Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Explored A HAUNTED Mental Hospital | Scary Stories

Episode Date: July 24, 2023

I shouldn't have explored it... Story from SoLonely200 Make sure to check out more of their work at u/SoLonely200  Original Post: I inherited an old psychiatric hospital from my grandfather. : r/nosleep Original YouTube link: I Explored A HAUNTED Mental Hospital.  For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech  Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new scary stories, new true stories, and new creepypasta stories every day!

The Blackwell Insane Asylum, later renamed the Blackwell Psychiatric Hospital, was founded by Ashton Blackwell in 1822. It remained in operation until 1986, after which it was shut down, and the building fell to the Blackwell family, specifically Roger Blackwell. Roger turned the building, the source of countless rumors in the surrounding town, into a historical landmark, closed to the public, except during events, such as Halloween or the anniversary of its opening. However, these events became few and far between,

as Blackwell grew old and senile. In 2016, Roger Blackwell passed, leaving the property to his grandson. Me. My name is Max Blackwell, and for years I'd heard the rumor surrounding my family's asylum. I'm in my 20s, and always being a bit of an urban explorer,

I decided to finally enter the hospital. That's where this story starts. The gate was easy enough to get past. Putting the key in the rusted padlock, I was surprised that even opened the lock anymore. The gate was solid and heavy, fitting in a way, for a monolithic structure behind it. The hospital, when first constructed, had six floors. By the time it was shut down, it had 20. The building was constructed over heavy stone, with later additions being made with concrete and steel. Opening the large wooden doors, they creaked open, revealing a damp odor. In his later years, my grandfather stopped caring for the property, so it had fallen into disrepair. Looking for a light switch on the wall, I tentatively flicked it on.

The lights flickered to life, again surprising me, considering the age of the place. Still, I'd come armed with a durable flashlight just in case. Despite my granddad's efforts, graffiti covered the walls. Layers of dust covered every surface. A reception desk half-rodded away, sat front and center of the lobby area with a large staircase behind it. To the right of the larger staircase was a descending one leading to, I guessed, the basement. And holding my breath, I went downward. The basement was dark, extremely so.

My flashlight barely made a dent in the darkness, brightening the area just enough I could see a few feet ahead of me. Walking forward, carefully watching where I stepped, I could make out a door frame and a sign next to it. Wiping the dust away, I read the word archive, the door, or what was left to it. of it, barely hung on the hinges. I felt around on the wall of the archive room and found a light switch. I turned it on, and the lights buzzed to life. Before me were dozens of filing cabinets. Blackwell, as I said, was opened for a century and a half, give or take. So it had hundreds of patients.

More interestingly, there were boxes all labeled patient interviews. Besides what I told you earlier, I know next to nothing about the history of the hospital. So all of this definitely had me interested. Next, after leaving the basement, I returned to the lobby area and went upstairs. The second and third floors were mostly the offices of staff and areas for basic evaluations. Floor 4 was an infirmary for more self-destructive patients and staff injury. As the years went on, staff injury rates apparently spiked, leading to the eventual closing of the hospital. Floor 4 is also notorious for another reason. Legend says that illegal medical experiments were conducted on patients here,

as well as lobotomies, to pacify the more violent patients. I'll admit. I believe the lobotomies part, but the illegal experiment stuff is total bull, if you ask me, that is. Floor 5 was the staff cafeteria and quarters. Oftentimes staff would need to be on call six days a week, so staff often lived here. Floor six was patient quarters and recreation for the more docile patients. You know, light schizophrenics, senile people, or people who thought they were, I don't know, Benjamin Franklin. Something Grandad called the harmless kind of crazy. He never much cared for the mentally ill, that said in his early years this wasn't the case.

Construction on floor 7 began in 1831. Before then, patient intake was relatively low, but the more disturbed individuals were kept on floor 6, with floor 5 being the more docile patients. In the nine-year period between the initial construction, and the addition of floor 7 and 8, There were 17 suicides. Only 13 were patients. Floor 7 and 8, as mentioned previously, were constructed in 1831 and were for more violent patients. Each floor contained 15 cells 30 total. Floor 7 had cells 1 through 15 and 16 through 30 were on floor 8.

