstances. It was a kind of place that attracts darkness. Now, Danvers State Institution wasn't just a place, it was a scar on the earth itself. I'd see my fair share of grim locations during my time as a detective, but nothing like this. In 1878, it loomed over Danvers, Massachusetts, a sprawling Gothic monstrosity that had once housed the forgotten and broken, Even now, long after its closure in 1992, the place radiated a darkness that seemed to seep from its very walls.

This wasn't just an abandoned building. It was a monument to human cruelty. The history of this place was steeped in torment, the kind that lingers long after the last patient has been removed and the lights have gone out. Despite sitting on the very land where Judge John Hawthon, one of the most notorious figures of the Salem witch trials had once lived, the paranormal activity here had little to do with the witch hunts or curses No, the real horror of Danvers came from within its walls

from the brutal and sadistic methods of treatment they practiced in the name of mental health The kind of care that reduced people to hollow shells Their minds shattered by stray jackets Electroshock therapy and full-blown lobotomies Walking through the decrepit halls now Wasn't hard to imagine the screams

that had once echoed here The place had a reputation, a haunted one. People talked about malevolent spirits of figures seen moving through the long abandoned wards of a darkness that seemed to breathe through the asylum's decaying corridors. But I knew, as I stood there, that this wasn't the work of witches or ancient curses. This was the result of something far worse. Human cruelty, plain and simple. You don't treat people like animals, break their minds and bodies, and expect the place

not to be haunted by their suffering. Even Hollywood couldn't resist the horrors of Danvers. The movie Session Nine had been filmed here, his demonic storyline echoing the very real torment that had taken place within these walls. Yet no film, no documentary could have truly capture what it felt like to stand here to feel the weight of the building's history pressing down on you.

Danvers was the stuff of nightmares. But it wasn't the ghosts or the legends that terrified me. It was the knowledge that every horrific tale about this place had roots in reality. So yes, Danvers had a history, one built on blood and suffering, and it only made sense that it would be where the trail led. I went in there with my partner, Mike, a good guy, solid cop. He trusted me, and maybe that's why I still can't sleep at night. Just trusting me got him killed.

We never found, Emily, but I did find Mike, or... what was left of him. After that day, I quit the force. There was no case, no promotion, no badge in the world that could make me forget the look on his face, the way his body was contorted like some sick puppet. Whatever was in Danvers, it wasn't just a murderer. It was something worse.

And I had failed to stop it. I really thought leaving the job would help. I thought burying myself in whiskey and cheap motel rooms would make it easier to forget. But you know what? You can't outrun guilt. You sure as hell can't outrun the nightmares. Emily Fields' face haunted me every night, a voice calling out from somewhere I couldn't ever reach.

Then there was Mike. Sometimes I saw him too, just standing there in the shadows, waiting for me to say something, to explain why I hadn't saved him. Insomnia became a companion. The sleep, when it came, was filled with visions of the asylum. His decaying halls and the sense that something was still there. waiting. Watching. The town had long moved on from the horrors of Danvers.

Decades had now passed and people didn't want to talk about it anymore, at least not openly. But the rumours never truly died. Some said it was cursed that whatever happened in there had never really ended. Others claim that people still went missing near the grounds and no one could prove it. Maybe it was all just stories meant to scare kids or keep thrill seekers away. or maybe it was real. All I knew was that I'd never gone back. Well, not until the letter arrived. It was late, the kind of late where the world goes quiet,

and even the streetlights seemed tired. I was sitting in my one-bedroom apartment, the remnants of a cheap miniature of whiskey still burning in my throat, when I heard the soft thud at the door. Package, I thought at first, but the sound was too small for that. just an envelope perhaps probably bills

maybe junk mail when I picked it up I noticed something odd no return address no stamp just my name scrawled across the front in jagged uneven handwriting I didn't recognize it I ripped it open expecting the usual some scammer another

what I wasn't expecting was a single piece of paper folded once it was simple almost mundane just a single sheet of paper folded neatly in an envelope with no return address. No official letterhead, no explanation, just one sentence scribbled hurriedly in that same hand.

She's still alive. Come alone. For a second, I just stared at it, trying to process the words. She's still alive. I read it again. Still alive. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears,

felt the room shift like it was tilting off balance. The letter was crumpled in my hand before I even realized it. I tried to tell myself it was a prank, a cruel joke by someone who knew too much about my past. But how many people knew? Oh, Emily Fields. Her name echoed in my mind like a distant alarm bell. It had to be her. I hadn't spoken her name aloud in years.

Well, I hadn't let myself think about her case, about Danvers, about the blood and the bodies and the goddamn asylum. There it was, staring me in the face, dragging me back whether I wanted it or not. My hands were shaking, and I sat down, suddenly unsure if my legs would keep me upright. I tried to dismiss it, tried to tell myself it wasn't real, but I couldn't stop the flood of memories from rushing in. She's still alive. I kept reading it over and over until the word started blurring together. The logical part of my brain tried to kick in. the part that you used to solve the puzzles

pieced together the clues. What was the letter telling me? First, the handwriting was jagged, almost childlike, and there was no postmark, which meant it had been hand delivered. Second, someone had walked right up to my door, stood it under, and vanished before I could even notice.

That fact alone should have made me cautious. Whoever did this knew where I lived, knew about Emily, and they knew how to get to me. but another part of me the part that had been consumed by guilt for a decade wasn't thinking about that he was thinking about one thing only what if it's true i hadn't been back to danvers since the day mike dies i told myself it was because there was nothing left to investigate that the case had gone cold but the truth was i couldn't face it i couldn't go back there not with that place and what it had done to me

But now this letter was a hook, digging deep into the wound I thought I'd buried. If Emily was still out there, if she had somehow survived whatever horrors Danvers had held, I owed it to her to find out. And to Mike, I owed him that much too. Well, I knew the police wouldn't care. To them, the case was long dead, buried along with the bodies we found. They'd merely write it off as a crank letter, nothing worth following up on. I could already hear the condescension in their voices if I called it in.

You've been out of the game too long, old man. Let it go. How could I let it go? The nightmares, the sleepless nights, they all came rushing back as if they'd just been waiting for this moment. The guilt was a living thing inside me, gnawing at the edges of my sanity. Emily Fields. Oh, I saw her face again. The missing posters, the family's desperate eyes.

I'd failed her once, and I couldn't do it again. I grabbed my coat and had the letter still clenched in my fist. The cold air hit me like a slap in the face when I stepped outside, but it didn't clear my head. I doubted anything could. I knew what I had to do, and I hated myself for it. I was walking back into the mouth of hell, and there was no one waiting on the other side. The streets were empty as I drove through the night, the headlights cutting through the darkness like a blade. Danvers wasn't far, just a short ride outside the city, out in the middle of nowhere where no one goes unless they have a damn good reason.

And I had mine. Somewhere buried deep in that running husk of a building, there might be answers, maybe even salvation. But all I could think about was the last time I'd been there. The screams, the smell of blood, the way Mike's body twisted in the shadows, like he was still reaching out for me. as I stood frozen, useless. She's still alive. Those words passed in my mind, driving me forward as I spared through the desolate streets.

I told myself this was about her, about Emily. Deep down I knew it wasn't just that. I wasn't going back just to find a girl who might have been dead for a decade. I was going back for me, for Mike, for the truth that had haunted me every day since I left. Oh, I should have turned around,

I should have let it go, tossed the letter in the trash where it belonged. But instead I kept driving. The road leading me straight back to Danvers. Straight back to the nightmare. I poured up to the front gates of Danvers just as the sun was dipping below the horizon, casting the asylum in a fading glow of orange and reds. Truth be known, it was much worse than I remembered. The place had always been a crumbling ruin, but now it looked like nature itself.

was trying to swallow it whole. Ivy and thick vines crawled up the broken walls. The windows were either shattered or covered in grimes so thick you couldn't see through them. The once imposing iron gate was rusted, hanging crookedly on its hinges. The place stank of abandonment. Yet there was something else, something unsettling. A stillness that felt too deliberate, like it was waiting for me. The last time I'd been here it was daylight.

and they had been back up. This time I was alone, just like the letter had instructed. I climbed out of the car, the crunch of gravel under my boots, the only sound in the suffocating silence. I felt eyes on me. Maybe it was just my imagination, but maybe it wasn't. I pushed open the gate, the rusted metal groaning in protest. As soon as I stepped inside the grounds,

I felt an unnatural chill crawl up my spine. The building loomed in front of me, all jagged edges and rotting wood, its skeletal remains barely holding it together. But what caught my attention wasn't the building. It was the signs. There were unmistakable signs of recent activity. The grass had been trampled near the entrance, and there were drag marks leading up the steps. Someone had been here recently, and not just passing through. I'd get moving, cautiously, my safe.

senses on high alert. Strange noises echoed around me, branches snapping, something scraping against the walls. It was impossible to tell where the sounds were coming from. The whole place was like a tomb, and yet it felt alive in the worst possible way. Shadows flickered in the corners of my vision, just out of reach, but every time I turned, there was nothing there. As I stepped in the asylum, the stench hit me. Damp rot mixed with something metallic. metallic, blood maybe. The air was thick and stale as if it hadn't moved in years. What looked like black mould was circulating in the air throughout the building. I knew better than to breathe in mould like that, but I had no choice. I just hoped it wouldn't have some kind of hallucinatory

effect on me, or something even worse. My flashlight flickered to life, casting long shadows across the graffiti-covered walls. Every step felt like a betrayal. The floor, the floor was creaking as though it might give way at any moment. The building was falling apart, but someone had been using it. It didn't take long to find the first sign of him. The survivalist. Oh, I knew his type too well. Survivalists, they're always the same. Obsessed with the idea that the world is falling apart, that society is teetering on the brink of collapse. I dealt with them before in past cases. Paranoid, distrustful of anything and anyone that doesn't fit into their warp vision of survival.

