MidnightScreams

Full Story:

The moon hangs low, a bloated eye casting pale light over the forest. You don’t remember how you got here, standing once again at the edge of the graveyard. The stones are cold silhouettes against the mist, and beyond them looms the path into the woods.

It shouldn’t be there.

Every rational part of you insists the asylum was reduced to rubble. You saw it collapse. You felt its curse shatter. But now, here it stands—whole, waiting.

A knot tightens in your stomach as you stare into the twisted trees. Their branches sway without wind, shifting like skeletal arms beckoning you forward. The whispers return, faint but insistent, threading through your thoughts.

Come back.

Your body moves before your mind can stop it. You step into the forest, the dense undergrowth swallowing the sound of your footsteps. Shadows slither across the path, and the scent of rot clings to the air. Every breath fills your lungs with decay.

The deeper you go, the thicker the darkness becomes. The trees close in, blotting out the sky. Your pulse quickens as the path twists and narrows. The shadows flicker at the edges of your vision—forms that melt away when you try to focus on them.

You grip the knife in your hand, its cold weight grounding you in the madness.

The forest suddenly opens into a clearing, and your breath catches in your throat.

The asylum stands before you, its stone walls untouched by time. Ivy clings to its facade, and the shattered windows gleam with eerie light. The wrought-iron gates creak in the breeze, open and inviting.

Your heart pounds in your chest.

It shouldn’t be here.

But it is.

You pass through the gates, your footsteps echoing on the cracked path. The air grows colder, heavy with the scent of mildew and something coppery. Blood.

The entrance doors are ajar, just as you remember them. You hesitate, your grip tightening on the knife. Every instinct screams for you to turn back.

But there’s no turning back now.

You push the doors open and step inside.

The hallway stretches before you, lined with flickering torches that cast shifting shadows across the walls. The peeling wallpaper is gone, replaced by smooth, glistening stone carved with symbols that pulse faintly in the dim light.

Your breath fogs in the frigid air. The whispers grow louder, a chorus of voices weaving through the asylum’s walls.

Welcome back, Adrian.

You grit your teeth and press forward. The knife feels heavier in your hand, its blade slick with sweat. The floor beneath your boots is sticky, as though the stone itself bleeds.

As you pass by the cells, you catch glimpses of movement—figures shrouded in shadow, their eyes gleaming with malevolence. They watch you silently, their presence oppressive.

“You’re not real,” you mutter under your breath.

The whispers laugh in response.

You descend a winding staircase, the air growing colder with each step. The walls are slick with moisture, and the stone vibrates beneath your feet.

At the bottom lies a heavy iron door, its surface etched with more of the pulsing symbols. You hesitate, your pulse hammering in your ears.

The last time you saw this door, it led to the Hollow Man.

You should turn back.

But something pulls you forward—a compulsion as dark and irresistible as the void.

You push the door open and step into the chamber beyond.

The room is vast, its walls lined with shelves filled with jars. Their contents writhe and twitch—fragments of flesh, blackened bones, and strange, pulsating organs suspended in murky fluid. The air reeks of death and decay.

At the center of the room stands a figure.

Your breath catches in your throat.

It’s him.

The Hollow Man.

But no—something is different. His gaunt frame is cloaked in shadow, and his eyes burn with a crimson light. The symbols carved into the stone walls pulse in time with his breath.

“You came back,” he rasps, his voice a low growl. “Just as I knew you would.”

You raise the knife, your hand trembling. “I destroyed you.”

He laughs, a sound that reverberates through the chamber. “You destroyed nothing. You only set me free.”

The shadows writhe around him, and the walls tremble. The asylum is alive, its heart beating in sync with the Hollow Man.

“I don’t want this,” you whisper.

“But you do, Adrian,” he hisses. “You always have.”

The whispers rise to a deafening roar, and the symbols on the walls blaze with crimson light. The air becomes thick, choking, as the shadows converge around you.

The knife falls from your hand, clattering to the floor.

“I can’t...” you gasp, your knees buckling.

“You will,” the Hollow Man says. “This is your destiny. You were never just a patient, Adrian. You were the first.”

The truth slams into you like a physical blow. Memories flood back—fragments of experiments, rituals, and dark magic. You weren’t just a victim of the asylum’s horrors.

You were its architect.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “That’s not possible.”

“You built this place,” the Hollow Man says. “And now, it’s time to take your rightful place as its warden.”

The shadows surge toward you, enveloping you in darkness.

And then—silence.

You wake up on the cold stone floor. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. The whispers are gone, replaced by a heavy, oppressive stillness.

The Hollow Man is gone.

But you are not the same.

You rise to your feet, your body thrumming with dark energy. The symbols on the walls pulse faintly, responding to your presence.

The asylum has claimed you.

You are its heart now.

Its warden.

And deep within its walls, something stirs—something ancient and ravenous, waiting to be unleashed.

You grip the knife in your hand, a grim smile twisting your lips.

The Hollow Man may be gone, but the asylum will never die.

And neither will you.