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Edge of Mystery Flims, New York, NY (2025)

12/11/2024

Part 3: The Ghost doctor (Final Part)

The elevator doors creaked open, revealing a long, dimly lit corridor. The walls were smeared with what looked like handprints, the red streaks glistening in the flickering light. The distant sound of a surgical saw echoed through the hallway, followed by a blood-curdling scream that seemed to vibrate in our very bones.

“This isn’t real,” Sarah muttered, clutching my arm. “It can’t be real.”

But it was.

We stepped out into the hallway, the air growing heavier with every step. The once-faint whispers now sounded like a chorus, voices chanting in an unintelligible language. They seemed to come from the walls, the ceiling, even the floor beneath us.

A faint light glowed from a room at the end of the hall—a surgery room, its doors slightly ajar. As we approached, the chanting grew louder, overlapping with the sound of instruments clattering and something wet hitting the floor.

Inside, the ghost doctor stood over a motionless figure on the operating table. His white coat was stained crimson, and his face—a mask of hollow, dark pits where his eyes should have been—turned toward us.

“You came for answers,” he rasped, his voice echoing unnaturally. “Now, you’ll be part of them.”

The figure on the table suddenly sat upright, its face a ghastly mirror of my own. Before we could react, the doors slammed shut behind us.

The doctor moved impossibly fast, his scalpel gleaming in the dim light. Sarah screamed as the figure on the table reached for her, its decayed hands clawing at her face.

I grabbed a metal tray and swung it at the doctor, but it passed through him like smoke. He laughed, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to make the room itself shudder.

“You can’t fight what’s already claimed you,” he said, his hollow eyes locking onto mine.

The room began to spin, the walls dissolving into a void of endless darkness. Figures emerged from the shadows—patients, nurses, doctors—all of them mutilated, their faces twisted in eternal agony.

They dragged Sarah into the darkness first, her screams fading into silence. I turned to run, but the ghost doctor was already in front of me.

“This hospital doesn’t let anyone leave,” he whispered, his scalpel plunging toward me.

The last thing I saw was his grotesque grin and the endless void swallowing me whole.

---

A week later, the hospital was demolished. Workers reported strange noises and flickering lights during the process. No records of our visit were ever found. The place now stands as an empty lot, but at night, passersby claim to hear whispers and screams.

Perhaps the ghost doctor is still waiting—for his next patient.

12/10/2024

Part 2: The Ghost Doctor

The sound of a slow, deliberate knock echoed through the hallway, breaking the silence.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

We froze, staring at the door to Room 406. The knock wasn’t coming from outside—it was coming from *within*.

“D-Don’t open it,” whispered Lisa, her voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

But the handle twisted on its own, creaking as the door swung open. The room was dark, save for the pale glow of moonlight filtering through the cracked blinds. It looked like every other abandoned hospital room—except for the figure standing by the bed.

It was a man in a doctor’s coat, his back turned to us. His head was tilted at an unnatural angle, as though he were listening to something we couldn’t hear.

“Sir…?” Jamie stammered, stepping forward.

The figure stiffened, his shoulders jerking unnaturally. Slowly, he turned to face us.

His face was wrong. The features were distorted, like a reflection in shattered glass. His eyes were hollow sockets, but somehow they *saw*. And his mouth, stretched wide in a grotesque smile, whispered words that didn’t match the movements.

“Still unwell, are we?” he rasped. “Let me take a look.”

The room shifted. The air grew colder, and the walls seemed to ripple like water. The bed was no longer empty. A patient lay there, their face obscured by shadows, their body contorted in a way no human could survive.

The ghost doctor raised a scalpel, its blade glinting in the pale light. “Treatment is necessary,” he muttered, stepping closer to us.

“Run!” I shouted, grabbing Lisa’s arm.

We bolted down the hallway, the sound of the doctor’s footsteps echoing unnaturally loud behind us.

“Don’t leave!” his voice bellowed, now a deep, guttural roar.

Doors slammed open on either side of the corridor as we ran, revealing glimpses of horrific scenes: shadowy figures writhing on operating tables, walls smeared with blood, and hands reaching out for us from the darkness.

We reached the stairwell and flung the door open. The metal stairs creaked under our weight as we descended, the ghost doctor’s distorted laughter echoing all around us.

But when we reached the ground floor, we stopped dead.