They think they're the only ones with the answers, the only one strong enough to make it through whatever apocalypse are there convinced is coming. And anyone who doesn't fall in line? Well, they're a threat, or worse, just weak. And he was resourceful too, I had to give him that. The way he'd rigged the asylum with traps, how he'd used the building's decaying structure to his advantage. It was classic survivalist thinking.

Make the most of your environment. Use everything around you to protect yourself to control the situation. I'd seen it before. Men like him could turn even the most desolate place into a fortress. And this asylum? It was perfect for someone like him. Isolated, forgotten. Just the kind of place where a man could let his paranoia grow into something far more dangerous.

Then there's that belief. so rigid, so unshakable. They don't just prepare for the worst. They're convinced that they're the only one strong enough to survive it. And they'll do anything to prove it. His twisted trials, his brutal preparations, he actually believed he was saving people, pushing them to be stronger,

like he was some kind of profit for the apocalypse. It was always the same with guys like him. They're so deep in their own madness, they can't see what they've become. I'd seem what that kind of thinking could do to a man, how it could turn him into something inhuman. And standing there in his rotting asylum, I knew exactly what I was up against. He wasn't just some deranged lunatic hiding out in the woods. He was prepared, dangerous, and convinced that what he was doing was right.

And that made him even more terrifying. At first it was subtle. Files of old canned goods, boxes of supplies neatly stacked. in a corner. And then came the makeshift traps. In the hallway I nearly tripped over a thin wire stretched across the floor. My flashlight revealed the sharpened spikes just waiting for an unsuspecting victim. It was soon obvious that this was more than just a squatter trying to live off the grid. This was someone preparing for war. The deeper I went, the more twisted it became. I found rooms that had been converted into strange survivalist dens, maps of the world pinned to the

walls, with red lines drawn across them, marking, God knows what. Shelfes lined with what looked to be jars of water, along with crude, self-made weapons. But what unnerved me the most were the messages, scrawled across the walls in black ink were phrases like, prepare for the end, and, only the strong will survive. They were everywhere, forming a kind of paranoid manifesto that was smeared over the asylum's decaying bones. And then I heard it. A faint moaning coming from the basement. Upounded in my chest as I made my way toward the source.

Every muscle in my body tensing. The door to the basement was ajar. As I stepped through, the smell hit me again. Stronger this time. Rotting flesh. I followed the sound down a flight of crumbling stairs, each step groaning beneath my weight. The basement was pitch black, my flashlight barely cutting through the thick shadows.

And then I saw them. People, or what was left of them. They were chained to the walls, their bodies gaunt, bruised and broken. Some of them were barely alive, their eyes wide with terror as they stared at me, too weak to speak. Others, well, they hadn't been so lucky. Found a woman slumped against the wall, her skin gray. dry blood caked on her wrists where the chains had dug in. The survivalist's preparations.

He was testing them, pushing them to their breaking points or to see who could survive. It wasn't just survival. It was torture, plain and simple. That's when I felt him. The survivalist, he was there watching me. Oh, I didn't see him, but I knew. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, my instinct screaming that I was. I wasn't alone anymore.

I spun around, but there was no one there. It was the walls closing in, the sound of my breathing echoing in the empty space. He was playing with me, stalking me like I was just another part of his sick game, and I had walked right into it. The traps started coming more frequently after that. Floorboard gave way under my foot, nearly sending me into a pit filled with sharpened stakes. In another room, I found. found a tripwire connected to a heavy beam, rigged to swing down at head level.

He'd turned the entire asylum into his personal fortress, designed to weed out the weak and test the strong. And now, I was part of his test. I had no doubt that he was watching me, every step of the way. He was toying with me, waiting for the right moment to strike. My flashlight flickered again, I heard something behind me, footsteps soft and deliberate. I spun around, but the hallway was empty,

just shadows, stretching out like fingers, ready to grab me. I moved quickly, pushing deeper into the asylum, knowing that the only way out was through. But as I passed another room, something stopped me cold. A girl's voice, faint, barely audible but unmistakable. Emily? And froze, my heart hammering, my chest. It had to be her. After all these years, she was still alive. I followed the sound,

my pulse racing, the air thick with anticipation. But when I opened the door, the room was empty. Just another trick, another one of his twisted mind games. I had no choice but to keep going. I'd come this far and I couldn't turn back now. But with every step, I felt the asylum pulling me deeper into its grasp. The survivalist's presence growing stronger, more menacing. He wasn't just hunting me. He was waiting for me to fall into his trap. And I had the sickening feeling that, soon enough, I would. The air inside Danvers was increasingly suffocating, a mix of decay and something more insidious, something that clawed at my mind every step I took. I had no idea how long I'd been walking through its labyrinthine halls. But time had to take.

stopped meaning anything in this place. I was losing track of everything, direction, purpose, reality itself. That's when I found it. I stumbled into what must have once been a patient's room. The door had been jammed shut, the wood's swollen with moisture, but I forced it open with a grunt. First glance, it looked like all the others, cracked plaster, graffiti scrawled in black ink, broken furniture, but something felt different. It wasn't until I caught the glint of something small and metallic, half buried under a pile of debris that I realized what I was looking at. A bracelet, small, delicate, engraved with a name. Emily, my breath caught in my throat.

I knelt down and picked it up, my hands trembling as I turned it over in my palm. It was unmistakably hers. I'd seen it in the case file photos, back when she first. went missing. Her parents had described it in painful detail. Now it was here, in this room, hidden under the rubble as if someone had tried to forget it. But that wasn't all.

Scrawled across the wall, barely visible beneath layers of dust and grime, were frantic, jagged words. Help me, I'm still here. My heart pounded in my chest as I ran my fingers over the writing. I looked old, worn, as though it had been etched in desperation years ago, but it was unmistakably a plea.

Emily had been here, alive, trapped. She still might be. The thought surged through me like a shot of adrenaline, reigniting the fire I thought had burned out long ago. She was alive, she had to be. The letter, the bracelet, the message, everything pointed to it. It was the first solid lead I'd had in years, and it filled me with a red,

reckless hope. I wasn't just chasing ghost. It was still a chance to save her. But my hope was short-lived. As I pocketed the bracelet and stood up, the walls seemed to close in around me. The air grew thicker, almost choking, and the floor beneath my feet shifted as though the whole asylum was breathing, moving. My head swam, the edges of my vision were blurring. Something wasn't right. The survivalist had been playing his games, yes, but this was something else, something deeper. I started to wonder if the asylum itself was twisting reality, or if my mind was beginning to fray. The shadows moved. I swear they moved. I blinked, trying to clear my head, but the darkness around me pulsed, alive in a way that defied explanation. My own footsteps began to echo, louder, faster, as if someone or something was mimmer.

making my every move. On focus, I taught myself, this place is getting to you. Forced myself to move forward, deeper into the asylum. But the further I went, the worse it got. The whispers started, faint at first, barely more than a murmur,

but growing louder with each step. Voices, too many to count, all blending together in a chaotic symphony of madness. Couldn't make out the words, but I knew they were speaking to me, taunting me. I told myself it wasn't real that it was just the isolation, the stress. But no matter how hard I tried to shut them out, they crawled into my head,

burrowing deep and feeding my doubts. Then came the laughter. Low, guttural, coming from somewhere ahead of me, deeper in the asylum. It was unmistakably him, the survivalist. He was watching me, laughing at me, pulling me further into his trap. I was walking right into it. I kept moving, determined to find him to end this nightmare. But the asylum wasn't making it easy.

The walls seemed to shift, and always appearing where they hadn't been before, always stretching on forever. I found myself in rooms I could have sworn I'd already been in, going in circles without any sense of direction. And all the while, the voices grew louder, more insistent. You're too late. She's gone. She's always been gone. I shook my head, trying to clear the fog. It's not real. None of this is real.

But was it? The longer I stayed in Danvers, the harder it became to separate reality from hallucination. The survivalist's traps, his mind games, they were taking their toll. I started to wonder if I was seeing things that weren't there. The shadows, the voices, the way the walls seemed to shift and breathe. It all felt too real, too real. It wasn't just fighting him anymore. I was fighting the asylum itself.

And I was losing. I reached another room. This one stripped bare, except for a few broken chairs and what looked like an old hospital bed, its frame rusted and walked. There, pinned to the wall with a crude spike, was another message. This one was fresher, knew her. It was written in blood. Do you see her?

She's been waiting. The side of it made my skin crawl. I backed away, my flashlight flickering as I turned to leave the room. But as I did, I saw something, someone, at the edge of my vision. A girl, pale, thin, her eyes wired with terror. She stood in the doorway watching me, her lips moving as if she was trying to speak, but no sound came out. I reached out to her, but she disappeared before my hand could even brush the air. Just gone, like she'd never been there.

My head spun, and I stumbled back, feeling the weight of the asylum pressing down on me. Get a grip, damn it. You're losing it. You're not. But the more I told myself that, the less I believed it. The survivalist was breaking me, piece by piece, pushing me forward towards the edge of insanity. I was letting him. The asylum was feeding on my doubts, my fears, and I couldn't tell what was real anymore.

Was Emily still alive? Was she really here? Or I conjured her from the wreckage of my mind, desperate to give this nightmare a meaning. The laughter came again, echoing through the halls. Louder this time, closer. I clenched the bracelet in my fist, its cool metal biting into my skin. It was real. She was real.

