The air inside the abandoned Willowbrook Asylum was thick with the scent of mildew and something worse—something rotten, like meat left out in the sun too long, and as we stepped deeper into the decaying hallways, our flashlights cutting through the oppressive darkness, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t alone, that the whispers we’d heard outside weren’t just the wind but something far more sinister, something hungry. My friends—Jake, with his reckless grin, and Sarah, who’d brought the Ouija board as a joke—laughed nervously as we pushed open the heavy doors to the east wing, the place where the most violent patients had been kept, according to the rumors, and where at least a dozen suicides had occurred, their bodies left hanging from the rusted pipes until the asylum finally shut its doors for good in 1972. The floorboards groaned beneath our feet like the building itself was alive, resentful of our intrusion, and the deeper we went, the colder it got, our breath fogging in the air even though it was midsummer outside, the sweat on my skin turning to ice as Sarah set the board down on a rotting gurney, her fingers trembling as she placed the planchette in the center and said, “Let’s see if anyone wants to talk.” We all laughed, but it was hollow, forced, because the moment our fingers touched the planchette, the temperature dropped so sharply I could see my breath crystallize in front of me, and then—movement. The planchette jerked under our hands, not the slow, deliberate motion of a game but something frantic, desperate, spiraling across the board before landing on H, then E, then L, then P, spelling out HELP ME over and over until Jake yanked his hands away, his face pale, his voice cracking as he said, “This isn’t funny anymore,” but it was too late, because the doors at the end of the hall slammed shut with a force that shook the walls, the sound echoing like a gunshot, and then the screaming started—not from us, but from somewhere deeper in the asylum, a raw, guttural wail that didn’t sound human, that rose and fell in waves of agony, like someone was being torn apart. Sarah grabbed the board, her hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped it, and we ran, our footsteps pounding against the cracked tile as the screaming followed us, growing louder, closer, until it felt like it was right behind us, breathing down our necks, and then—silence. We made it outside, gasping for air, laughing nervously, trying to convince ourselves it had just been the wind, our imaginations, but that night, as I lay in bed, I heard it: a soft, wet scratching at my window, like something with too-long fingers was dragging its nails down the glass, and when I looked, I saw it—a gaunt, skeletal figure, its face pressed against the pane, its sunken eyes staring into mine, its mouth stretched into a rictus grin, the stench of rot seeping through the cracks. I screamed, scrambling back, but when I turned on the light, it was gone—except for the handprint left on the glass, blackened and peeling, like burned flesh. The next night, it came back at exactly 3:07 AM, the scratching louder now, more insistent, and this time, I caught it on camera, the flash illuminating its decaying face, its hollow cheeks, its yellowed teeth, the words PATIENT 37 stitched into the tattered remains of its asylum gown. The photos were blurry, but you could see it—see *him*—his fingers curled like claws, his mouth moving as if he was whispering something, something I could almost hear through the glass, a voice that wasn’t a voice but a thought shoved into my head: *You let me out. Now I’m home.* The scratching turned to pounding, the pounding to shaking, the entire window rattling in its frame as the thing outside screamed, a sound that tore through the night, and then—silence. I thought it was over. I was wrong. The next morning, the Ouija board was on my kitchen table, the planchette resting on GOODBYE, even though I’d watched Sarah throw it into a dumpster on the way home. That’s when I realized: the board was never the game. *We* were. And Patient 37 wasn’t outside anymore. The stench of rot filled the house. The floors creaked when no one was there. And at 3:07 AM, the scratching didn’t come from the window—it came from *inside the walls.* The first night I heard the scratching inside the walls, I told myself it was rats, that the old pipes were groaning, that my mind was playing tricks on me—but then the whispers started, a wet, gurgling voice that slithered through the vents, repeating the same phrase over and over in a broken, shuddering rasp: *"You shouldn’t have come to my home… now I live in yours."