The hospital lobby wasn’t empty anymore. Patients and staff stood there, motionless and staring. Their faces were mutilated, their eyes vacant, but they all turned toward us in unison.

And then they moved.

To be continued...

12/10/2024

Part 1: The Ghost Doctor

It was my first night shift as a junior nurse at St. Hallow’s Hospital, a decrepit facility rumored to be haunted. Stories of patients hearing whispers in empty rooms and shadowy figures roaming the halls were common. I brushed them off as local legends, determined not to let my imagination run wild.

The night was eerily quiet. The fluorescent lights flickered faintly, and the air carried a metallic tang. At 2:00 a.m., the stillness broke when I heard the faint creak of a wheelchair down the hallway.

I walked towards the sound, gripping my flashlight. As I rounded the corner, I saw an old, frail man in a hospital gown sitting in a wheelchair. He was staring straight ahead, unmoving.

“Sir, are you lost?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

He didn’t respond. I stepped closer and realized his chest wasn’t rising or falling. The air turned icy as I reached out to touch his shoulder.

Then, the lights flickered violently, and the man was gone.

Shaking, I rushed back to the nurses’ station, my heart pounding. My colleague, Mary, saw my pale face.

“You saw him, didn’t you?” she whispered.

“Who?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“The ghost doctor,” she replied grimly.

According to her, decades ago, a brilliant surgeon named Dr. Gideon worked at St. Hallow’s. Known for his revolutionary methods, he was also infamous for his obsession with perfection. It was said he often experimented on patients who didn’t survive his "treatments." When the truth came out, he disappeared, but his ghost was said to haunt the hospital ever since.

Before I could respond, the emergency alarm blared. Room 303. But that room was supposed to be empty.

Mary and I exchanged terrified glances. “You go,” she whispered.

With dread pooling in my stomach, I headed to Room 303. The door was ajar, and the faint sound of surgical tools clinking echoed from within.

I pushed the door open.

To be continued...

12/08/2024

Part 3: The Abandoned Carnival

The clown lunged, its long, skeletal fingers reaching for Jamie. She screamed, scrambling back as the rest of us bolted in every direction. The laughter of the clowns grew louder, a deafening cacophony that seemed to seep into our very bones.

I ran blindly, my flashlight bouncing wildly, illuminating glimpses of the warped carnival: rusted rides groaning to life, grotesque shadows dancing along the walls, and more clowns emerging from the darkness, their grins wide and predatory.

Lisa was ahead of me, but she tripped and fell with a cry. I turned to help her, but a pair of clown hands erupted from the ground, dragging her into the earth. Her screams echoed as I stood paralyzed, helpless.

“No, no, no…” I whispered, tears streaming down my face.

Behind me, I heard Brian shout, “Over here! The exit!”

I ran toward his voice, catching up with him and Jamie at the edge of the carnival. But instead of the fence we had climbed over, there was only darkness—a vast, swirling void that seemed to pulse with life.

“This isn’t real. This isn’t real,” Jamie chanted, gripping her camera.

“Oh, it’s real,” came the guttural voice of the tent clown. It stepped out of the shadows, its body now impossibly contorted, its grin wider than ever. Behind it, an army of clowns gathered, their laughter blending into an otherworldly howl.

“We’re not dying here!” Brian shouted, grabbing a rusted metal rod from the ground. He charged at the clown, swinging wildly. But the rod went straight through it, as if it were made of smoke.

The clown laughed, its hollow eyes glowing brighter. “You can’t fight the show. You’re part of it now.”

Jamie turned her camera on, tears in her eyes. “If anyone finds this, don’t come here. Don’t—”

Her voice cut off as the void surged forward, engulfing her. The camera hit the ground, still recording.

Brian and I turned to run, but the clowns were everywhere now, closing in. Their laughter grew deafening, their faces grotesque masks of glee.

Brian screamed as hands pulled him into the carousel, which had come to life, its decayed horses bucking and shrieking. I was alone now, trapped.

The tent clown stepped closer, tilting its head as if studying me. “The carnival always needs new performers,” it said, its voice echoing with malice.

Before I could react, its hands grabbed my face, and everything went dark.

---

The Aftermath

Weeks later, hikers found Jamie’s camera in the woods, its footage showing nothing but static and faint laughter. Silver Hills Carnival remains abandoned, but every so often, people report strange lights and sounds coming from the site.