The walls, or the ones not caved in or broken down, of each cell were spattered in long, dried blood and scratch marks. I guess no amount of cleaning could get rid of the stains, or maybe the staff didn't care enough, either seemed plausible. Floors 10 through 15 began construction in 1859. 10, 11, and 12 contained more padded cells. These were much more intact. One cell contained drawings of dozens of eyes.

Another was covered in numbers written on every wall. Another still had the phrases, I see you watching, and the hunger from the void calls written dozens of times. You get the idea. 13 was, as of 1932, used for electroconvulsive therapy. Before then, it was home to experimental forms of therapy, at least that's what the legend says. Truth be told, most of Floor 13 was destroyed in a fire in 1875, not longer after its completion, and only really regained use in 1915, where it was used to treat symptoms of shell shock, now called post-traumatic stress disorder, in World War I. 14 and 15 were both dedicated to more traditional forms of therapy.

Psychoanalysis, that sort of thing. Floor 16 through 20 were completed in 1953. While the officially given history says it was for a new influx of patients after World War II's end, truthfully it was to treat suspected communist. This included lobotomies and ECT. I'm not comfortable discussing it because frankly I'm ashamed and disgusted my family was involved in such things. The only exception was floor 20, which was used for staff meetings and meetings of the board of directors that ran the place. Anyway, that was the end of my exploration of the building, your typical creepy asylum.

The real reason I've written all of this was to give you an idea of this place's history. Not long after that initial entry, I had some people get the place's power up and running. I've read a lot of the old patient files and decided to share them here. See, I thought I knew this place's history, but there was so much more. Here are a few. File name. Patient 322. Name.

Jonathan Francis. Date of admission. May 15th, 1825. Diagnosis, paranoia-induced madness. Reason for admission. On the 17th of April, Mr. Francis butchered his daughter, wife, as well as their neighbors, one Jacob Friedman and Margaret Friedman. Mr. Francis insists they communed with the devil by means of the family dog.

Upon arrest by authorities, Francis had hung the dog on a cross outside of the family home. He was sent to us upon sentencing from a court. Recommendation for treatment, isolation from other patients. Patient is to be fed, but interaction is forbidden. Staff are permitted to harm patient in order to get decorum from the patient. File name, patient 465, name Matthew Ladson. Date of admission, June 15, 18, Diagnosis, paranoia-induced madness. Reasons for admission. Attempted murder of a lawyer from Illinois.

Claimed it was to prevent some great calamity of brother-fighting brother. Recommendation for treatment, chemically induced tranquil state. Injection into the front of the brain daily. File name, patient 2201. Name. unknown. Date of admission, July 23, 1878. Diagnosis, under investigation. Reasons for admission. Patient claims to be under the influence of a deity he refers to as the void. Subject murdered 15 men, women, and children over the span of six days in tribute to this being.

Seven days after admission, patient caught fire through unknown means and jumped from the roof. File name, patient 5201. Name Abraham Johnson. Date of admission, July 18, 1883. Diagnosis unknown. Reason for admission claims to feel something scraping the inside of his skull, attempted to cut it. out with a hunting knife resulting in his admission to the asylum. Recommendation for treatment.

None. Shove him in a box and forget. File name. Patient 21002. Name. Constance Blackwell. Date of admission. January 22nd, 1915.

Diagnosis. Madness. Reason for admission. None. Admitted under recommendation by Director Blackwell. Recommendation for treatment. Locked away in isolation cell 32, subject is to be beaten and held in ice water if she makes too much noise.

This one gave me pause for two reasons. Constance Blackwell was the daughter-in-law of Ashton Blackwell. And secondly, there was no isolation set. BELS beyond 30, or so I thought, anyway. I read through these for hours. There were thousands. Anyway, after all of that, I'm staying here overnight tonight. For now, though, I'm going to get some sleep.