And I wasn't going to let this place or him take that away from me. Not yet. The basement was darker than I imagined. Every step I took down the cracked, crumbling stairs echoed like the last ticking seconds of a countdown. I could feel the asylum's rotten walls closing in, the smell of mildew and decay thick in the air. This was where it would end. I knew that as soon as I stepped through the doorway. The survivalist was waiting for me down there, deep within his stronghold.

It was time to face it. him. The flashlight in my hand flickered as I reached the bottom, its weak beam cutting through the oppressive blackness. Space was vast, cavernous, but cluttered with debris, old medical equipment, rusted cages, and the remnants of what must have been some kind of deranged command centre. Maps of the world were pinned to the walls, marked with red circles and lines, connected like the paranoid scribbles of a madman. I could see canned food, weapons, and crude survival gale littering the floor. What caught my eye most was the

centrepiece of the room. A massive generator, humming quietly, casting an eerie glow over the survivalist's collection of tools and torture devices. And there he was, standing just behind it, waiting for me.

The survivalist was gaunt but strong, his muscles wiry under his tattered clothes. His eyes gleamed with a sick kind of of certainty. He believed in everything he was doing. As soon as I stepped into the room, he smiled, a twisted, knowing grin that made my skin crawl. He didn't speak at first, just watch me, like it was a fly caught in his web. You made it, he finally said, his voice low and calm. I wondered if you'd survive this long. I didn't respond. I kept my distance, scanning the room for traps.

I could already see a few. Tripwire is rigged to explosives, razor wire carefully hidden along the walls. He'd planned for this confrontation, and he wasn't going to make it easy. He took a step forward, his hand brushing one of the many weapons strapped to his belt. You think you can stop me? You can't. This place, it's the beginning of something bigger than you can imagine. When the world ends, this is where the new world will start.

only the strong will survive. His words were filled with that same delusional conviction I'd seen in his notes, his twisted preparations. This wasn't just about survival, it was about control. He believed he was chosen, that he had the right to decide who lived and who died. You're insane, I said, keeping my voice steady, despite the adrenaline flooding my veins. This isn't the end of the world.

It's just you killing people for your sick fantasy. He chuckled softly, shaking his head. You still don't get it. It's not a fantasy, it's reality. And you are a part of it now, whether you like it or not. Many lunged at me, faster than I expected. I barely dodged the first blow, his fist grazing my shoulder as I stumbled back. The fight was on, and now there was no turning back.

The survivalist was brutal, relentless. He fought like someone who'd spent years training for this moment. His fists hard as stone, his reflex is sharp. He knew the asylum's basement like the back of his hand, maneuvering around obstacles with precision, using the space to his advantage. Every move I made, he countered with terrifying speed. But I wasn't inexperienced either.

Years on the force had taught me how to handle myself in a fight. I blocked his punches, dodged his kicks, and when I could, I struck back hard. The adrenaline coursing through me blurred the edges of the pain. Each hit I took, I gave one back. It was a brutal dance of survival, both of us giving everything we had. As we fought, the survivalist managed to trigger one of his traps. A metal spike swung down from the ceiling, narrowly missing my head. I ducked just in time, the sharp edge whistling past my ear.

He grinned, clearly enjoying the chaos, feeding off the violence. But I wasn't going to let him win. Oh, not this time. Grabbed a nearby pipe, swinging it with all my strength. Connected with his ribs, and he grunted in pain, staggering back. But he didn't go down. He came at me again, this time with a knife, slashing wildly. I blocked him, but the blade nick my arm, blood dripping onto the dirty floor.

The pain fueled my resolve. I couldn't let him win. I had to end this. In a desperate move, I tackled him, both of us crashing into a pile of debris. The survivalist tried to grab for another weapon, but I knocked it out of his hand, pinning him to the ground. His eyes were wild, crazed, up beneath the madness I saw fear, just for a moment. That's when he made his final desperate move. With a twisted grin, he reached into his pocket and poured out a lighter.

My heart sank as I realized what he was about to do. He flicked it open, a small flame casting flickering shadows across his face. You think you've won? He hissed. I'd rather burn this place to the ground than let you take it from me. He tossed the lighter into a pile of dry, decaying wood and old papers. Flames erupted almost instantly, spreading like white. wildfire. The heat hit me like a wall, and within seconds the entire basement was engulfed in

flames. We were both trapped. Scramble to my feet, but the survivalist lunged at me again, his face twisted with rage. We fought in the growing inferno, the flames looking at our clothes, the heat unbearable. He was losing control. His strikes more desperate, more frantic. I dodged another punch and swung back hard, knocking him to the ground. Oh, the fire was everywhere now, choking the air with smoke and ash. I could barely breathe, my lungs burning with every gasping breath. I had to get out, but the survivalist wasn't done. He grabbed my ankle, dragging me down, his grip iron-tight.

With every ounce of strength I had left, I kicked him off and stumbled toward the exit. The fire was roaring now, consuming everything in its path. The survivalist screamed as the flames closed in around him, his voice echoing in the hellish inferno. I barely made it out, collapsing onto the cold ground outside the asylum as the building behind me burned, flames reaching up into the sky. The heat was unbearable, even from a distance,

but I didn't turn back. Danvers and all its horrors, was finally going up in flames. But as I lay there, coughing and gasping for breath, a single thought ran through my mind. I hadn't found her. I stumbled out of Danvers, hellish moor, smoke thick in the air,

the heat from the fire searing my back. The flames consumed everything behind me, their raw, deafening. My lungs burned with every ragged breath. I could feel the blisters forming on my skin, but I kept moving, dragging the survivalist behind me. His body was limp, broken from the fight and the fire, and I wasn't going to leave him to die like that.

Not yet. Not until I had answers. I clapsed to the ground, pulling him down with me. The grass beneath us was cool, wet with dew. But the asylum raged just yards away, his orange glow illuminating the night like a funeral pyre. For a moment I thought it was over, that I'd won, whatever that meant in this nightmare.

As I turned to the survivalist, I saw something flicker in his eyes. The fire hadn't reached him yet, but something else had. He was dying. His breathing was shallow, wet with blood from the injuries I'd inflicted, but his lips curled into a twisted, mocking smile. Even now, with death closing in on him, he looked at me like he'd won. You, he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. but you think you saved her.

I froze, my heart pounding in my chest, every nerve on edge. His words sliced through the noise of the fire, the world narrowing down to just the two of us. I grabbed him by the collar, pulling him closer, the smell of smoke and blood heavy in the air. Where is she? I demanded, my voice roar, shaking. Where's the girl? He coughed, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. There never was a girl. I stared at him, my mind reeling, refusing to comprehend what I just heard.

What are you talking about? The letter that the bracelet. He laughed, a low broken sound that made my stomach tur. Oh, me, he gasped. I knew you'd come. Know you'd chase ghosts. For a moment, every moment, every one of the same. Everything around me stopped.

The fire, the heat, the pain. It all faded into the background as his word sank in. There had never been a go. The letter, the clues, the desperate hope I clung to. It was all alive. He'd forged it all, playing me from the very beginning, knowing I'd fall for it. Knowing my obsession with that old case would drag me back to this place. I let go of his collar, staggering back.

the weight of his words crushing me. The case that had destroyed my life that had haunted me for years had never been real. It was a fabrication, a twisted game designed by a madman to lure me into his trap. All those sleepless nights,

the guilt, the fear. It had all been for nothing. Why? I whispered, barely able to speak. Why would you do this? He coughed again. His laughter fading as his strength gave out. because you couldn't let it go and I needed someone to play with

I stared at him feeling the last remnants of my sanity slipping away everything I'd fought for everything I'd risked it had all been a lie the girl the case my partner's death it was all part of his sick game and I'd fallen for it

I knelt there beside the survivalist's dying body as the flames of Danvers raged behind me. The fire lit up the sky, but all I could feel was the cold and the emptiness. The truth had finally revealed itself, and it broke me. I was nothing, just a pawn in the hands of a deranged man who had manipulated me into playing his twisted version of survival. The missing girl, the trailer bodies, the asylum,

they were all just pieces of a puzzle that never existed. My life, my career and my sanity, it had all been sacrificed for nothing more than a cruel joke. The survivalist's breathing grew a fainter, and then with one final exhale, he was gone. His body slumped against the cold earth, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. The damage had already been done.

I sat there staring at his corpse, feeling the weight of everything crashing down on me. I'd lost. I'd lost the case, the girl and whatever shred of hope I had left. left. Danvers had taken it all from me, just like it had taken so many others. In the distance, the flames devoured the last of the asylum, but the real fire was the one burning inside of me, the fire of guilt, of madness. Had I been chasing ghosts all along? Well, now I had nothing left.

I stood there, staring into the fire, my mind numb with the weight of it all. The survivalist's lifeless body lay behind me. His twisted games and lies reduced to ash along with Danvers. It was over. Or at least I thought it was. The asylum burned, the flames finally swallowing everything. My hopes, my sanity, my past. I was ready to leave.

To walk away from this nightmare and never look back. But then, I heard it. At first I thought it was just the wind. a trick of the smoke and fire playing with my exhausted mind. As I turned to walk away, the sound came again, faint but unmistakable, a cry, a small, fragile voice calling out from the wreckage. Hell! I froze, my heart racing.

