Fate
Fate.
Immutable. Absolute.
No wish, strength, or hope could ever escape it.
And this man knew it. He had always known.
Even now, kneeling in a formless void, surrounded by the crushing weight of something beyond description, he still fought. Chains bit into his wrists and ankles, yet his eyes stayed locked straight ahead.
Five figures watched him in silence. Their wavering silhouettes dissolved into the opaque whiteness, like shadows dreaming they were awake.
One stepped forward.
"This ends here."
The voice was hollow. No anger. Only certainty.
"You've been a thorn in our side for too long. But no more. Goodbye."
Nine gates opened. They weren't made of wood or iron, but of flesh, teeth, and bone, shrouded in profane energy. One by one, they yawned wide with abyssal roars, and the man was dragged into their depths.
He did not scream.
And then, there was no man at all.
Imprisoned.
Forever.
---
Indra jolted awake, his heart pounding in his chest.
The small, stuffy room felt more suffocating than ever. He gasped for breath, drenched in sweat, clutching his head as if something was trying to burst through his forehead. A sharp pain throbbed between his eyebrows.
He sat up in bed, pressing his back against the wooden headboard. He knew he'd dreamed something important—something terrible—but everything slipped away like sand through his fingers. A heavy veil of forgetfulness smothered his memory.
Indra looked around. His bookshelf, packed with manga, manhwas, a few light novels, and tomes on philosophy and history, seemed utterly indifferent to his distress.
Then, like a punch to the gut:
"Shit!"
Today was the day of the camping trip.
Indra leapt out of bed and grabbed his phone: 4:03 p.m. They were supposed to meet at five. And he lived far away. Really far.
"Why the hell was I born in the middle of nowhere…"
He ran to the shower, threw himself under the icy water, and then scrambled to pack his backpack: tent, sleeping bag, flashlight, first aid kit, pocketknife, water filter…
As he zipped it shut, his eyes drifted to the bottom drawer of his desk.
He froze for a moment.
Then he stepped closer. Crouched down. Opened it.
There it was: a chrome .38 revolver. Silently inherited from an incident no one dared mention anymore. Next to it, a small box with a few regular bullets and one silver bullet, supposedly blessed.
Indra didn't believe in those stories. But he believed in being ready.
He tucked the gun and ammo deep into his backpack. He didn't want trouble with the cops—but even less did he want to die like an idiot.
He threw everything into the trunk of his gunmetal gray 2024 Fiat Fastback. He started the engine, let out a shaky breath, and pulled away.
"It's going to be a long night."
---
He parked beside three other cars at a gas station. As soon as he cut the engine, he saw Dean, Ben, and Ottis waiting nearby. Dean glared at him with irritation. Ben offered a resigned smile. Ottis shifted impatiently.
"Why are you always late, man?"
Dean, with long hair and a permanent scowl, crossed his arms.
"I live in the middle of nowhere, remember?"
Indra gave a short laugh.
Ben, the tallest of the group, with a scruffy beard and the look of a laid-back trucker, clapped him on the shoulder.
"Relax. Everyone knows. We only complain for the sport of it."
Ottis, blond, short, with the restless energy of a nervous hipster, didn't waste time:
"Let's move. If it gets much darker, the mountain trail will be dangerous."
Indra nodded. Despite the gnawing sense of unease buzzing at the edges of his mind, he felt a surge of excitement. They chatted, traded a few laughs, and then set off toward the forest.
---
Night had already fallen. The road wound through dense woods. Headlights cut through the narrow path ahead, the darkness beyond swallowing everything else.
Ottis led the way, followed by Ben, then Indra, and finally Dean.
Everything was quiet.
…Too quiet.
Indra's brow furrowed. A shiver crept down his spine. Something made him glance at the trees to his right.
There, drifting between the trunks, something pale floated.
It looked like a plastic bag caught in the wind, but it moved with unsettling purpose. It twirled, trembled, hovered.