I'll need my energy tonight. Update. I found the cell. I was in the basement area, planning to search through the archives for any details. when I heard a thumping noise. It was coming from behind a wall. I grabbed a heavy piece of lumber, fallen from years of disrepair,

and caved in the wall masking the sound. That's when I saw fluorescent light and a hall. There were 13 cells with a person in each living people. The 13 people in the cells are six women, six men and one of indeterminate gender. Their hair is overgrown and their clothes look as though they haven't been washed in years. The cell numbers have faded but not vanished. They're numbered 31 to 43. I can't find files on the people within and don't have a key to their cells. Frankly, I don't know how they got there. Blueprints of the building show that cell block shouldn't.

exist. Cell number 31 is a padded cell with a black-haired individual inside. They always face the back right corner of the cell, and I can hear them softly murmuring to themselves. They're bound in a barely held together straight jacket with S. Kemper on the back of the jacket. I thought it'd be a name, but found no one named Kemper, with a first name starting with S in the files. The room smells awful, from what I can tell, with thousands of tally marks lining the walls. Cell number 32 is decorated with light furnishings, a sofa, a table and mirror, and a tea set specifically. Inside is a brown-haired woman in a ratty, filthy, Victorian-era dress. From what I can tell, she's always brushing her hair with a fan.

anem brush inside of her cell or drinking tea. Cell number 33 had, what I thought at first glance, was one person. However, the person within has a small conjoined twin, infant-sized, attached to her chest, or rather stitched to it. The cell is bare, only holding a small bed and blanket. I've never seen the larger twins' face, as it's always obscured by her messy hair. The conjoined infant on her chest, however, always seems to catch my glance whenever I passed by. Cell number 34 had a man in modern doctor scrubs covered in dried blood and gore.

There was no furniture in the room, but a wooden chair. He waved at me as I looked in. Cell number 35 was a woman, bound in a straight jacket in a padded room. She continuously headbutts the wall, giggling to herself. Occasionally, she screams, and even rarer she speaks. On one occasion, I heard her say, make me better over and over again. Her head is wrapped in a bloodied, dirty fabric. Cell number 36 was completely dark, save a flickering bulb in the center of the room.

An elderly woman sat within, and even compared to the rest, she was filthy. The floor of her cell was coated in a reddish-brown substance, which I only saw when the bulb briefly lit up the room. She never strayed far from the light, allowing me to see brief glimpses of her. She wore a filthy bathrobe, slippers, and nothing underneath. If you've ever seen the shining, she was like the woman in room 237, but covered in dirt and grime. Cell number 37's occupant had electrodes on his scalp, with the dangling wires occasionally sparking. He tried to grab me as I passed by his cell, begging me to make the voicemonted

His teeth were rotten, almost black, and his breath stunk of rot. So much so, I could smell it feet away from him. He scratched desperately at the iron door separating us, trying to grab the handle. I noticed as he did this his lack of fingernails. He wore an orange jumpsuit with the words Blackwell psychiatric on the back. Cell number 38's door had no window. The only reason I know anyone's in there is because I can hear a man pounding at the door and yelling obscenities for locking him in here with it and how he'd get John for this.

Cell number 39 had a young boy wearing a red cape and pajamas. He stared at me with dead eyes behind black hair. His room was covered in newspaper clippings over the typical padding of an asylum cell. He creeped me out more than the others for a reason I can't place, so I didn't look long. Cell number 40 was a morbidly obese man strapped to the wall. His cell was splattered with dried blood and bones. He grinned with yellow teeth as he noticed me. He said something in a foreign language, maybe French, and struggled against his restraints.

Cell number 41 was a man, who I shit you not, was a dead ringer for Fox News broadcaster Tucker Carlson. He was the most stereotypical, loom. Unetic, straight jacket, savage screaming and spouting nonsense about Democrats and how they wanted to eat our souls. The most unsettling thing was how his eyes were both covered with gauze. His straight jacket had its back collar ripped away at the back and Comey Trader was branded into his flesh. Cell No. 42 was covered wall to wall. in names, written in what looked like blood. In the center of the madness was a woman, quietly muttering to herself.