And if you listen closely, you might hear faint laughter… and the distorted voice of a new performer, forever trapped in the carnival’s curse.

The End

11/28/2024

Part 2: The Abandoned Carnival

We ran.

The tent's exit seemed miles away as the distorted carnival tune blared louder, echoing in our ears. Shadows moved along the tattered fabric walls, twisted figures that seemed to multiply with every step.

“Don’t look back!” Jamie screamed, gripping her camera like a lifeline.

But curiosity got the better of me. I turned—and froze.

The clown wasn’t just standing still anymore. It was chasing us, its movements jerky and unnatural, as if its limbs were being yanked by invisible strings. Its cracked grin stretched wider than should have been possible, exposing sharp, blackened teeth.

“Move!” Brian yanked my arm, snapping me out of my stupor.

We burst out of the tent into the chilling night air, only to find that the carnival had changed. The rides were no longer silent. The Ferris wheel creaked as it turned slowly, its carriages swaying as if welcoming passengers. The carousel spun with its grotesque, decayed horses, their hollow eyes glowing faintly.

“What is this?” Lisa whimpered, clutching my arm.

Then we heard the laughter.

High-pitched, maniacal laughter surrounded us. From every corner of the carnival, clowns began to emerge. Some crawled from beneath the rides, others stepped out of the shadows, their ragged costumes fluttering in an unseen wind. Each one was more twisted than the last, their faces frozen in grotesque mockeries of joy.

“There!” Jamie pointed to a dilapidated food stall. “We can hide!”

We sprinted to the stall and crouched behind the counter, our breathing ragged. The laughter continued, growing closer.

“What do they want?” Lisa whispered, tears streaming down her face.

Jamie adjusted her camera, her trembling hands struggling to keep it steady. “This… this isn’t just an abandoned carnival. There’s something here. Something evil.”

Before we could respond, the counter was yanked away. The clown from the tent stood over us, its hollow eyes glowing with a malevolent light.

“You can’t leave,” it rasped, its voice a guttural growl. “You’re part of the show now.”

To be continued...

11/23/2024

Part 1: The Abandoned Carnival

Everyone in town knew the story of Silver Hills Carnival. Once a thriving amusement park, it was abruptly shut down in 1978 after a series of unexplained disappearances. The owners vanished, leaving everything behind—the Ferris wheel, the carousel, even the food stalls, now overrun by time and decay.

But for us, it wasn’t just a story. It was a dare.

“Come on,” Jamie said, adjusting her camera. “We’ll be in and out. Just enough footage for the vlog.”

None of us wanted to admit we were scared, least of all me. So, we climbed over the rusted fence on a cold October night, our flashlights slicing through the thick darkness.

The carnival loomed ahead, frozen in time. The Ferris wheel creaked in the wind, its skeletal frame silhouetted against the moonlit sky. A torn banner hung from the entrance arch, reading: *“Silver Hills—Where Dreams Come True!”* The words felt more like a warning now.

“Let’s check out the main tent,” Jamie suggested, her voice unnervingly cheerful.

Inside the massive tent, the air was stifling. Rows of decayed wooden seats surrounded an empty ring. Faded posters of clowns and acrobats hung on the walls, their colors drained.

“Does anyone else hear that?” Lisa asked, her voice shaky.

We froze, straining to listen. At first, it was faint—a soft jingling, like carnival music played on a broken music box. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

“That’s just the wind,” Brian said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

We moved deeper into the tent, and that’s when we saw it.

A clown’s face stared at us from the shadows—its makeup cracked, its eyes empty pits. But it wasn’t a poster or a mannequin. It moved.

“Is this a joke?” I asked, my voice trembling.

Jamie shone her flashlight on the figure. The beam revealed a life-size clown standing perfectly still in the center of the ring. Its outfit was tattered, its once-bright colors faded.

“Who… who put that there?” Lisa whispered, backing away.

No one answered.

As we turned to leave, the jingling music grew louder, morphing into a distorted carnival tune. When we glanced back, the clown had moved.

It was closer.

To be continued...

11/22/2024

Part 3: The Forgotten trail

We stayed in the clearing, our breaths ragged, hearts pounding. None of us dared to speak. Every shadow felt alive, every sound a threat. The loss of Ethan hung over us like a curse.

Then, the whispers started again.

Faint at first, they slithered through the trees, growing louder, more insistent. Words we couldn’t understand echoed in our minds, scratching at the edges of sanity.