For a moment I thought I was hallucinating, that the asylum was playing one last cruel trick on me. But the cry came again, louder this time, real. My mind had started to clear, see. I'd exited the building, and I ran toward the sound, scrambling over the debris, the heat from the fire scorching my skin once more. My heart pounded in my chest, the adrenaline surging again. The survivalist had told me there was no girl, that it had all been a lie. But now with that tiny voice calling out from the depths of the asylum, I wasn't so sure. I tore through the charred remains,

my hands blistering from the heat, till I found it. A small door hidden beneath a pile of rubble, untouched by the fire. My breath caught in my throat as I forced it open, the wood splintering under my weight. Inside was a room, dark and damp. The walls lined with the same decaying wallpaper that had covered the rest of the asylum. But it was different. This place had been sealed off, hidden away from the rest of Danvers. And there, powdered in the corner was the girl.

or at least a girl and she was alive her eyes were wide with fear her clothes tattered her face pale and gaunt but she was real I could see her trembling her frail body shaking as she looked up at me

with a mix of terror and hope she'd been here all along locked away in this hidden room waiting for someone to find her the survivalist had lied he told me that the girl wasn't real that she was just a figment of my obsession. He'd been wrong.

She'd been here the entire time, trapped in the hell he had created. Now, after all the lies, all the madness, I'd finally found her. I rushed to her side, pulling her into my arms. She was so light, so fragile, like she might break at any moment.

Her eyes were hollow, haunted by whatever horrors she'd witnessed in that place. She clung to me as if I were her only hope, with escape. It's okay, I whispered, my voice hoarse. You're safe now, I've got you. We made our way out of the burning asylum, the heat of the flames at our backs. The girl was silent, too traumatized to speak, but she held on to me, a small hands gripping my shirt like I was her lifeline. This wasn't Emily. After all this time, how could it have been? But it was a young life that I had just saved. The fire raged behind us, consuming the last of Danvers. For the first time in

years, I felt something close to relief. I'd found her. After everything, I'd saved her. But as we stepped out into the night, something shifted inside me. I looked down at the girl, her pale face turned up to the sky, her eyes distant and blank. And I realized that while she'd been saved, hadn't. Danvers might have been reduced to ash, but its grip on me was still strong, still tightening around my mind. The lines between reality and madness had blurred. I wasn't sure if I could find my way back. The case, the survivalist, the asylum, they'd taken everything from me. My partner, my career, my sanity. And now, even though this girl was safe, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd lost something deeper, something vital.

My hand shook as I tried to steady myself, but the truth was undeniable. I wasn't the same person who'd walked into that asylum. I glanced back at the smouldering ruins of Danvers, the flames casting flickering shadows across the ground. I could feel its dark weight still lingering, like an infection I couldn't shake. I'd found the girl, yes, but at what cost? The world around me felt distant, unreal, as if the asylum had followed me out into the night.

The girl was alive, but I wasn't sure if I was. As we stood there, the sky darkening above us. The girl reached from my hand. I felt her fingers wrap around mine, her grip tight, as if she could sense the fracture in me, the broken pieces I was trying to hold together. Thank you, she whispered. Her voice barely audible. I nodded, but the words felt hollow.

I'd saved her, but I wasn't sure I could save myself. The horrors of Danvers would haunt me forever. As we walked away from the burning asylum, I knew that the real nightmare was only just beginning. Because now, I wasn't sure if I could trust anything, even my own mind. Erie Asylum January 15th,

1996 I've been dreaming about Erie Asylum again The dreams start off normal Like a lot of my dreams It's just random images Things that I've seen Places I've been

Seen's from TV shows And the occasional flight of my old hometown But while I'm flying Steering out across the expanse of houses Schools, shops And the maze of rows that connect them all my focus is drawn to the asylum and then everything takes a turn for the worst

I'm inside the hospital in the main hallway the doors are closed behind me and everything's the same as when I visited the paint's peeling off the walls there are random pieces of debris scattered about pieces of plasterboard from the ceiling and the odd discarded needle or beer bottle

the lights are all on but most of the light bulb have either been smashed or just don't work. There's a flickering light bulb up ahead. I can see that there's someone beneath it, but whenever the light flicks on, they vanish. I recognize a silhouette, but I can't place it. Then there's a sound behind me, and when I turn around, dozens of patients have appeared out of nowhere. They look like they never left the hospital when it closed 20 years ago. Their white cotton clothes and straitjackets are stained with dirt, and blood. Their bodies are so frail that they look almost inhuman. Their eyes are all fixed on me, glowering and unblinking. Start walking towards me. Slowly, I back away, but they just keep

coming, following me. I turn. The person under the light is gone, and I run. I run through the halls, deeper into the maze of hallways and rooms. They can. Carrying things now. Needles filled with strange coloured liquids. Some of them have scalples, surgical scissors and implements. Some hold IV stands like clubs and swing them at me as I run. They've spread out and they're closing in. I turn another corner and run through the darkness. It's claws grabbing at me trying to slow me down and when I stumble into the light I'm caught by a familiar figure. brown eyes and sickly pale skin. It's him, the one that I couldn't save. He grabs me and drags me toward a room. It's stark and white. He holds me down while two others strap me to a table.

The others have assembled a tray of IV bags and knives and scissors and needles and probes and clips and surgical masks. They pull on the scrubs without ever breaking eye contact. and before they can set about their gruesome work, I wake up. I wonder if this is a sign that I need to put these ghosts to rest, that I need to see him. Or maybe it's just my guilty mind that conjured up this dream as a way to punish me. Or maybe to give me hope of redemption. I'm not sure.

But, well, I think that I need to go back to Erie Asylum. January 17, 1996. I'm staying in Erie Hotel Everything around here is named after the town Given the choice between staying in a town called Smithville And a town called Erie A tourist picked Erie The novelty wore off

Before it even began when you were born there But no one recognises me I'm happy about that I don't want anybody connecting me to Amanda Rose I use the name Anna York Because I think that everyone would get a bit suspicious. I still look like I did 20 years ago, just 20 years older,

and I'm worried that using my own name might jog people's memories. I don't want to get run out of town before I can get closure. I decided that I wouldn't go up to the asylum today. I asked the owner of the hotel about the asylum. I told her that I was researching it because I hoped to write a fictional horror story set around the hospital's past. She was a little reluctant at first. but upon realizing how if the book became popular it would bring more people to the town she was quick to open up i've never looked into the history of the asylum much i was too busy trying to bury those memories deep in my subconscious

but i did find out that eerie asylum was commissioned to be built by edward eyrie the town's namesake after his father fell ill but edward erie used the asylum to conduct experiments of an unethical nature He used the patients as guinea pigs for his more bizarre and unscientific practices. The hospital continued to dabble with the occult and the paranormal after Erie went insane and was admitted to his own hospital. But the legacy of Edward Erie ended when the entire hospital was examined after the death of a seemingly unimportant woman whose daughter married into money and was able to use her newfound power to look into the asylum's sketchy practices. Most of the doctors were sent to prison. for murder and gross misconduct and Amanda Rose

the chief of medicine committed suicide rather than face the court well the hotel owner who I found out was called Maggie said that the family of that bitch Rose stayed in town for nearly 13 years but left after Amanda Rose's only child the one named after Frankenstein's maker

I can only roll my eyes was involved in the death of the mayor's son I left at that point I thanked her for her help and went down the street to the town's oldest cafe. I ordered a coffee from a miserable-looking teen behind the counter, who looked startlingly like Sarah McCallan, a girl that I used to go to school with. I sat in the booth for hours, and eventually my suspicions were confirmed when a very tired-looking Sarah took over from her son.

I decided to leave at that point. Sarah and I had been close friends up until I left, and if anyone would recognize me, it was so. her. I bought a map of the forest trails from the news agents, traced out the way up to the asylum. The trail wasn't marked, but I still remembered where it split off from the main trail and wound its way up to the main gates.

I'm going to go tomorrow. I'll walk the trail to the hospital, and hopefully I'll find Daniel and leave. I'll finally have some kind of peace. January 18, 1996. This was a mistake. I should never have come. I never believed in ghosts. I thought that whatever the doctors were doing here, they were just doing it because it was fun and that they'd been pressured into it by the other staff. I was wrong. That dream wasn't an invitation. It was bait. I woke up early this morning

and I hiked up the trail. I found my way easily. I always used to like peeking through the gates, and the eerie Gothic architecture was foreboding. It filled me with a terrifying fascination of the building, but I'd never entered before, not before that day. When I entered, everything was like my dream, except there were no patience waiting to dissect me and no figure under the light. I was relieved, for a while. I wandered through the asylum. It still looked abandoned and no one had any parties here. Everyone was too scared. I found that some brave souls had ventured up here to spray the walls with brightly coloured paints. But the deeper I went, the fewer tags there were. They eventually found something very disturbing, at least to me.

A half-finished tag and a bottle of red spray paint on the ground. Even more worrying, there were deep maroon splatters on the floor. It wasn't the paint. It was blood. I decided then and there that this was a mistake and I needed to leave right now. But the asylum had other ideas. When I got to the doors, for the first time in years, they were sealed shut. And when I turned around, I saw something that filled me with dread. The figure under the light, flickering in and out of sight with the light. And when I turned around, I knew what I was going to see.

They were standing there, standing in a line in front of the doors. And in front of them, right behind me, was Daniel. His once warm brown eyes were dead and dull. There was no shine of life in them, just hatred. The expression seemed to be burnt into his face. You should never have come back. I did the only thing that I could. I turned and I ran.

I ran until I couldn't run anymore. But whatever corner I turned, he was there. I locked myself into one of the observation rooms. I can feel him behind the glass staring at me. Oh my God. He's at the door. He opened the door a few minutes ago. He's just standing there, staring at me.

I can barely see for the tears. I wanted closure. I died for closure, and so I got it. I like the tears from my eyes and whispered that I was sorry. Daniel just looked at me, and a smile spread across his face. It was unsettling, not because of how insane it looked, but because of how much it looked like Daniel, the real Daniel, and not this apparition.

I know, and you're going to make it up to me. I don't think that Daniel ever died in this hospital. I think that whatever the doctors of my mother brought here, well, it kept him alive and it turned him into something else. And I think he wants to turn me into one too. But please, if you find this, don't come looking for me. Please, run. Just run.