* My skin prickled with every syllable, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps as I pressed my back against the headboard, my eyes darting to the closet door, which had swung open on its own, revealing nothing but darkness—a darkness that felt *alive*, breathing, watching. The air grew thick with the stench of antiseptic and decay, the same smell from the asylum, and when I looked down at my arms, I saw fresh scratches, thin and red, as if invisible fingers had dragged themselves across my skin while I slept. I tried to run, to call for help, but my phone was dead, the landline emitting only a low, droning tone, and when I threw open the front door, the hallway beyond stretched impossibly long, the walls lined with rusted asylum doors, their numbers peeling—36, 35, 34—counting down, leading me back to *his* door. 37. The knob turned on its own, the hinges screaming as it opened, and there he stood, his emaciated frame barely human anymore, his jaw unhinged like a snake’s, his fingers twitching as he lurched forward, his voice a choked rattle: *"You woke me. Now you’ll sleep with me."* I slammed the door, but the walls began to bleed, dark rivulets of something thick and foul oozing from the cracks, the ceiling dripping with it, the liquid burning where it touched me, searing my skin like acid. The lights flickered, and in the flashes of darkness, he was closer—always closer—his hollow eyes reflecting nothing, his breath a rancid gust against my face as his skeletal hands closed around my throat, his nails digging in, his laughter a wet, choking sound as he whispered, *"The board was the key… and you turned it."* The last thing I saw before the darkness swallowed me whole was the Ouija board on my floor, the planchette moving on its own, spelling out one final, damning word: *FOREVER.* The darkness didn’t just swallow me—it *digested* me, slow and deliberate, like I was being pulled apart in pieces, my screams muffled by something thick and wet pressing against my face, the taste of copper and bile flooding my mouth as I realized the thing that had me wasn’t just Patient 37 anymore—it was the asylum itself, its walls pulsing like living flesh around me, its floors sticky with unseen filth that clung to my skin as I thrashed, my fingers scraping against what felt like teeth embedded in the floorboards, the air so thick with the stench of rotting meat and chemical burn that I vomited, the sound of my own retching drowned out by the distant, echoing screams of others—others like me, others who had come before, their voices warped into something barely human, begging for a death that never came. The thing wearing Patient 37’s face leaned in so close I could see the maggots writhing in the hollows of its cheeks, its breath like open graves as it whispered, *"You wanted to play… now we play forever,"* and then the pain began, sharp and unrelenting, as if every nerve in my body had been set on fire, my vision blurring into flashes of the asylum’s horrors—straitjackets hanging from hooks, rusted surgical tools glinting in the dark, a thousand eyes watching from the walls—until I couldn’t tell where my flesh ended and the nightmare began. The last coherent thought I had before the darkness took me completely was of the Ouija board, still sitting in my living room, the planchette now spinning wildly, spelling out the same cursed words over and over in a frenzy: *"HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME."* But no one was left to hear it. No one but him. And he was laughing. I woke up screaming, but no sound came out—my throat was raw, my lips stitched shut with something thick and coarse like surgical thread, the pain blinding as I clawed at my face, my fingers coming away slick with blood and a black, tarlike substance that reeked of infection. The room around me wasn’t mine anymore—the walls were streaked with long, jagged scratches, the ceiling sagging with damp rot, the air so thick with the smell of mildew and spoiled meat that I gagged, my stomach convulsing as I realized the floor beneath me wasn’t wood or tile but something soft, something *alive*, pulsing rhythmically like the inside of a throat. Shadows moved just beyond my vision, skittering like insects, their shapes too long, too thin to be human, and when I turned my head—slowly, painfully—I saw them: figures in tattered gowns, their faces stretched into silent screams, their hollow eyes fixed on me as they swayed in place, their bony fingers twitching in unison like puppets on strings. The only light came from a single, flickering bulb swinging above me, casting grotesque, shifting shapes on the walls—shapes that didn’t match the bodies in the room, shapes that moved on their