Then it began to shift.
Letter by letter, it formed a word:
D.
A.
N.
G.
E.
R.
Indra blinked.
Nothing there.
What did I take…
He leaned back in his seat, trying to shake the creeping dread.
Forget it. Just nerves. That's all.
He didn't know it yet, but something had already crossed over.
---
The group reached the top of the hill under a sky heavy with clouds. Even with the headlights illuminating the makeshift camp, the darkness around seemed alive, swallowing everything beyond the beam of light. The air was still and humid; each breath felt heavier than the last.
"Alright, let's set up the tents quickly."
Ottis said, taking the lead with an enthusiasm that felt out of place in such an oppressive environment.
Indra, still trying to shake off the strange vision he'd had on the road, began helping Ben unload the gear. Dean silently watched the shadows between the trees as if something might jump out at any moment.
The sound of zippers, stakes being hammered into the ground, and forced laughter echoed through the clearing. But soon, even the jokes stopped: the place was unnaturally quiet. There were no crickets chirping, no rustling leaves — just an unsettling silence.
When the tents were ready, only the fire remained to be lit. Indra then approached Dean and said:
"Hey, since you're so alert to the forest, how about helping me gather firewood?"
Dean looked away from the shadows and replied in a neutral tone:
"Okay."
The two walked together along the edge of the forest, always in the lantern light. While picking up some dry branches, Indra noticed Dean was tense and silent.
"Did something happen?"
he asked, breaking the silence.
Dean seemed to snap out of his thoughts.
"No, it's just… this place feels weird. It's too quiet for a forest. Usually, even a rat would make noise walking around here. But everything is silent. Silence that's unsettling."
"I agree. Besides the darkness, this silence is creepy," Indra said, checking the branches in his arms. "By the way, did you see that building further up the hill? It looked like an abandoned mansion."
Dean seemed to suddenly remember something:
"Yeah. Ottis mentioned it when we were at the gas station. Said it was an old sanatorium that caught fire and was abandoned. You'd know if you hadn't been late."
Indra smiled awkwardly, looking away.
"My bad, man. You know I don't do it on purpose. No need to be grumpy."
Dean let out a short laugh.
"Me, grumpy? That's the understatement of the century."
They both laughed and headed back to the camp. Indra couldn't wait to ask Ottis for more details about the sanatorium; maybe they could even explore it.
---
While Indra and Dean gathered firewood, Ben and Ottis sat near the still-unlit fire.
"So, I saw the sanatorium on the way. Pretty creepy, huh? Think we could check it out?"
Ben asked.
Ottis hesitated before answering:
"I don't know, it might be interesting... but also dangerous. Who knows what's inside. Just so you know, if you go, I'm not staying here alone."
Ben laughed loudly.
"You're such a scaredy-cat, huh, dude? When Indra and Dean get back, I'll see if they're up to go up there."
"Suit yourself."
Ottis replied, looking away.
---
Indra and Dean arrived at the camp with the firewood just in time to hear Ben teasing Ottis. They arranged the branches, lit the fire, and sat around it, letting the warmth chase away some of the oppressive cold.
Ben broke the silence:
"Hey, me and Mr. Brave here were planning to head up to the sanatorium. You guys in?"
Indra and Dean exchanged glances before looking back at Ben.
"Actually, we talked about that while gathering wood. We were going to ask you the same thing."
Indra said, excited.
Dean added firmly:
"Then it's decided. After dinner, we'll explore the sanatorium."
The four exchanged looks and nodded silently. The night promised to be much longer than they had imagined.
---
The campfire crackled beneath the pitch-black sky, casting flickering shadows across the four friends' faces. Dinner had been simple—some canned food and sandwiches—but no one seemed particularly hungry. The initial excitement had given way to a heavy, uneasy silence. The moment had come.
"All right," Dean said, standing up and adjusting the flashlight strapped to his chest. "Let's do this."
