It was nearly midnight when my phone rang — a private number.

I stared at the screen. I never answer unknown calls. But something in my gut told me to pick up.

There was no one on the other end — just a static hum… and then a voicemail notification appeared.

I opened it.

> “Ella... don’t come looking for me. I’m in Room 47. They... they never left.”

The voice stopped me cold.

It was my brother, Liam.

He disappeared five years ago.

And the strangest part?

The voicemail was recorded just an hour ago.

---

I spent years accepting that he was gone. Missing persons reports. Endless police searches. A dead end.

We had last seen him outside St. Virgil’s Hospital, a mental health facility closed down in 1993.

But we never found the hospital again. Not on Google Maps. Not even in town records.

Everyone told me I imagined it.

---

Now, with this message, I was staring at the impossible.

I dug up his old journals. On the last page, a hand-drawn map.

It led through the woods.

To a clearing.

To nothing... or what used to be a hospital.

But that night, under a full moon, I saw it — the building was back.

It was real.

---

I pushed open the rusted door.

Dust. Darkness. Whispers.

Room 47.

It was at the end of a long hallway with peeling white walls and a flickering bulb above the door.

I stepped in.

And there he was.

Liam.

He hadn’t aged a day.

---

> “Ella,” he said, his eyes wide.

“You shouldn't have come. They’ll never let you leave now.”

Before I could speak, the door slammed shut behind me.

Lights went out.

I turned my phone flashlight on.

The room was empty.

Liam was gone.

All that remained was a voice whispering from every corner:

> “Another one… for Room 47.”

---

🌟 The End