Ginger's asylum. Think about spiders on their webs. Eight long, thin legs hold on effortlessly to the white strands. They stay so still, they become nearly invisible. Yet you know they're there, waiting for a victim to fall into their bitter trap, only to be devoured from the inside, slowly, mercilessly. That's like Harley. It's what he does to you. My half-brother Jacob and I had always been very close. He and I could talk about anything and everything together. We trusted each other and had the best brother-sister relationship that everyone should be jealous of. He was two years older than me. We looked very alike. Solid grey eyes, dark brown hair and fair skin.

He was very tall though, and he was the best player on Fexton High's basketball team. He was very passionate about the sport, always was. We had the same mother and lived with her. But I never met my dad. He'd left before I was born. But his dad lived in the next town to Fenton. Jacob would visit him often.

He always talked about his dad with a gleam in his eye. It was obvious that Jacob loved his dad immensely. Around August when I was 15, I noticed drastic changes in Jacob. He was refraining from talking to anybody, even me. Me. his best friend, his own sister. He spent days locked up in his room.

I don't even know how he'd get food or go to the bathroom. He was just always in there. In mid-September my mother called me down to her room. Jacob was still in his room, silent. I made my way down the stairs to her room. She told me to sit at the foot of her bed. And that's when she told me. Jacob's dad passed away.

that's why he's been acting this way I became furious at her for not telling me and after a few minutes of pointless arguing I walked out of the door through the living room and out of the house I made down the sidewalk along the road the cold air hurting in my lungs I needed to cool off

about an hour later I returned I jogged up the stairs and paused by Jacob's room hesitantly I opened the door It creaked. Everything was dark. I couldn't see. Jacob, I said quietly. I walked into his room,

my hand on the wall trying to find the light switch. I'm sorry. Mom just told me. There he was. Dead. Hanging inside the closet across the room was his body. His face pale, lips blue. My brother.

It killed himself. Weeks passed and I was severely depressed and traumatized. I couldn't sleep, I barely ate. Breathing was a burden to me. I was miserable. Without my brother, I felt so alone. It was then I realized he wasn't only my best friend. He was my only friend.

Now he was gone forever. One night in late October, I'd had enough. I couldn't take the pain anymore. It was all too much for me. I couldn't bear it. Silently I slipped into the kitchen and grabbed the sharpest steak knife there. I crawled back up to my room and collapsed,

crying hysterically. I held on to the blade tightly and pressed it up against my arm. I slipped my veins deeply and it hurt. I did the same to my other arm. I fell onto the floor bleeding and drifting off into what I hoped was absolute death. When I woke up,

I was in a white room. I smelled stale medicine and heart. heard something beeping. I was in a hospital. She's awake, said someone, and I heard a sudden rush of footsteps coming my way. A doctor, two nurses, and some man in a black suit stood there. My mum was nowhere in sight. When I asked about her, the questions went through one ear and out of the other. I was sure she'd found me in my room, but where would she have gone? After a series of questions and examinations, the man in the black suit told me that he'd be taking me to a safe place until he was sure I was ready to go home. I was confused until I read the logo on the

clipboard he held. Ginger's asylum. No, I didn't want to go. Hell, I just wanted to die, get all of this bullshit over with. When I didn't put up a fight, I didn't want to make things worse. Needless to say, I was brought to the asylum put in a room with only a mattress and pillow on the floor. Paintings hung on the walls, made by other patients. The first few days and night, there I put myself in the fetal position, moving only to take my meds and force myself to eat. It was horrible. It made me want to die even more. How long will I be here? I asked one of the nurses who'd come in to check on me. She jumped, started by the fact I'd said anything at all.

She looked at me confusingly, as if she were just realizing I was in the room with her. Then her face glared. About a week or two, she said, said plainly. Obviously, she'd answered the question numerous times. My jaw dropped. Two weeks. She nodded and left the room. I put myself in the fetal position once more and allowed myself to cry. That night, unable to sleep, I stood from the bed. The bandages were tight around my arms. I opened the door silently and it luckily didn't creak. The hallway was dimly lit and empty. I walked out cautiously and made my way down the hall, headed wherever my legs would take me. There was an eerie feel to the quiet asylum, especially since the dark skies didn't

illuminate through the windows. However, knowing I'd watched one too many horror movies about these places, I brushed off the feeling I kept on walking down the hall. I soon came to a flight of stairs. Not thinking I made my way down, but it soon became. It soon became a little. It soon became a It became pitch black, but I kept on walking. The stairs seemed to go on for miles and miles, and then I realized that not even the elevators go down this way. I knew I shouldn't have gone, but I was too distracted by the rage and sadness I felt. Suddenly small sounds and creeks made it clear just how ancient this part of the building was.

I guess the workers here hadn't put any signs up to prevent anyone from going here because any sensible person would have turned around long ago. When I realized I'd begun walking on flat ground, I noticed the air smelled like old wood. I sneezed as the dust gathered up into my nostrils. I didn't care about the cool air crawling up my spine. I didn't care about the odd feeling I had down here. Normally I'd be terrified of such darkness, but my mind was too clouded with self-hatred and misery to feel fear. I walked on into the blackness, not seeing anything for what felt like ours.

and then I stopped in my tracks in the distance there was a dim light I continued toward it goosebumps on my arms from the dripping cold when I made it there I realized there was a light bulb illuminating an old-looking rusted door a handwritten sign in smeared ink red caution do not enter

I snickered a little and I think it hurt me now I was sure I'd reach the limit in mental and emotional pain. Physical pain seemed so small now, so weak. I stared at the door when I realized I was attracted to it. It's hard to explain. It was almost as if someone was calling me to warns it. I absent-mindedly reached out for the door handle.

When I felt uncontrollably sick, I looked in the other direction and threw up everywhere. I wiped my mouth with my arm and turned back to the open door. Well, this time I managed to get the handle without bathing, but as my fingers rested on it, couldn't help but feel extremely sick. I brushed it off with some nausea from the medicine. I turned the handle and pushed the door open. I emptied my stomach again, looking up into the room. I saw there was a single old light bulb.

The empty space was a dark orange, making the corner is dark, and I'll admit I began to get pretty scared here. But what happened next is unexplainable, at least to me. Something behind me shoved me into the room, and the door slammed shut behind me. My heart pounded heavily against my chest as the hot suffocating air poured into my lungs. I was shaking violently, throwing up everywhere. I think it was the silence afterwards that terrified me. Everything was quiet, still. there was nothing in this room apart from the four walls,

but it seemed, well, abnormally quiet. Something wasn't right here at all, especially now that I was locked inside some room in the deepest part of Ginger's asylum. I stood against the door to my knees, staring at the wall as sweat trickled down my face, almost as if I was waiting for the wall to grow arms and slam me into it over and over until my skull was crushed.

Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw something move. Instinctively, I turned. Nothing. My eyes were playing tricks on me, but then it happened again. And again, and yet again. Then a shadow appeared before me. It was in the shape of a short person, perhaps a child. But what I heard next wasn't.

A child's voice. No, not even a human voice. What I heard was enough to send violent chills down my spine, making the fear pump through my veins like venom. Hello there, Jessica. It said with an emphasis on the S's in my name. His voice sounded like ten put together. How do you know my name?

What the fuck are you? Get me out of here! I whined desperately, my voice trembling. But this was only responded to by horrid laughter. I'm hardly silly. I know everyone's name, it said mockingly. The shadow then darted from the centre of my room to a dark corner. You can't leave just yet.

I screamed. A lot. I was terrified. Don't be scared, little Jessica. It said, Harley doesn't want to hurt you. What do you want with me then? My body was cemented into its spot. I couldn't move.

I don't even know how I managed to speak. Harley wants to be your friend, Jessica. We can be best friends forever. Began to scream louder and louder. It got out of its corner and made its way to me. Don't be afraid, little Jessica. Harley just needs a friend. It moved closer and closer.

I was paralyzed. Forever. His voice echoed through my ears. Forever. Suddenly an unseen force made my mouth open and I saw the creature sliding into me. When it had gone completely, I began to cry, and I heard it speaking to me. Harley wants to keep you safe, it said.

You belong to me now. I couldn't stop screaming or crying. I stood, yanked on the door handle, and broke it. The door slid open, and I darted out into the darkness. Stop that, it said. the creepy childlight tone faded away now it was a bitter demonic tone go back now tears rolled down my face as i ran into the blackness anyway knowing there was a being inside of me in my soul stop running it screamed in my head a sharp pain shot through my neck all the way down to my knees making me collapse i tried to get back up but every time I moved a muscle it felt as if part of my body were being dipped in acid. Harley just laughed at my

painful screams. Bones began to snap. He was breaking me from the inside. I threw up even more. The taste in my mouth was now metallic. Blood. Stop doing this to me, I cried, but he only laughed more. You should have listened to Harley, it said, continuing to break me. So be careful. Always keep the lights on. Never go into abandoned rooms. Don't go exploring at night and never think, not even for a second, but the shadows you see from the corners of your eyes are just optical tricks because Harley is always looking for new friends. But, most importantly, always listen to Harley. Penhurst Asylum. Kill them. Kill them. Kill them. Over and over again, the voices in my head tell me the exact same thing. I'd hate to admit, but

The office sounds tempting as I look at the other people sitting at the table across from me in the hospital cafeteria. Oh, I believe I forgot to mention that I am in an asylum deep in the back roads of Pennsylvania. I'm sure that you haven't heard the true story of this place, due to the fact that some of the world's worst experiments have been held here, and for the sake of the people, the events that have happened have been mostly covered up. This place is called the Penhurst Asylum. The Penhurst Asylum, as you may know, is recognised today as a haunted tourist attraction, but I remember it as the hellhole that I called home for many years.