Ben slung his backpack over his shoulder, a survival knife and spare flashlight tucked inside. Ottis hesitated but got to his feet, nervously adjusting his glasses. Indra was last, his revolver hidden deep in his bag, eyes locked on the dark forest ahead.
They followed the trail winding up the hill, swallowed by a darkness so thick it felt almost liquid. Tall, gnarled trees formed a natural tunnel overhead, their twisted branches blocking even the faint glow of the moon behind the clouds.
As they climbed, the air grew heavier. Their flashlights barely lit a few feet ahead, revealing moss-covered trunks and roots snaking across the forest floor. The silence pressed down on them, as if time itself had stopped.
"Did… did anyone else feel that?" Ottis whispered suddenly.
"Feel what?" Ben asked, glancing over his shoulder.
"Like… like someone's watching us. And that smell… kind of metallic, like iron or blood."
They all stopped. The air was different—cold, metallic, and unnaturally still.
"Chill out, man. It's just nerves," Dean said, trying to sound casual, though his eyes kept darting into the darkness.
Indra stayed quiet, eyes fixed on the trees to their right. For a moment, he could've sworn he saw a tall, thin silhouette—motionless, watching. He swung his flashlight toward it.
Nothing.
They kept walking, now even quieter. The crunch of their footsteps on dry leaves sounded painfully loud. Then, a loud crack echoed through the forest, and everyone froze.
"What the hell was that?" Ben hissed, flashlight trembling in his grip.
Something burst from the bushes to their left.
Ottis screamed, nearly falling backward.
It was a deer—skinny, filthy, eyes wide with terror. It dashed through the trees, vanishing into the night.
"Jesus, I nearly had a heart attack," Dean exhaled, forcing a shaky laugh.
"I think we should hurry up," Indra said, eyes scanning the woods. "Whatever scared that deer…I don't want to meet it."
No one argued. They quickened their pace.
---
Farther up, moss-covered stone fragments littered the ground like ancient ruins. The forest thinned as they neared the hilltop. And then, looming out of the darkness, they saw it:
The sanatorium.
A three-story building, blackened with age, swallowed by vines and moss. Broken or boarded-up windows stared blankly at them. The paint hung in long, peeling strips, revealing cracked concrete underneath. At the center, a small tower rose like the blind eye of a predator watching the world below.
"Jesus…" Ottis whispered. "It's even creepier than I imagined."
"This is straight out of a horror movie," Ben said, trying to keep things light.
"Are we going in?" Indra asked, unconsciously brushing the zipper of his backpack where his revolver waited.
Dean shoved the front door. It groaned open with a high-pitched screech, like a distant scream. The darkness inside swallowed their light. A thick, rotting stench of mold, old wood—and something else, something coppery—hit them all at once.
The lobby was wide, a collapsed reception desk in one corner and rusty chairs scattered as if the place had been abandoned in a hurry. Soggy, burned papers littered the floor. Graffiti covered the walls, along with strange symbols scrawled in a shaky hand—like someone had scratched them in desperation.
"This place has definitely been broken into before…but these symbols…" Ottis said, shining his flashlight on a crude spiral crossed by jagged lines.
"You guys hear that?" Dean asked, eyes lifting to the ceiling.
A faint sound—something dragging across the floor—came from upstairs. For a second, no one moved.
Ben broke the silence. "Could be an animal. Or bats. I dunno."
"Or whatever made that deer run for its life," Indra added, staring at the staircase.
Ottis looked terrified, but Indra couldn't help a small, tense laugh. Even Ben and Dean cracked nervous smiles, lightening the mood for just a moment.
Indra took a deep breath. "Let's check upstairs."
The others nodded, and together they approached the staircase.
They climbed carefully, step by step. The old wood creaked beneath them, but the dragging noises had gone silent. Upstairs, a dark hallway stretched before them. Open doors revealed abandoned rooms—rusted bed frames, torn mattresses, stained sheets.