“What do they want from us?” Laura whimpered, tears streaming down her face.

“They want us,” Alex said grimly, gripping a branch as a makeshift weapon. “We have to keep moving. We can’t let them corner us here.”

As we stumbled back onto the overgrown trail, the forest seemed to change around us. The path twisted in impossible ways, leading us in circles. Trees that should have been familiar loomed like strangers, their twisted branches reaching out like claws.

The air grew colder, and the oppressive silence returned. That’s when we saw them—figures emerging from the shadows.

They weren’t like the first creature. These were humanoid, their faces pale and featureless. They stood motionless, lining the path like sentinels.

“What do we do?” Mia whispered, her voice trembling.

“We run,” Alex said.

But when we turned, the path behind us was filled with more figures. They were closer now, their heads tilting unnaturally as if studying us.

“We’re trapped!” Laura screamed.

The figures began to move, slowly closing in. Their presence was suffocating, and the whispers turned into screams—our own screams, reflected back at us.

And then, we saw it.

The tree.

The black, sap-oozing tree from before now loomed impossibly large, its grotesque branches stretching into the darkness. Hanging from its limbs were the dolls—only now, their faces resembled ours.

“No, no, no…” Mia murmured, backing away.

The ground beneath us trembled, and the tree’s bark began to split, revealing a gaping maw that dripped with darkness. The figures herded us closer, forcing us toward the tree.

Alex swung his branch wildly, but it was useless. The figures were unstoppable, unfeeling.

“This isn’t real!” Laura screamed, clutching her head.

But it was real. And as we stood before the tree, its maw opened wider, emitting a deep, guttural growl.

“You came uninvited,” the voice boomed, echoing in our skulls. “You belong to the Hollow now.”

One by one, the figures pushed us forward. Laura went first, her screams swallowed by the tree. Then Alex, struggling and cursing until he disappeared.

Mia clung to me, sobbing. “I don’t want to die!”

“I’ll fight,” I whispered, though I knew it was futile.

But it wasn’t the figures who moved us. The ground itself began to shift, dragging us toward the tree’s maw. Mia was pulled in, her hand ripped from mine as she screamed my name.

I was the last.

As the darkness closed around me, I saw them—Ethan, Alex, Laura, and Mia. They were part of the tree now, their faces twisted in eternal terror, their bodies fused with the bark.

The last thing I heard before the darkness claimed me was the tree’s voice:

“You will never leave.”

And then, silence.

---

11/20/2024

Part 2: The Fogottern trail

The moment the sun dipped below the horizon, the atmosphere changed. The stillness of the forest was replaced by a sense of being watched—by something unseen but undeniably there.

“Do you feel that?” Mia whispered, clutching Alex’s arm.

We all nodded. It wasn’t just the cold or the darkness. It was the weight of invisible eyes.

Ethan, trying to lighten the mood, approached the doll-laden tree with his flashlight. “Creepy, sure, but probably just another prank. Someone’s trying to freak us out.”

He reached out to touch one of the dolls.

“Don’t!” Laura snapped, grabbing his wrist. Her eyes darted nervously. “What if… what if this means something? Like a warning?”

Ethan scoffed, but he didn’t touch it.

Suddenly, the dolls began to sway. Not gently, like in a breeze, but violently, as if someone—or something—was shaking the entire tree.

We jumped back, scanning the woods with our flashlights. There was no wind, no sound. Just the sight of those swinging dolls and the growing sense of dread.

And then, we heard it.

A whisper.

It started faint, just on the edge of hearing. But it grew louder, overlapping voices speaking in a language none of us recognized. They were coming from all directions, surrounding us.

“What the hell is happening?” Alex shouted, his voice breaking.

The whispers turned into screams—blood-curdling, agonized screams that seemed to come from the trees themselves.

Mia pointed her flashlight into the darkness and gasped. “There’s something out there!”

The beam illuminated a figure standing at the edge of the clearing. It was humanoid, but impossibly thin and elongated. Its eyes glowed faintly in the light, and its mouth stretched into an unnatural grin.

“Run!” someone screamed, and we didn’t need to be told twice.

We bolted back toward the trail, our flashlights bobbing wildly. The whispers and screams followed us, growing louder, closer.

Ethan stumbled and fell, his flashlight clattering to the ground. “Help me!” he shouted, reaching out.

