St. Augustine’s Silence

The road to St. Augustine Asylum was long abandoned, reclaimed by nature and years of neglect. The cracked pavement was barely visible beneath a thick layer of fallen leaves, and the skeletal remains of old streetlights loomed overhead, their rusted frames twisted by time.

Ethan tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he guided his car through the overgrown path. The asylum had been closed for over three decades, condemned after reports of "unexplainable disturbances."

The stories that surrounded it weren't just about madness. They spoke of disappearances, of shadows moving in the halls long after the last patient had left.

And now, this place was calling again.

The closer Ethan got, the heavier the air became. It wasn't just the decay of an old building—it was something else. Something watching.

The headlights cut through the mist, revealing the towering facade of St. Augustine Asylum. The building stood like a corpse against the midnight sky, its windows dark and hollow. A rusted gate barred the entrance, its chains long since broken.

Ethan killed the engine and stepped out, his boots crunching against gravel. The journal was tucked inside his coat, its pages dog-eared from repeated study.

If Grantham's notes were right, this was where it all began.

Inside the Asylum

The air inside was thick with dust and the scent of rotting wood. The grand lobby, once designed to instill order, had collapsed into a ruin of shattered tiles and broken furniture. A reception desk sat at the far end, its sign faded and unreadable.

Ethan moved carefully, his flashlight sweeping over the debris. Graffiti marked the peeling walls—some of it mundane, some of it… wrong.

DON'T LISTEN TO THEM.

THEY SEE THROUGH THE GLASS.

THEY TOOK MY NAME.

His pulse quickened. This wasn't just vandalism. These messages meant something.

Somewhere deeper in the asylum, a floorboard creaked.

Ethan froze, his body tensing. The sound was soft, distant—but he wasn't alone.

He turned off his flashlight, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The silence was oppressive, pressing against his ears like a physical force.

Then, from the hallway ahead, he heard it.

A whisper.

Echoes of the Past

Ethan moved forward, his steps cautious but unwavering. The hallway was lined with doors, each labeled with a patient's name and number. Some had been torn from their hinges, others remained eerily intact.

As he passed one, his breath hitched. The nameplate was barely legible beneath the dust and grime, but he could still make it out.

Grantham, Louis.

His blood ran cold.

Grantham had written extensively about St. Augustine, but he had never mentioned being a patient here.

Ethan pushed the door open. The room beyond was small and bare, a single metal-framed bed bolted to the floor. The walls were covered in frantic scribbles, carved deep into the plaster.

He stepped closer, brushing away a layer of dust.

The words sent ice through his veins.

IT WAS NEVER A SEAL. IT WAS A DOOR.

Behind him, the whispering grew louder.

Anna's Arrival

Anna stood outside the asylum's gates, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets. The message she had received had been vague, but the meaning was clear.

"He's already inside."

She exhaled sharply, pushing open the rusted gate. The building loomed over her, its windows dark and hollow. She hadn't wanted to come here—hadn't wanted to believe that things were spiraling this far out of control.

But Ethan had always been a step ahead. And now, he was walking straight into something they weren't ready for.

She reached for her weapon, her footsteps eerily quiet as she entered the asylum.

The air inside was thick, the darkness heavier than it should have been.

Somewhere ahead, she heard it.

A whisper.

And this time, it spoke her name.

The Vanishing Hour

Ethan's fingers traced the words on the wall, his mind racing.

A door.

What had they opened at Luminex? If it wasn't a seal—if it had always been meant to bring something through—

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden shift in the air. The temperature plummeted, the shadows at the edge of the room deepening.

Then, the light from his flashlight flickered out.

Total darkness.

Ethan's breath came slow and steady, his muscles coiled. He wasn't alone.

From the corner of the room, something moved.

Not footsteps.

Not breathing.

Something sliding against the walls.

The whispering grew louder, surrounding him, overlapping voices crawling over each other in an unintelligible cacophony.

Then—clarity.

One voice broke through the noise, cutting into his thoughts like a knife.

"You shouldn't have come."

Ethan turned sharply—and saw them.

Figures. Half-formed, shifting in and out of the shadows. Their faces were wrong, as if someone had tried to remember a person but failed to get the details right.

They watched him.

And then, as one, they whispered:

"Run."

The floor beneath Ethan collapsed.