I leave here for you my journal entries during my time in Penhurst, while under the experimentation of Dr. Heinrich Chakajian, October 1982. I've been transferred to this place from my former prison in Europe, My new homes called Pennhurst, and I guess it was an old school or hospital. Honestly, I wonder why the fuck I was transferred her in the first place. Well, I guess I have no right to complain since I'm sentenced for life. It's better than the alternative. Actually, now what I think of it, I'd almost rather be dead.

To know that all I have to look forward to is the eventual occurrence of death. The desire to go on slowly fades away as the days drags. gone. I heard rumours from the other inmates that there's a doctor here who has inmates taken to him and they just disappear. I can tell you now that I do not wish to meet him and hopefully I won't. February 1983. Over the past four months, the inmates have been disappearing more and more. Even my new friend Darren. Darren and I met during lunch about two months back. He and I hit it off very well. Turns out he also used to live in Pennsylvania, just as I had before we were transferred to Europe to our new prison home. We discussed why we were here in the first place. I was

sentenced for murder of a family of six. He was sentenced for manslaughter of, I believe, two people. Funny enough, we didn't let our past actions corrupt our friendship. We actually looked at it as a form of common interests, but Darren was taken away a few days ago. I'm not entirely sure why. I need to find out what happened to him and I hope I'm not next. April, 1983. The guards in my section seem to be taking different inmates away. I can tell my time is coming.

I don't know what to do. Escape? I'm not sure how the hell I'm going to get out of this place. It's too heavily guarded. I hear them coming to my soul. I don't want to die. March, 1984. He took me away.

He took me away and did things to me, unexplainable things. The flash of lights, the blur of red mist. My entire back is burning. He cut it open and performed some kind of surgery on it. I can feel the stitches in my back, sealing up where he cut into my flesh. But wait.

I feel something in my back, in the centre of my back on both sides of my spine. I feel some sort of lump on each side. May 1984. The lumps in my back seem to be growing larger. It feels as if they're about to burst. I can't take the pain anymore. I must find out what the fuck Dr. Heinrich did to me. I'm cutting open my back and taking out whatever it is he put in there.

May 1984, later that night. I cut my back open with a piece of the mirror that was in my cell. I can't take the lumps out, and they seem to be growing. What the fuck has he done to me? I hear screaming coming from the upper floors. More prisoners being taken away? Why am I lasting so long? What's so special about me?

Why can't he just kill me already? I have so long for death and they sure is how hard. hell isn't helping. I may as well slip my own throat with this mirror shard. You know what? I may just... Wait, I hear the guards coming. Oh God, no. Not again. I don't want to see the doctor again. He's going to do those horrible experiments on me again. August, 1985. I'm surprised I'm still alive. I've guessed I've been unconscious for over a year. I'm horribly thin and well almost dead I wish I was. Lumps on my back have grown into large horn-like bones.

The bones ripped through my flesh and now my back is completely covered in blood. I should be dead. I should be dead. I should be fucking dead by now. But no, he won't let me die. A freaking insane doctor. If only I could get my hands on him. him or tear his throat out November 1985 I hate how the other inmates look at me in

the cafeteria they see what Hyricks done to me and they stare in fear at the monstrosity that he's created actually I'm surprised they even feed us at all in this damn place although the portions of food are usually a small plate of steamed chopped potatoes or something simple like that the fearful eyes of the other inmates focus on my torn and bloody back. I can feel their stairs burning into my mind. Kill them.

Kill them. Kill them. I hear those voices through my head and the thought of killing every single one of these motherfuckers sounds absolutely satisfying. January 1986. I heard the inmates were planning an escape

from this hellhole. Sounds like fun. I hope to take this opportunity to kill or Dr. Heinrich myself and maybe a few of the other inmates that glare at me whenever I'm eating. I've decided that I'm going to eat them. Those horrible fucking people I have to deal with on top of the agonizing pain from the experiments that Dr. Heinrich has done to me. I can't take it anymore. The time to act is now.

I will be free from this damn facility. I'll start with the assholes in the cafeteria. kill them off as quickly and as brutally as possible. Then I'll make my escape. I'm ready. January 1986, later that day. I've decided to keep this journal with me so I can remember all the shit I went through in my time at Penhurst Asylum.

Truly, it was a living hell. My favourite part, though, was the very end of my stay. I helped myself to the flesh of the other inmates. Oh, I was so... hungry. Not anymore though. Taring my way through the asylum I found the body of my old friend Darren. So I did all I could think of. I took the body with me. Supposedly the building burst into flames on the second floor of the administrative building. Good. That place deserves to burn down. I've retreated away from Pennhurst asylum. I can't stand

the look of that place. I keep Darren with me in my new home. I say, a couple of miles away from Pennhurst. A small rusty old shack, but it's a better harm than any other place I've ever known. The rotting stench of Darren's corpse is getting unbearable, though. I guess I'll have to eat him. I wouldn't dare bury him. I don't want him to waste away in the ground.

So why not become a part of me? Lately I've been so hungry. No more bodies to feed on. Normal food just isn't the same now that I've been. tasted human flesh and I must feed soon there's a small town nearby the young ones look so delicious such new and soft skin it'll be wonderful I'm sure the adults wouldn't mind if I just took one or a few the asylum my friends and I used to do a lot of geocaching after our senior year in high school for those who don't know what geocass

caching is, it's essentially a worldwide scavenger hunt. People will select sites and conceal a geocash somewhere, unobtrusive, then post GPS coordinates on geocaching websites where other searches can download the cords and locate the cache. Usually, people who've found the object, often it's a chest or something hollow, will leave a note or small personal memento for future searches to find and appreciate. There are several types of geocaches, and most of them are thematic in nature, such as scenic destinations,

romantic sites, hard-to-reach areas, and so on. This story begins when my friends and I decided to try a series of purportedly haunted locales within about an hour's drive of our hometown. It began innocently enough. Most of the sites had spooky backstory,

that were, of course, entirely fabricated. So we had a great time scaring the piss out of each other and generally creeping ourselves out. We'd begun searching after the sun had set to enhance the creep factor, but by around midnight, most of our large group had dwindled off and gone their separate ways.

When we reached our last award, there was just myself, Rebecca, Kevin and Evan left, and we were determined to knock it off our list. Rebecca was our guide for the night, in charge of putting in the coordinates and reading us the backstory behind each site. So, while I drove, she began reading about the last one out loud to the rest of us.

Now, I'm paraphrasing here, but it was something along the lines of this. Henkel Asylum, constructed in the early 1900s, the James Henkel Asylum was built to house a burgeoning population of the criminally insane. Men who had committed vile crimes, rape, murder, and torture, without signs of remorse, were deemed mentally unstable, and sent to this facility for further study and rehabilitation. Once committed, very few criminals were ever released back into society, and those that were usually had been given.

and frontal lobotomies, a popular experimental procedure at the time, or electroshock therapy, both of which rendered the patient nearly brain dead, capable of performing only rudimentary tasks. Stories. Contemporary visitors to the asylum report hearing banging noises, cell doors opening and closing, and hearing cackling laughter that is abruptly cut short. well it was pretty stand fair compared to the rest of the sites we'd visited that night and we naturally had a good time psyching each other out for the next 15 minutes while I drove us to the asylum we'd all heard about it it was in our local area after all and we knew it had been condemned and abandoned since as long as any of us could remember so we'd figured it'd be a

great place to run around and be reckless teenagers without the risk of getting yelled at by the cops. When we finally arrived, it looked like something straight out of one of those cheesy B-movies a show on sci-fi. Jane-linked fence with barbed wire around the perimeter, two guard towers flanking the main gate, which was, of course, chained and locked shut with a big no-transpassing sign hanging from it. The asylum itself was decrepit, looking like it hadn't been touched for decades, which was surprising, since we had to be in the same. We grew up in a pretty nice area, where the municipal lawmakers tried to keep everything looking spiffy for the tourists.

Needless to say, we promptly ignored the sign on the front gate and hauled ourselves over, cameras and GPS in hand, and walked towards the asylum. Now, given our attitude towards the previous sights, you've probably gathered that I'm somewhat of a skeptic. I believe that there are... paranormal things that can't be explained yet. But I'm not exactly summoning demons in front of a bathroom mirror. So, when we opened the main door to the asylum, conveniently unlocked, I dismissed the cold burst of wind as just stale pent-up air rushing out after being trapped

inside for so long. My friend's bravado, however, quickly disappeared, and they began shuffling their feet nervously at the entrance. hesitant to cross that invisible threshold. I took point, chivying them along with prodding taunts, and eventually everyone was inside. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Things were relatively clean, and the entire building looked like it had been gutted. The paint was peeling, tiles popping up here and there, and the metal trim near the baseboards of the wall, was in desperate need of some rust be gone,

but aside from that, the place was entirely empty. No crazy-ass chairs with leather straps, no gurneys lying haphazardly around, just an old reception desk, and two hallways leading off to the different wings. We explored for a few minutes, freaking ourselves out whenever we heard an old pipe rattle or rat squeak, but otherwise it was relatively unethed.