She was saying random numbers and rocking back and forth. She looked in my direction, and I could make out her eyes were a milky white. She then changed to a different set of numbers, and she occasionally said, my name. Cell number 43, finally, was an emaciated woman. Her head was shaved completely bald. She looked like she hadn't eaten in weeks. Her skeleton's frame was clearly visible. She looked up at me as I passed and I noticed a small wound just above her eye.

Food. Time for food. She said in a trembling voice. She tried to come to the door, but was shackled to the wall. It was as she did. The lights in the hall died. I heard mad laughing as they did, and one of the men said gleefully, We're going to get you, we're going to get you. In a sing-song voice, I ran down the hall, as fast as I could,

out of the basement and locked the door shut behind me. I turned around to face what should have been the lobby area, but instead found myself in a bright white corridor on what looked to be the fourth floor. It seemed cleaner, with the walls absolutely spotless. I heard screaming from down the hall, and, against my better judgment, ran, to the source. It was a patient medical treatment room. I swung the door open and I saw nothing. It was the same disheveled, abandoned room, scattered with rat shit that I'd seen on previous excursions. With one change, a bed was in the center of the room. The bed looked freshly made with what appeared to be new leather restructed.

on the signs. In the center of the bed was an identification bracelet given to patients upon being admitted. The label read Patient Number 53-266. M. Blackwell. Date of admittance 303, 2020. I turned around and found myself facing the front lobby. I went to out the front door of the building, and I found myself waking up in the basement area outside of the hidden room. I slipped and hit my head in the darkness after the blackout. I breathed a sigh of relief. This relief was short-lived, however, as I noticed the ID bracelet on my wrist. I managed to get home for now. I'm going to be a short-lived, however. I'm going to be a little bit of a little bit. I'm Go on to bed. Even though it's nearly 2 a.m. at the time of writing, I'll update you guys later.

Hey, everyone. Max here. I'm alive, for better or for worse. Since my last post, I took the liberty of having a security system, including cameras, installed on the property. My family, while not exactly billionaires is still quite wealthy, so it wasn't a hassle, expenses-wise. Besides my weird experience on the fourth floor, I wanted to make sure no one was going to break in. With all the urban legend surrounding Blackwell, the place was a bit of right-of-passage for teens, daring their friends to break into the old asylum and bring back some item related to the hospital's dark history. But, with my discovery, I'm not with my discovery, in the basement, coupled with my efforts to actually clean the place as best I could. It was

in my best interest and that of any would-be trespassers, to keep them out. I've been avoiding the fourth floor ever since my experience there. Dream or not, there wasn't a chance I was going there alone again. I spend most nights here now. In the basement, I've had the place furnished and now it's a man cave of sorts. Before any furnishing or man cave making, I erected a door between the basement and the hidden cell block, which I took to calling the Phantom Zone after Superman Comics. I put a heavy padlock on the door just to be safe.

At night, some of them scream from within their prisons for hours at a time. They bang on the door, hurl obscenities and yell promises of pain to come my way. During these, I venture once again to the other floors. I noticed over the past few days that the upper levels tend to be active at night. Phantom chains rattle in the cell blocks or the temperature dropping by several degrees in the staff quarters. At least twice, I've seen the silhouette of a hanging body. dangling precariously from a ceiling fixture. Of course, when I look at where the shadow is being cast from, I find nothing.

The worst area, however, is floor 13. Ironic, I know. I hear screams, laughter, and crying from within the cells of floor 13 some nights. I feel a phantom hand clutch my shoulder as I walk past, the darkened rooms, and the worst part is the smell, sizzling flesh, and copper. Occasionally, I'd see flashes of light from one of the rooms on floor 13. When I'm not walking the grounds, I'm in the archives. I've read many of the files contained here, the ones not destroyed by age, water,

or rats anyway. 19, a man, suffering from shell shock, murdered his family, claiming a specter of war forced him to do so. He was sent here for treatment after a court ruled him insane and unfit for trial. In 1956, a man suffering from red syndrome, i.e., a suspected communist, was treated with electroconvulsive therapy, and later, a full frontal lobotomy. During the Spanish flu epidemic of 1918, the hospital also treated sufferers of the H1N1 virus. By the hospital's own count, over 1,000 people succumbed to the illness. Then, there were the patient interviews. Most of the interviews were harmless enough, just a rudimentary check-up. But others? Well,

I'll just let you read for yourself. Here's a transcript of one. Interview transcript. This is Dr. Samuel Andrews of the Blackwell Psychiatric Hospital. The date is October 14, 1934. I am interviewing Joseph King sent to Blackwell due to a psychosis of indeterminate origin. Good morning, Mr. King. Patient remains silent.