Ottis swept his light across a wall, revealing words scrawled in charcoal:
> "HE WAKES IN THE DARK."
"THE DOOR IS CLOSED. KEEP IT CLOSED."
"Okay…this is officially messed up," he whispered.
Indra felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine. For a moment, he thought he heard faint whispers—impossible to make out, but disturbingly close. He spun around.
Nothing.
But something was watching. He was sure of it.
Suddenly, a door at the end of the hallway creaked open with a sharp snap.
Instinctively, they all turned to look. It was a room at the corridor's end. Fear flickered in their eyes—especially Ottis's.
Without a word, they grouped up and started down the narrow hallway.
The night had only just begun.
---
The corridor felt narrower with every step, their flashlights casting shadows that danced wildly along the cracked walls. A half-open door caught Ben's attention. He gently pushed it open, the creak echoing like a moan through the darkness.
Inside was an old office. A rusted metal cabinet lay toppled in one corner, the main desk covered in yellowed papers and crumbling folders. Indra sifted through the documents, their brittle pages falling apart in his hands.
"These…these are patient records?" Ben read aloud. "Patient 023: aggressive behavior, auditory and visual hallucinations. Claims to hear voices calling from the dark."
Ottis picked up another file, hands shaking slightly. "Patient 045: reported seeing a hooded figure in the hallways. Several patients described the same figure, whispering: 'Wake up.'"
Dean flipped through a thicker folder, miraculously intact. Inside were detailed notes from one of the sanatorium's doctors:
> "November 14, 1963: Patient 023 refuses food, spends nights screaming. Draws the same symbol obsessively—a circle with an inverted five-pointed star."
"November 16, 1963: Patients 023, 045, 051, and 067 exhibit identical behavior. All repeat 'Wake up' through the night."
"November 18, 1963: Blackout at the sanatorium. Staff report shadows moving in the corridors. Three employees missing."
The words seemed to sear themselves into their minds.
"This just keeps getting worse," Indra muttered, snapping the folder shut.
Ben pointed toward another door at the hallway's end. Unlike the others, it was made of thick wood, secured with an old lock, and covered in frenzied scribbles of a circle with erratic lines—the same symbol from the patient notes.
They exchanged tense glances. The air was electric.
"If we're gonna look, it's now," Dean said firmly.
Ottis reached out, pushed the door—it swung open with a long, drawn-out groan, revealing a wide room lit only by their quivering flashlights. The floor was covered in symbols drawn in what looked like dried blood. In the center, a massive inverted pentagram took up most of the space, surrounded by extinguished candles.
The air felt thick and choking. The stench of mold mixed with something far fouler—rotting, ancient.
Dean stepped inside first, eyes wide with horrified fascination. Ottis followed, a strange glint in his eyes. Ben and Indra hesitated at the threshold.
Ottis began to chuckle quietly. At first, it sounded nervous—but quickly turned…satisfied.
"Ottis? What the hell are you doing?" Ben asked, panic rising.
Ottis turned, eyes wide and manic, a twisted grin splitting his face. From inside his coat, he pulled a wide, rusty blade.
"He needs a sacrifice," Ottis rasped, his voice no longer entirely his own.
Before Dean could react, Ottis lunged, shoving him into the pentagram's center. Dean fell to his knees, barely starting to rise when Ottis slammed the knife into his chest with a guttural scream.
The wet sound of steel tearing flesh echoed in the room. Blood gushed, splattering across the floor, completing the lines of the pentagram. Dean's eyes went wide, blood bubbling from his mouth before he fell still.
"NO!" Ben screamed, lunging at Ottis—but an unseen force hurled him against the wall with bone-cracking force.
Indra, paralyzed with shock, yanked his revolver from his bag, leveling it at Ottis. His friend—now a shadow of himself—grinned as the pentagram began to glow faintly, pulsing like a monstrous, waking heart.
From the hallway came a sound—something dragging itself closer, like something ancient, finally stirring.