Our fears, safely suppressed by the presence of each other, we began to get more adventurous, opening doors and peeking inside. The rooms were all empty, of course. Whatever company had been contracted to clear the place out did a pretty decent job of removing any creepy decor. Ravado returning by the minute, Evan and Kevin dropped back without Rebecca or me noticing. they began running around making noises to try and scare us okay i'm not going to lie it worked until i realized they were gone and probably the cause of all the racket then returned laughing and breathless to a decidedly paler rebecca she seemed to be a lot more put off by the whole place than the rest of us or at least she didn't hide it as well she quietly suggested we leave

Not to be outdone by the other guys of the group. I told her she was more than welcome to wait in the car if she wanted, but I was going to stick round for a few more minutes. Exasperated, but defeated, she finally caved and followed us where the GPS was leading. The second floor. This is where I started to feel genuinely scared. Before I was just kind of creeped out.

but there was something about that whole floor that literally gave me the shivers, despite it being a warm summer night. We started opening doors like before, but we were all a lot more sober about it. I guess I wasn't the only one who was feeling weird. Finally, about midway through the hall, we opened the door to a room, and there, lying in the middle of the floor. was an honest to God straight jacket. I'm not bullshitting you. Every other room was devoid of objects, but there it was.

A fucking straight jacket in the middle of the floor of some random ass room in a condemned mental asylum. We all kind of looked at each other and with raised eyebrows as if to say, um, guys, you sing what I'm seeing and of course

trying to be a macho man to show off a Rebecca I piped up with the most ridiculous idea I could think of at the time dude I'm gonna put it on years of horror flicks and creepy pasta should have trained me to not put on the creepy straightjacket in the creepy hall

in the creepy asylum but teenage dumb fuckery won over and once the words were out, I, well, just couldn't, was out. Nobody said anything. They just kind of looked at me expectantly, waiting to see if I'd follow through with my boast. Determined not to be called a pussy for the rest of the night,

I walked forward into the room and bent down to pick up the moth-ridden restraining device. As I got closer, though, I noticed, it wasn't moth-ridden at all, but it was actually in pretty decent condition. That is, compared to the rest of the place, which, as I've mentioned, was in shambles. I mean, it had a few stains here and there, but it didn't really smell, and it seemed intact enough to put on. As soon as I picked it up, though, I got this overwhelming sense of dread.

You know, that drop in the peckymed. of your stomach right as you go over the lip of a roller coaster, well, that feeling in the bottom of your gut that says, I'm going to die, I just know it. Yep, well, I got that, really strong and totally ignored it. My desire not to die was outweighed, as it often is in teenagers, by my need to look cool for my friends. So, I said, slip my hands in the sleeves one at a time until it hung loosely from my shoulders. Now, if you've ever seen a stray jacket, you know that you can't tie it up yourself. The whole point is to essentially cross your arms across your chest and tie the sleeves

behind your back to prevent whoever's inside from moving their arms, presumably to stop them from hurting themselves or others. So, as I stood there in the middle of the room, I called out to Rebecca. Hey, Becca, help me tie this thing off. She looked, if you'll excuse the pun, as pale as a ghost, but she managed to squeak out. I don't think this is a good idea. But again, after some prodding and encouraging, I convinced her to begin tying the sleeves behind my back. Evan and Kevin just stood in the doorway. Expressions are a mix of admiration and incredulity. At that point in time I felt like a badass, well, for about three seconds. As soon as Rebecca finished up the last lace, the door to the cell slammed shut,

right in Kevin and Evans' faces. I never felt a breeze, and when I asked them later, both of them fervently denying closing it themselves. Skeptic that I am, I still chalked up to us leaving the front door open and changing air pressures and all that, but it scared the piss out of us nonetheless. Then I felt a pressure on my chest, like someone was sitting on it, or as if someone was pulling the sleeves tighter behind me, and it began to get harder to breathe. I couldn't even summon enough air to whisper, much less call out for help. My vision narrowed to tiny specks.

I swear I heard someone laughing shrilly as I neared unconsciousness. The pressure increased with a sudden tug, and my world went black. When I woke up, my vision was foggy, or at least I thought it was, until I realized it wasn't just foggy. It was dark. Like staring through a lens that's been collecting soot. I blinked a few times, and the darkness wavered, but didn't dissipate. Now, I've passed out and blacked out before, but whenever I woke up, it was nothing like that.

Either my vision gradually cleared up, or it was blurry, but never in my life if I'd been able to recreate. the shadowy haze I saw in the asylum that night. Then, from the murky depths, two small pinpoints of light appeared a few inches in front of my face, glaring a lurid red, and a dim echo of the laughter I heard before surrounded me. As soon as they appeared, however, they were replaced by two brilliant shafts of incandescence,

Evan and Kevin, shining flashlights down on my face. The last thing I remember hearing before I lost consciousness was Rebecca's scream and the door banging open, which probably explains why those two were standing over me with flashlights in hand. I gradually became aware of a dull murmur that I recognised as Rebecca asking me, Please, wake up, please, please, please, wake up. as she shook me.

She just kept saying it over and over again, kept sobbing and shaking me. When my vision cleared enough, I glanced over and saw that her eyes were completely red, like she'd been crying for a while. Trying to muster some shred of manliness, I found myself speaking in a surprisingly calm voice, given how I was actually feeling.

I remember distinctly what I was. I said, word for word. Get those fucking flashlights out of my face, you douche-backs. Expecting a laugh, or at least some reciprocal insolence, I was kind of shocked when they just looked at each other quizzically, seemingly surprised. You're... You're okay?

Evan asked, incredulously. Yeah, why the hell wouldn't I be? Becca just tied the things too tight I couldn't breathe so I passed out How long was I out for anyway? I inquired Apparently it had been long enough for them to untie the

straitjacket allowing me to rub a hand across my face Another shared look of disbelief Dude Kevin began slowly You've been out for like 15 minutes

we were about to call 911. We kept shaking you. I haven't even tried pinching you so hard he drew blood, but you wouldn't wake up. I felt a cold chill run down my spine. On the straight jacket, hanging limply from my shoulders, suddenly began to feel a bit tighter.

Hastening to pull it off, I tried not to look panicked as I threw it to a corner of the room. Rebecca just sat there, still shaking and crying a little bit. And in spite of the ordeal I'd just gone through, I had enough sense to go over and try to comfort her. We left that room without a word. Geo Cash be damned,

and walked back to the car in complete silence, broken only by the occasional sniffle from Rebecca. The sun started coming up, and as I dropped everyone off at their respective homes, we said quiet goodbyes. Rebecca was the last stop before I finally made the trip home myself. Being the gentleman that I am,

I walked her to her door, but she paused at the entry and looked me in the eye in the grey light of dawn. I could see her eyes were still reddened from all the crying. She was very quiet, and she said,

I have to ask you something. Yeah, sure. What is it? I said, half expecting another. You sure you're all right? Like I'd been getting the whole ride home. She surprised me by asking, Do you know how long it took Evan and Kevin to get the door open?

Her eyes held a look that I could never forget. It was raw fear. Something happened in that fraction of time between me, blacking out and them getting in there that had absolutely terrified her. And seeing that look, I realized. I was blacked out for 15 minutes. How long was she alone in that room? No, I replied slowly.

How long? Five minutes. They said it took five minutes for them to open that stupid door. I was in there, and I saw you, and I saw. She broke off, another sob stopping her mid-sentence. At that point, I didn't want to know. I still don't want to know. I gripped her by her shoulders and said firmly,

Rebecca, it doesn't matter. No matter what you saw, I'm here, you're here, we're both safe. It doesn't matter. Nothing bad will happen, I promise. She just nodded numbly, opened her door and walked inside her house. The next time I saw her, she was back to her usual self.

But whenever I bring up that night to her, she freezes up and turns to stone, refusing to discuss it. I stand by what I said before. I don't know what happened to that. room, and I don't ever want to know. But I still have nightmares about those two glowing red lights in the darkness. And sometimes, as I lapse into sleep, I hear faint echoes of shrill laughter following me down into the depths of unconsciousness. I used to be a dangerous man, but something

happened at my asylum. If you're reading this, my name is Derek. That's all I want to say. I'm a dangerous man. Someone you wouldn't like to be around. Whenever I'm around people, I have this urge to start a confrontation. I'm an aggressive type. Let's say, I found my spot in an asylum for 30 years,

or wouldn't have been in for that time. I strangled a man to death in a bar. broke someone's face with a wine bottle, killed someone with a knife, and then things started escalating from there. I was arrested and were being put away for what would have been a long time, and then I put myself into even bigger trouble as I tried to assault the officers that were apprehending me. Broken officer's nose as I headbutted him as hard as I could, then tried to shove the other one off of me. I grabbed one of the guns. shot the guy with a busted nose in the chest two times.

The officer behind me shot me with a taser. As I clasped to the ground, convulsing and thrown into the car as the officer started speaking into his comms, rubbing his eyes distressed. He shakes his head and gets into the car, waiting until someone came by to retrieve the officer and escort me to the precinct. Weeks later, I ended up in an asylum where I'd spend the better part of the officer. of ten years, imprisoned with other unstable cellmates. Some aggressive like me, and some just too psycho. I heard these stories about asylums. I always thought it was a joke. A creepy atmosphere, weird shit going down, and a breed of people that you wouldn't believe. I've seen crazy people here, dressed in strait jackets and screaming in some weird language. I wasn't scared to them.

I would have liked to shut them up, so I wouldn't have to hear them every day and night. I haven't seen some of this weird shit yet. Not that any of it would bother me anyway. I have a strong stomach. Most of that came from being aggressive over the years. Grew up with parents that didn't care much about me at all. Didn't care that I'd have a bad day at school as some kid or bullies beat me up. And if I did try to get their attention,

They threatened me. I had to learn to stop being so scared, so helpless. I guess that ended up biting me later on. Now, in prison, the way I'd pass my time would be working out in my cell, or staring at the freaking ceiling. I wasn't allowed out of myself. I was deemed too dangerous. I figured it was better that way.

At least I had that. went on like this for a long time. But then one prisoner checked him that actually made me wonder what he'd done to get into this asylum. He was quiet, calm, and he was never let out of his cell.

