The rain hadn’t stopped for hours. Droplets raced down Aryan Mehra’s apartment window like silent messengers from a restless sky. The city below yawned beneath the cloud’s gloom, the streetlights flickering like dying candles in the mist.
He had been home for barely fifteen minutes, yet his soaked coat still clung to his skin. He tossed it onto the couch and glanced at the stack of unopened mail on the table. It was mostly junk — credit card offers, pizza flyers, and one thick, off-white envelope that didn’t belong.
No stamp .
No return address.
His full name printed neatly on the front: Dr. Aryan Mehra.
He hesitated before opening it. Something about its texture — like old parchment — and the faint scent of mildew gave him pause. With careful fingers, he broke the seal.
Inside was a single page.
--
To Dr. Aryan Mehra,
This is not a courtesy invitation. It is an urgent request.
A patient under your former mentor’s observation — Case ID #913 — is regressing dangerously.
We request your immediate presence at St. Elwin’s Asylum, Ward B.
This cannot wait. Midnight is the only safe window.
Regards,
– The Administration
---
He read the letter three times, each slower than the last.
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"St. Elwin’s Asylum?" he whispered aloud.
The name hit like a slap of cold water. St. Elwin’s had been shut down fifteen years ago after a massive fire gutted two wards and left a third of the staff presumed dead. His mentor, Dr. Vishram Das, had once worked there — but he himself had never even visited it.
What concerned him more was the case number. #913.
It had been on a file he once saw briefly during his internship — one that was mysteriously blacked out except for two words scribbled across the top: “Do not resuscitate.”
---
Aryan stared at the letter again.
He had no obligation. No contact with St. Elwin’s. No reason to obey this message.
And yet, something stirred. A whisper within him — not of fear, but a strange pull, like an unsolved puzzle nagging at the back of his brain.
And the line: "Midnight is the only safe window."
It was almost 10:35 PM.
---
By 11:15 PM, Aryan was driving through the outskirts of the city, his GPS signal fading in and out. The main road ended half a mile back. Now, guided only by fog-drenched moonlight and memory, he followed the dirt trail toward where the asylum once stood.
His headlights caught a rusted metal gate overgrown with ivy.
The nameplate was barely legible: St. Elwin’s Psychiatric Facility.
The place was buried in silence, not the peaceful kind but the heavy, expectant kind — as if the building itself had been holding its breath for years, waiting.
---
He pushed open the gate. It groaned like a warning.
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With only a flashlight and the letter in hand, Aryan stepped into the overgrown courtyard. Weeds had burst through cracks in the pavement. Broken windows stared down like dark eyes.
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The front doors, somehow, weren’t locked.
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Inside, the air was still. The smell of burnt wood and mold hit him instantly. Dust swirled in the beam of his flashlight. The foyer was untouched — two rotting chairs, a reception desk, and one fallen ceiling tile on the floor.
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He moved toward the hallway labeled “Ward B.”
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Every step echoed. Every corner loomed. He heard no rats, no dripping pipes — just the whisper of wind curling through broken panes.
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---
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Halfway down the hallway, a single light flickered above a door marked “B-13.”
The handle was cold and resisted his grip — but it turned.
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Inside, the room was cleaner than the rest.
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An old cot. A rusted cabinet. A thick leather patient file lying on a small metal desk.
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Aryan approached cautiously and flipped it open.
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Patient: Unknown. ID: #913
Status: Locked-In Syndrome
Symptoms: Non-verbal communication. Intact cognition. Response only through eye movement.
Last assigned doctor: Dr. Vishram Das.
---
Suddenly, the light overhead went out with a pop. Darkness surged in.
In the silence that followed, Aryan heard it.
Not wind. Not footsteps.
A whisper.
Faint. So faint he thought it came from within.
“You came...”
He froze. His flashlight flickered wildly. He turned around — but the room was empty.
The cot, untouched. The door, still open. Yet that voice — it hadn’t been in his head. It was real.
He reached for the file again and noticed something handwritten at the bottom of the last page.
In ink that hadn’t faded. Fresh. Still wet.
"Don't trust the halls. They're listening."
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His breath caught. The air around him dropped a degree. Something creaked — not outside, but inside the walls.
---
He stumbled back, the flashlight trembling in his grip.
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And then... something moved in the hallway.
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Not a person.
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Just a shadow, gliding unnaturally — as if it didn’t need feet to move.
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Aryan didn’t scream. He couldn’t. He simply stood frozen, watching it vanish around the corner.
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His heart pounded. His brain screamed to leave. But curiosity rooted him.
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The letter. The patient. The voice.
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It wasn’t over.
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It had just begun.
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