We turned back, but before we could reach him, the figure emerged from the shadows. It moved with inhuman speed, its long limbs contorting as it reached for Ethan.

“No!” Mia screamed, but it was too late.

Ethan was dragged into the darkness, his screams abruptly cut off.

We ran until our legs gave out, collapsing in a small, open clearing. The forest was silent again, but we knew better than to trust it.

“What was that thing?” Laura sobbed, clutching her knees.

None of us had an answer. But we knew one thing for certain: we weren’t alone.

To be continued...

11/19/2024

Part 1: The Forgotten Trail

It started with a simple hiking trip. We were a group of five friends: Alex, Mia, Ethan, Laura, and me. We had heard about the Devil’s Hollow Trail, a remote path deep in the woods that was said to be cursed. But we were thrill-seekers, and a little superstition wasn’t going to stop us.

The first day was uneventful. The trail was overgrown, and the trees towered above us, blotting out most of the sunlight. The deeper we went, the quieter the forest became. By evening, the chirping birds and rustling leaves were replaced by an eerie silence.

As we set up camp, Mia pointed out something strange. “Guys, look at this.”

In the clearing where we decided to camp, there was a circle of stones, each one etched with strange symbols. None of us could make sense of them, but they looked old—ancient even.

“Probably just some local kids messing around,” Ethan said, brushing it off.

But that night, we heard it.

A low, guttural growl echoed through the woods, followed by the sound of branches snapping. We grabbed our flashlights and scanned the darkness, but there was nothing there.

“Probably a coyote,” Laura said, though her voice wavered.

The growls grew louder, circling us. The sounds came closer until they were right outside the light of our campfire. And then, just as suddenly as they started, they stopped.

Morning couldn’t come fast enough.

The next day, we found tracks around our campsite—large, clawed footprints that didn’t belong to any animal we knew. But the strangest part? The tracks circled the stone formation, over and over.

Against our better judgment, we decided to continue. The deeper we went, the stranger the forest became. The trees were twisted, their branches gnarled like skeletal hands. Every so often, we’d spot something out of place: a single shoe, a torn piece of fabric, even a rusted bicycle.

By the time we reached the second clearing, the sun was setting again. That’s when we found it—a tree unlike any other. It was massive, its bark pitch-black and oozing a thick, sap-like substance. But what caught our attention was what was hanging from its branches.

Dolls.

Dozens of old, weathered dolls dangled from the branches by strings. Their faces were faded, their glass eyes cracked, but they all seemed to be staring at us.

“What the hell is this?” Alex whispered.

None of us had an answer. But as the sun disappeared completely, we realized we weren’t alone.

To be continued...

11/19/2024

Part 3: The Forgotten Asylum (Final)

The darkness was suffocating, and the voice that spoke those chilling words seemed to linger in the air like a curse. Panic-stricken, we clung to each other, searching for any trace of light.

“Stay calm,” Mark whispered, though his voice betrayed his fear. But how could we stay calm? The walls felt alive, pulsating with malevolence, and the figure in the chair had vanished.

“Over there!” Sarah pointed. A faint, flickering light appeared in the distance, like a match struggling to stay lit.

We moved toward it, but the room seemed to stretch endlessly, warping reality. The light remained out of reach, teasing us, drawing us deeper into the asylum’s twisted grip.

Then, the screams began.

They were inhuman—howls of agony that pierced our ears and rattled our sanity. Shadows emerged from the walls, their shapes grotesque and incomplete, like forgotten memories trying to manifest. They reached for us, their distorted faces frozen in expressions of anguish.

“Keep moving!” Mark shouted, dragging us forward.

Finally, we stumbled into another room. It was circular, with a single object in the center: a large, antique mirror. The surface was cracked, and blood dripped from its edges.

“This has to be the way out,” Sarah said, her voice desperate.

Mark approached the mirror cautiously. As he reached out to touch it, the surface rippled like water. Suddenly, the reflections in the mirror weren’t ours. They were images of people trapped, screaming, clawing at the glass from the inside.

“We can’t stay here,” I said, pulling him back. But it was too late.

The mirror exploded, shards flying in every direction. Out of the shattered frame stepped the figure from the chair, now fully visible. Its skeletal body was wrapped in decayed flesh, its hollow eyes glowing with malice.

“You’ve seen too much,” it hissed.

The shadows in the room lunged at us, dragging Sarah and Mark to the ground. Their screams echoed as the figure approached me.