He was a weird man, I'll tell you that. One of the prisoners across myself, well, next to it, had come himself with a knife in the gut and died on the spot. This new prisoner, I'll call him Steve. took his place.

I'd see him every day, hunched over, his hands together, just staring at the floor. He only moves when it's time to eat. I don't notice him sleeping either, from what I could tell. He just sits there, motionless. It weirded me out a bit. There was something different about him.

One day I decided to shout at him through myself, asking what he's in for. and just looks at me, blankly. His eyes were a little odd. They never blinked. And they looked like they've seen some shit. He shakes his head, no, and then just stares at the floor again. What the hell did that mean?

I decided to ask again. More demanding now. He didn't move this time. Well, over time I tried to ignore him. But he was just so out of place. He never threatened anyone, and he never spoke. What the hell did this guy do? I shook my head and just tried to focus on push-ups.

As the days went on, Steve just sat there, looking at the ground like a freaking psycho. Someone tries to talk to him, like I did, and he didn't respond. This led to more people talking. Then he put his hands to his lips, shushing everyone. as he spoke finally, but we still didn't know what the hell was going on. He muttered something weird, something none of us understood. One of them shouted back. What does he mean? Then he just proceeded his daily routine.

The prisoner who shouted had finally had enough and banned on the bars as he shouted at him, asking what his deal is and why he's in here, why he never answers back. why he's looking at the ground like some sicko. Steve must have been pissed, since he then directed his gaze towards the prisoner, and has never turned away since then. He was starting to freak some of his out. And one day during meal time,

this other prisoner started coughing, and sounded like it was serious, and then I saw blood outside his cell, and then some more. The guards dropped the tray and opened the, cell, trying to tend to the prisoner. Steve then directed his gaze back to the ground, unfazed by what had just unfolded. Well, he was dragged out of his cell, coughing up more blood. He was taken to the infirmary, and we didn't hear back from him for hours. A lot of us took a

bet that he probably died in there. What the hell had Steve done? I try not to look at him from there on hours. But now, every night, he whispers to himself. He never speaks during the day. It's honestly freakyer that he talks now. Another prisoner was dragged out of his cell, coughing up blood like the first one did. But this time, his limbs started to contort beyond their limits, and he died right there. Steve never acknowledged any of this.

Gee, this guy is a psycho. Starting to see why he might have been put in here. It's like these people are possessed or some shit. Granted, I never liked anyone here. But this is getting too weird for my tastes. I've always enjoyed breaking bones. But honestly, there's nothing quite like someone throwing their arms back and bones popping out. Yeah, I've broken bones.

But I've never seen anything like this before. The guards are doing rounds around ourselves, concerned about what's going on here. They speak into their comms every couple minutes, reporting their findings. Nothing out of place so far. One of the prisoners speaks up and tells the guards, That SOB is crazy. Get us out of here. Guards don't acknowledge him.

Moments later, another prisoner mentioned. is the crazy prisoner. Then another one speaks up. The two guards look at each other, whispering. They've seen the prisoners and how on edge they are. And then something none of us could explain happens. Something grabs one of the guards from behind and starts to suffocate him. The guard grabs his throat as he starts to lose oxygen,

his eyes turning black, his arms contorting. He dies on the spot, and the other guard calls it in. But immediately after, the dead guard's tongue lashes out and grabs the other one by the throat, thrashing him around. Everyone backs up in their cells, including me now. Everyone is shouting in horror. The dead guard's limbs snap back in place, and it's like something is controlling him. He stands to his feet with his crooked legs, and then we hear a loud snap as the other guard is slammed onto the ground. The guard's tongue had snapped the other one's neck, and then broken his spine.

Well, probably broke more than that. The possessed guard's tongue continues to hang out, long enough to touch the ground, tainted with dry bloodstains and vomit. The guard looks at a random prisoner and rips off the bars from the prison cell with his tongue, and proceeds to do the most terrible thing. The guard's tongue goes through the prisoner's ear, extends through the other end, goes into one of his nostrils and rips out his eye sockets

as his head falls in a disgusting mess. The screams would have kept me warm at night if I hadn't looked at what had just happened. God, this must be what hell is like. Right then, I begin to have second thoughts about my life choices, about the things I've done to get myself here,

about how I, could be next. Now, don't take this as me worsening out. Take it as a wake-up call or a death wish. Now look at Steve, and that sick bastard is just rocking back and forth, smiling. I hope he's happy. Well, I hope that monster rips him apart. Then the monster grows two more tendrils on his back, ripping open his chest and pulling out his heart. It's not beating anymore. The blood and guts spill over the floor as the guard begins to scream in an unhuman cry. I don't know if it was happy, sad or angry, but I'll be damned if it wasn't heard in the slightest.

Maybe this is my damnation after all I have done. The guard starts to transform as his face begins to give way. His mouth taking place on his face with hundreds of teeth. blood spilling out through him. His eye sock is rolling around on the floor, turning into a black blob and just sticking to the ground. This is beyond insane. The creature's arms turn into pinches with spikes,

sticking out around his appendages. They look like bones. It can be, but everything just seems so bizarre now. This has to be a nightmare, or some shit. Something Steve did. This can't be real. The creature's back tendrils shoot at Steve's cell, rip out the bars,

and pull him towards it as they bond together in one body, growing two smaller arms at the sides of his ribcages, ripping out two of the previously mentioned bones to use as weapons. Then the creature looks at me, growling menacingly. I suppose this is it. I suppose this is how I die. There's no way I can fight that thing.

Maybe I deserve this, but at least I'll try to take it like a man. But then guards come, and are frozen in fear as they see this abomination down the hallway. It turns his head backwards and sees them, laughing grimly. A guard opens the cells on this floor and tells everyone to run as fast as they can. None of us protested, and we all ran like hell. But I decided to look back. The guards start firing, but it doesn't seem to be doing anything. The monster's back tendrils, grab the ribcage weapons,

and then propel towards the other guards. I decided I wasn't going to look back anymore, but then I saw some prisoners getting grabbed by their ankles, falling flat on their faces and screaming on their way back to the creature. I didn't want to look back. I just kept running. Oh, I couldn't shake the sound of bones cracking, the sound of silent screams, only for something else to take its place. Geez, they're all being transformed.

I just want to get out of here. I kick on the door to get out, but it requires a key. Oh, damn, I think to myself. I kick the door in frustration and decide to beat on it until something happens. There wasn't much else I could do. And then someone with an exposed rib cage comes up against the door, banging on it, trying to get to me. It's going to give soon. I look back and see dismembered bodies littered across the hallway. Oh, what a terrifying sight.

The monster has grown in size. Heads from the prisoner seemingly a part of the abomination now, but still screaming. There screams of that of terrible pain and fear. Their eyes pulled open by the tendrils, watching terror unfold. Tears falling down their eyes, blood on the body where their heads lie. I'm sticking out of the morbid figure, and the figure has developed a sort of spider-like lower body, quickly coming my way.

I look back, and the monster busts down the door, still trying to get me through the glass. But as soon as it breaks through the glass, I finally managed to push the door aside and try to keep running. The impact of the door and being slammed against the hard floor hurts like hell, but whatever it takes, I have to keep running. My heart is pounding in my chest. My head's racing with thoughts about what could come if I get caught by that thing.

My adrenaline is at an insane high. It only gets worse as I see more dismembered bodies and monsters wandering the asylum. butchering so many people. Run, I think to myself, every time you see a body, or gone cut in pieces still crawling. Don't stop until you exit the asylum. But shortly after, I get pinned down by a monster. It tries to bite my head off,

but I grab a nearby chunk of rock that was broken off from a wall and swinging it at the creature. It barely does anything against it. The creature then thrusts a blade into my abdomen, making me scream. I then feel something crawling inside, and I tried to hit the abomination in an exposed part of its body and the side of its head. I hit it as hard as I can, digging my thumb into its eye. The monster screams as its head bobs and weaves, trying to shake me off. It then thrust the blade in my stomach even deeper in anger, and I can't let go.

I dig my thumb into his other eye, and if I had a third thumb, well, I would shove that into an eye too, resting in his mouth with a razor-sharp tongue coming out of the centre. I try to dig my thumbs in deeper into the eye sockets, tightening my grip around his head. When I hear a loud, booming, bone-chilling scream behind me, and I look up to see the beast with a dozen heads as increased in size, yet it is. again. A gluttonous spider demon making its way towards me, with multiple screams all in unison. I turn back to the monster on top of me as a tendril emerges from its back and tries to gouge out my eye, but I can see it's in a lot of pain. Finally, it collapses on top of me, and I try to shove

it off. I can barely stand up, but I have to. I feel something crawling inside my intent. I feel something crawling inside my intestines and it rushes towards my brain. I can feel it digging into my brain and then I don't remember much else afterwards. It's like I blacked out or something. I find myself in the middle of an empty road. Bodies everywhere or should I say limbs are scattered around the pavement. Chaos everywhere. Maybe that thing took over me and I just ran away. But, screw. it, I'm just glad I got out. I don't know where I am or what I am now. Maybe I'm some possessed monster. How much of this did I cause? Well, that I don't want to know. I'm writing this down so someone can read this and maybe, I don't know, maybe explain this better than me.

I'm spending my days now in an abandoned house somewhere by myself. I don't know how many days are passed and I don't care. I just want to be alone to contemplate what happened in that freaking asylum. I wonder how things have changed. But one day, my isolation is disturbed as a little girl, maybe 17, comes into my house with a note I'd written down. She doesn't show fear when she meets me. She just hands me the note back.

We have to do something about these monsters, she remarks coldly. But I can't do it alone. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast wrong, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.