All right then, Joseph, at the end of our last session, you mentioned a living shadow. I'd like you to elaborate on that. Watching. Always watching. I beg your pardon? It watches. Always watches. Never stops. I see. Could you describe this shadow for me? It looks like a man. But has no face, made.

It stands at the edge of nothing and everything. How long have you seen this shadow, Joseph? Since I was a babe, it was always watching me. Never spoke. When's the last time you saw it? There now? Where? Dr. Andrews begins to gurgle,

and the sound of a snobes. snap like a bone being broken is heard. Joseph King begins laughing. There's sounds of meat being eaten, followed by shouting 10 minutes later. The interview concludes with a new voice. Cause of death was the breaking of the neck at the base of the skull. We still don't know how Joseph King did it as he was in restraints when we found. him. He claims, a shadow did it. I recommend to be given electroconvulsive therapy, and if no improvement is seen within three months or so, euthanasia. I shall bring this to Director Blackwell at once. We're still looking for the missing parts of Dr. Andrews. The tape ends there.

After hearing this, I did some digging through the archives, but found no record. of Joseph King having ever been treated here. Oh, I managed to get the elevator working, so no more having to walk flights of stairs to patrol each floor. Gotta find silver linings, you know? Also, helps me keep the place somewhat clean. I was up on floor five, getting some sleep, when I was awoken by a loud crash,

then a blood-curdling scream. I ran out of the former staff quarters to the hall and found myself once again in a stark white hallway. This time, however, I was on floor 13, as indicated by a plaque by the door leading to the stairwell. A figure wearing a nurse's uniform exited the room behind me. I assume it was a woman, but her face was smudged for lack of a better term. It was like someone had painted her.

then smeared her face with her thumb. It's hard to describe. She grabbed my arm roughly, and it was then I noticed I was in a patient gown. Screams filled the hall as she led me to the elevator. I found myself unable to break away from her grip. The doors opened, revealing two more figures, seemingly large males. They forcibly shoved me on her. a gurney and tightened the restraint so much I could feel my wrist start to bleed from the pressure. She pressed a button. Floor four. The elevator began descending and the beings began conversing.

I can't understand what they said. It's like they were spouting gibberish with inflections of tone indicating conversation. The elevator dinged indicating, arrived at our destination. She wheeled me out with aid from the two men. They led me down the hall and turned me into a medical office. Another figure in a blood-spattered apron and lab coat knotted towards the nurse and the men who then left. He then said something to me, or I think he did. It was more gibberish. He picked up a small metal spike. and hammer from a table. I heard more screams, but now they were mixed in with laughter. He placed the spike

above my eyebrow. I struggled. I begged him to stop, but he either didn't hear me or didn't care. He brought the hammer down, and I felt the spike pierced my skull. I let out a scream. The pain stopped, but I felt blood trickled down my forehead. I was back in the room on floor five, standing upright. My clothes were replaced by a dirty, barely held together, patient gown. I began running down to the basement to grab my stuff. I was going to leave right then, but I paused in the midst of my panic. I felt a breeze and heard the giggles of my gills.

of the 13. The door was open. I'd locked it shut. I was sure of that. I looked into the room for any signs of intruders, but the hall and its cells were untouched. Or so I thought, because as I investigated and made sure all the cells were locked, I noticed cell number 34, while still locked, was empty. I didn't bother to investigate further. I ran up the stairs of the basement and flung the front door open with all of my might. But instead of seeing the skyline of the town below, I instead found myself staring down a stark white corridor. I almost vomited and felt my heart beating rapidly.

