A cold gust of wind slithered through the crumbling hallway, brushing against Aryan’s neck like a whisper of warning. The deeper he ventured into Ward C, the louder the silence became—echoing memories not his own, memories stitched into the walls and floorboards of the abandoned asylum. Faint scratching sounds teased his ears, coming from no discernible source. The flashlight in his hand flickered once, twice, before stabilizing, casting a cone of weak yellow light across the flaking paint and rusting medical equipment.
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Just as he passed the old patient room labeled “13B-C,” a shadow darted across the hall behind him. Aryan froze, heart pounding, but when he turned, nothing was there—just the still air and the stench of mildew. He told himself it was his mind playing tricks again. But then came the whisper, unmistakably close: “You came back… why?”
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He stumbled backward, hitting the cold wall behind him. Breathing heavily, Aryan dared to scan the corridor. No footsteps. No movement. Only a silence so oppressive, it pressed against his ribs. He tightened his grip on the flashlight, its trembling beam searching corners for answers it couldn’t provide.
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He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not again. Not after what happened to his sister.
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Yet something pulled him deeper.
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Room after room, abandoned wheelchairs, dusty journals, and peeling murals mocked the passage of time. The floor creaked beneath his every step, like the building itself protested his intrusion. But it was Room 13B—the sealed one, the one they never documented—that kept calling him like a siren’s song.
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He reached the old staff records room, half-collapsed and choked with mold. The files had rotted away years ago, but one remained. A folder, unusually clean, resting atop a dusty metal shelf. It bore no label—only a symbol etched into the cover: an eye surrounded by thorns.
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Inside, fragile papers detailed experimental therapy trials—unethical, disturbing, unapproved. Pages described patients losing time, memory, identity. One line chilled him more than the rest: Subject 13B-C: Spontaneous hallucinations reported post-procedure. Voice manifestation confirmed. Isolation recommended.
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He didn’t realize he had dropped the folder until a loud metallic thud broke the silence. But that wasn’t the worst sound. It was the breathing—not his own—that made his skin crawl.
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Slow. Shallow. Right behind him.
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He turned slowly, and nothing was there.
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But the breath was still on his neck.
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He ran.
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Down the corridor, past rooms that seemed to distort in shape and stretch unnaturally, Aryan didn’t stop until he reached the nurse’s station. The wall clock was still ticking. Except it wasn’t—it had no batteries. Still, it ticked. Louder. Louder. Louder.
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The phone on the desk rang.
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He didn’t want to answer.
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But he did.
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“Hello?” his voice cracked.
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A pause. Then static. And then, a girl’s voice: “He never left, Aryan. And now… neither will you.”
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The line went dead.
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He dropped the phone.
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All the doors in the hallway slammed shut at once.
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And the lights went out.
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He crouched, back to the desk, holding his breath. Footsteps. Bare feet on tile. Getting closer.
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The flashlight sparked on for a second—just enough to see a reflection in the glass panel nearby. A girl. Pale. Eyes hollow. Staring.
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It was Anaya.
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His sister.
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But it couldn’t be. She died here.
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She raised a finger to her lips.
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“Don’t scream,” she mouthed.
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And then, she vanished.
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Aryan collapsed to his knees.
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What had begun as a journey for answers had become a spiral into madness. But he wasn’t giving up. Not yet.
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Something in this place held the truth.
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And he was going to find it.
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Even if it meant facing every whisper… every shadow… and every echo that shouldn’t exist.
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