“You belong here now,” it said.

I felt its cold, bony hand grip my shoulder, and the world spun. When I opened my eyes, I was standing in the center of the circular room, alone. My friends were gone, the room silent.

The only thing left was the mirror, now whole again, but this time, it was my reflection staring back at me—trapped.

The asylum claimed us, one by one. Now I wait, watching, as new faces approach the cursed walls of Room 21.

They won’t listen to the warnings. They never do.

The end.

11/18/2024

Part 2: The Forgotten Asylum

The room was ice cold, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones and made you feel like you’d never be warm again. The walls seemed to close in as we stood frozen, staring at the bolted-down chair.

“Did… did you hear that?” Sarah whispered, her bravado cracking.

We all nodded, too afraid to speak. The voice that warned us—it didn’t come from any of us, and it wasn’t our imaginations. The air grew heavier, thick with a metallic tang, like blood.

Then, the scratching began.

It started softly, almost imperceptible, but quickly grew louder, echoing off the walls. The scratches were erratic, desperate, like nails clawing against the walls in a frenzy. They seemed to come from everywhere—the floor, the ceiling, even the chair.

“Let’s get out of here,” Mark said, his voice trembling.

We turned to leave, but the door wouldn’t budge. No matter how hard we pulled, it stayed firmly shut. That’s when we noticed the chair.

It was empty before.

Now, it wasn’t.

A figure sat there, bound by the tattered leather straps. Its head hung low, hair matted and covering its face. Its body twitched unnaturally, like a puppet on strings.

“Who’s there?” Sarah asked, her voice barely audible.

The figure’s head snapped up, revealing hollow eyes that glowed faintly in the dim light. Its mouth stretched into an impossibly wide grin, revealing jagged, blackened teeth.

“You opened the door,” it rasped, the voice echoing unnaturally. “Now you must stay.”

The walls began to bleed, dark red streaks oozing from the deep scratches. The air was filled with a deafening chorus of screams and whispers, a cacophony of madness.

We backed into the corners of the room, panic setting in. The figure stood, its movements jerky and inhuman. With each step it took, the room seemed to darken further.

“Run!” someone shouted, but there was nowhere to go.

The lights from our flashlights flickered and died, plunging us into total darkness.

And then, in the blackness, we heard it.

The voice.

“Room 21 never lets you leave.”

To be continued…

11/18/2024

Part 1: The Forgotten Asylum

It began as an innocent dare. Our small group of friends, craving a thrill, decided to spend a night exploring the old Greyfield Asylum, a crumbling relic abandoned for decades. Rumors swirled about it—whispers of experiments gone wrong, patients who disappeared, and staff who left without explanation.

We arrived at sunset, armed with flashlights and nervous laughter. The building loomed before us, its façade cracked and covered in ivy. The broken windows looked like hollow eyes staring into our souls.

The air inside was heavy, carrying the scent of mildew and decay. Faded graffiti and peeling paint covered the walls, but it was the silence that unnerved me most. It wasn’t the absence of sound; it was a weighted, oppressive stillness, as though the building was holding its breath.

We found an old staircase leading to the upper floors. As we ascended, the shadows seemed to stretch and twist unnaturally, forming shapes that dissolved when our flashlights passed over them. In one of the rooms, we discovered a crumbling patient file. The name was smudged, but the notes mentioned "Subject 53" and "progressive aggression." The last line read: **"Restraints ineffective. Do not enter Room 21."**

We exchanged uneasy glances but laughed it off. After all, Room 21 couldn’t possibly exist anymore… right?

We pressed on, exploring dusty hallways and rooms filled with broken furniture. That’s when we heard it: a faint, rhythmic tapping, like nails on metal. It came from deeper within the asylum, pulling us toward its source.

The corridor narrowed as we approached. At the end stood a door with the number "21" scrawled in faded paint. The tapping grew louder. None of us wanted to open it, but something about the sound—it wasn’t random. It felt deliberate, like a message.

Sarah, the boldest of us, pushed the door open. Inside, the air was frigid. The walls were covered in deep scratches, and a single chair sat in the center of the room, bolted to the floor. Heavy leather straps dangled from its arms and legs.

Suddenly, the tapping stopped. The silence that followed was suffocating.

Then, a low whisper: **“You shouldn’t be here…”**

Before we could react, the door slammed shut behind us.

To be continued…

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