My phone began ringing, bringing me out of the door. of my fear-induced haze. It was an unknown caller. Hesitantly, I put the phone to my ear, hearing raspy breathing as I did so. Hello? My own voice responded, There's no way out. Then it hung up. The front door slammed shut in front of me. I tried to open it, but it wouldn't budge. I slammed all. of my weight against the door, but nothing. I was trapped. I pounded desperately on the door, screaming for help.

I tried calling 911, but the line was busy. I haven't slept since then, because I know I'm not alone here. If you guys have any ideas, I'd love to hear him. I don't know what to do. My phone's battery is getting low, so I'll update you guys later. The place still has power, so I can at least charge it. Silver linings, right? Day two of being trapped in Blackwell.

Or, I assume it's day two. It's, according to my phone, 11 a.m., but the sun hasn't come up. I haven't slept since last night. I've holed up in floor nine. It has no dark history as far as I'm aware. I've rationed what little food I had, but I still only have enough for a few days at most. Occasionally, I'll hear a door slam or a scream from another floor. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I'll see movement, a shadow that isn't there, or a flash of blue light. I'll hear a voice, whisper, help us, in my ear.

I've seen cell number 34's escapee, who I've taken to calling Doc. He walks the halls, humming a tune to himself. He occasionally says something to himself, but I can never understand it. Today, when I was using the elevator, I noticed there were now 25. floors according to the elevator buttons. I'm still debating going to those floors. That's not the only change. By my count, there are now 150 cells on floors seven and eight, 300 in total. All empty. The stairwell connecting each floor, meanwhile, seems downright, endless. and I can hear a young girl crying at the bottom.

I can still use it to traverse the building, but it loops, it seems like. I've gone down 30 flights today, and once I hit the bottom floor, it looped back to floor 25. I stepped out at floor 20 and went down via elevator. I'm going to try to get some rest on floor 9. Sorry to cut this update short. Max here. Sorry, I didn't realize how many days it had been since I posted. Time in here.

It flows differently. I'm still stuck in this damned asylum. Some of you think it's some otherworldly force, carrying out vengeance on my family through me. And well, I haven't entirely discredited that theory in my head. What food I had is almost gone. Some of it has started to spoil. The building's heating system doesn't turn on anymore, and it gets cold here at night. Like a meat locker. I made a controlled fire in the staff kitchen to keep warm, using paper, some old planks, and an oven's flame. Two more cells are empty now, specifically,

Cells 31 and 38. Curiosity got the better of me, and upon seeing the windowless cell number 38's door opened, I peeked in. The walls of the room were coated with blood, entrails, and slash marks in the wall's padding. In the center was a mutilated corpse, missing all of its skin. When I exited the room, a blood trail dragged down the hall like someone was moving a body. I could swear it wasn't there before I entered the room. I found Cell No. 31's occupant not long after.

He sat in a corner of the elevator. He didn't seem to acknowledge my presence. The lights flickered. They suddenly went out for a split second. and he was gone when they came back on. I felt a burning sensation in my forearm, a stabbing pain, like I had it in an oven coil.

In my arm were four deep cuts. They formed a word. Hi. They didn't bleed despite their depth, but they hurt like hell. I felt faint and leaned against, the wall of the elevator. I rested my eyes a moment and heard a faint ding. I didn't recall pressing the button, but stepped out of the elevator regardless, just wanting to get off.

This was a mistake I soon realized as I gazed upon the stark white hall before me. I turned around to get back on the elevator, but only found a wall, painted on it, in black letter. was the number 21. I turned around, gulping, and faced the hall. There were now people. Unlike last time, these had faces. They were all impatient gowns. Some of them had their scalps peeled back, revealing brain matter. Others had small holes above their eyebrow, leaking blood. All of them had a black fluid leaking from the holes where their eyes should have been, and they were all facing me, not moving or making any noise. I tentatively stepped down the hall, walking through the group.

They never took their eyes off me. As I continued, the black liquid started pooling at their feet. They numbered in the hundreds, stretching. down the hall for miles. An overwhelming sense of dread began to well in my chest as they started muttering among themselves. I began moving faster. As the fluid began filling the floor, individual puddles merging with each other. I heard movement behind me and I broke out into a sprint. It was up to my ankles now. The inmates began talking louder, speaking in the same gibberish as the nurses.