own, stretching and contorting into words I could almost read before they dissolved again into the dark. Then I heard it—the sound of dragging footsteps, the wet, labored breathing of something approaching from the hallway, the creak of old bones under too-tight skin, and I knew, with a certainty that turned my blood to ice, that it was him. Patient 37. He stepped into the room, his body bent at impossible angles, his jaw unhinged, his tongue a blackened, swollen thing lolling from his mouth as he grinned down at me, his fingers—too many fingers, too long, too sharp—brushing against my cheek in a mockery of tenderness before he leaned in, his lips grazing my ear as he whispered, *"You thought you could leave? This is your home now. Just like it was mine."* The last thing I saw before the darkness swallowed me again was the Ouija board, propped up against the far wall, the planchette spinning wildly on its own, spelling out a single, damning word over and over: *STAY.* And I knew, with a horror beyond words, that I would. Forever. The stitches in my lips burst as I tried to scream, the pain white-hot as blood filled my mouth, the coppery tang mixing with something worse—something spoiled and medicinal that made my throat seize. The figures in tattered gowns began shuffling closer, their skeletal fingers reaching for me with a horrible, jerking precision, their breath rattling in unison like dead leaves scraping against pavement. The walls pulsed faster now, the room contracting like a living thing digesting its meal, and Patient 37’s grin widened until the corners of his mouth split open with a sickening tear, black ichor oozing down his chin as he reached inside his own ribcage and pulled out something glistening and wet—a heart, still beating, its veins squirming like worms as he pressed it against my chest, whispering, *"Now you’re part of the house too."* The moment it touched me, the pain exploded—not just in my flesh, but in my mind, a thousand fractured memories that weren’t mine flooding through me: a doctor’s cold hands, a scalpel glinting under flickering lights, the sound of my own screams as they sewed my lips shut the first time, the *first* time, because I’d been here before, I’d *always* been here, one of the forgotten, one of the screaming faces in the walls. The Ouija board erupted into flames, the planchette melting into a twisted, grinning face that shrieked with my voice, *my* screams, as Patient 37’s fingers dug into my skull, his nails peeling back my scalp like parchment as he crooned, *"Welcome home, Patient 38."* The last thing I felt was the house swallowing me whole, my body dissolving into the rot, my voice joining the chorus of the lost—and in the silence that followed, the front door creaked open once more, waiting for the next fools brave enough to play the game. The moment my flesh fused with the walls, I felt the asylum breathe through me—every groan of its rusted pipes became my pulse, every wail trapped in its foundation vibrated through my bones like a second heartbeat. My mouth stretched wide in a silent scream as my skin split into peeling wallpaper, my fingers elongating into splintered floorboards, my eyes multiplying into shattered window panes that reflected only suffering. I could feel them now—the others—their consciousnesses writhing inside the structure like maggots in meat, their voices a ceaseless chorus of *let us out let us out let us out* that thrummed through the warped halls. Patient 37’s laughter echoed from every direction, his presence now the creak of a noose rope in the attic, the scrape of a gurney down the hall, the wet click of a broken jaw snapping shut in the darkness. Time meant nothing here—I watched decades pass through my broken windows, saw new victims stumble through my front door, their wide eyes reflecting the Ouija board that always reappeared no matter how many times it was burned. I tried to warn them as they placed trembling fingers on the planchette, but my voice was just another howl in the wind, my hands just another cold draft down their collars. When the board spelled *JOIN US*, I wept black tears of mold down the walls, remembering the last human thought I’d ever had—that I’d been the one to suggest we play the game. Now I watched the new girl’s pupils dilate as the front door slammed shut behind her, and as Patient 37’s shadow unfurled from the ceiling, I realized with grotesque pride that the house was growing, its hunger endless, its foundations built on fools like us. The planchette leapt to *YES* as the girl screamed, and deep in the walls, I opened my new mouths—dozens of them—and whispered *welcome home.*
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