The black substance was halfway to my knees, and I began struggling to keep up a quick pace. How long was this hall? It was at my knees now, and it was like tree sap, sticky, and hard to move through. It was like the deeper it got, the thicker it was. It got to my thigh, and I could barely move at all. The faces of my family's past, staring me down at my waist, and it was like mud. I began feeling claustrophobic as it rose further. I couldn't move or breathe at this point.

It was at my neck now, and I felt hands dragging me under. I kicked at them, or tried to at least, but it was for nothing. I felt it entering my mouth and nostrils and the world around began to fade. I suddenly fell to the ground, gasping and clawing for air. I could see. I could breathe. I quickly sat up and took in my surroundings. I was in the basement. I steadied my breath and let out a sigh of relief.

Was that a dream? It felt so real. I took the stairs up to floor nine and froze as I opened the door. On the walls of the hall, written hundreds of times, was a phrase I couldn't understand. There was a hole here. It's gone now. That was written on the wall's floor and ceiling. Every square inch of the hall of floor nine, contained that phrase.

A door at the end of the hall creaked open, and S. Kemper, as their straight jacket, identified them as, crawled out on all fours. Only thing was, he was on the ceiling. Their jacket had been untied, rolled up sleeves, revealing clawed hands. From the distance I was at, I couldn't tell if those were their fingernails or talons. I stepped backward to leave, and the floor creaked.

The being looked up and cocked its head. Kemper jumped from the ceiling to the floor below, landing on all fours, and then standing up. It grinned, curling back thin lips, revealing sharpened yellow teeth. The lights began to be able to. a flicker and suddenly shattered, raining glass around us. Kemper began sprinting towards me, and I quickly ran in the hall and slammed the door in its face. It stared through the window at me, and even this close, I couldn't make out the features of its face. It scratched the glass, spelling the word high. It then licked the glass, revealing a long black, and it then licked the glass,

revealing a long black tongue. It rattled the handle, and I was broken from my trance. I ran down the stairs, hearing the glass of the window of the door shatter as I descended. That was yesterday. I haven't seen Kemper since then, but I found slash marks on walls and ceilings. I haven't seen the doctor at all, or who or whatever was in cell number 38. I've taken to sleeping in a locked cell only coming out during the day. I'm almost out of food, and I'm getting hungry. I've been sleeping, but I feel like I haven't slept in days. Tomorrow I have to go to a floor above 20.

Maybe there will be supplies there. Or maybe this place is finally getting to me. It's hard to tell anymore. How long have I been here? Days, weeks? I don't know. My phone says it's April 5th, but it feels longer than that. Like I said, time flows differently here.

Or at least it seems to. I think I'm going to get some sleep. Update. It's now April 7th. I'm still alive. At least I'm pretty sure. I was woken up by a loud slam. The noise was from somewhere above where I slept in the basement.

I went up to the lobby, and I saw it was the front door. It was open. Cautiously, I looked out and saw the front gate. Quickly, I ran out, pushing through the gate. I'd never driven so fast in my life. I was laughing and crying as I pulled into my driveway. I quickly ran up the front steps of my home, unlock the door, and swung it open.

I ran inside, up the stairs to my bathroom. First thing on my mind was a shower, a nice, hot shower. I swung the bathroom door open and began to draw the water. I turned to look in the mirror and froze. The room behind me wasn't in the reflection. In fact, neither was I. No, the image in the mirror was that of the hospital's reception area. I turned around and found myself facing the reception desk.

I started to laugh because that's when I knew I was going to die here. I was trapped in this hell constructed by my ancestors, and I was going to die here. This place would never let me leave, at least not alive. The entrance was still open, but now led to another hall. Taking a breath, I stepped into the hall. The door slammed shut behind me, locking again. At the end of the hall was the reception area, but now clean and seemingly new. A woman sat behind it, filing her teeth.

She gestured to me to step forward. She spoke as I did so. Now, now, little one, you don't belong in this place. There was a hole here. It's gone now.