Return to Westwood Asylum

“Hey! I said, ‘no pickles’ on my burger!”

Glancing up from the stack of textbooks splayed out across the table, your head turns to the sound. Sitting at the corner booth are four thirty-somethings. One of them is holding a Beefy Big Boyz Burger with all the trimmings in his hand, nose crinkling in disgust as he picks the offensive pickle slice off and tosses it on the floor.

As though he knows someone is watching, his head snaps up. You lock eyes with him briefly before you return to your studies.

Studies was a strong word. Research was more accurate. Spread out in front of you are several books all about the town of Blackstone. More specifically, Westwood Asylum.

You turn the page. A sepia image of Westwood Asylum stares back at you. Beneath the image is a brief history of the land and the building of the asylum. Your lips move as you silently read.

Originally known as the Holt Estate, Westwood Asylum has become infamous with its sordid history. The small island where the estate is located was originally owned by Edward and Vera Holt. Independently wealthy, the Holts purchased the island to build a pepper plantation. The original house was built in 1768. After Edward and Vera mysteriously disappeared in the summer of 1781, the homestead was inherited by their only daughter, Elizabeth. Upon Elizabeth’s untimely passing at the age of 30, the estate was left in limbo until being purchased by Dr. Jonathan Westwood and his wife, Annabelle in 1840.

The Westwood’s welcomed a daughter, Claire on December 12th, 1843, and began work on turning the humble two-bedroom cottage into a mini-mansion, fitting for a doctor and his musically gifted wife.

After Annabelle passed away, Dr. Westwood turned his home into Westwood Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Building multiple additions to house many of the residents of Blackstone, he began descending into madness.

Using his knowledge of anatomy and his skills as a surgeon, he began experimenting on his patients. He is said to have murdered over 200 people. Some reports have included known staff members among the list of his victims.

You stop reading, sitting back in your chair. You close your eyes briefly, trying to absorb what you have just read. You rub your temples. Obnoxious laughter from the corner booth causes your eyes to open. You can’t help but stare at the only other patrons in the rundown diner.

For the first time since they arrived, you pay attention to what they look like. The man you have affectionately dubbed ‘Pickles’ has platinum blonde hair and steel grey eyes. His lanky frame is adorned in an expensive leather jacket and torn jeans.

The man sitting next to him is on the heavier side with dark hair and even darker eyes. He is dressed head to toe in black. Black t-shirt, black jeans, black high-tops.

Sitting opposite them are two women. One with shoulder-length blonde hair, perfectly curled. Her laughter is like peeling bells as her eyes shine with each smile. Her clothing choices made her stand out; knee high brown suede boots and a leopard print mini dress. Sitting next to her on the seat was a leather jacket and a small black purse.

The other woman has long black hair and piercing eyes. She looks like an extra from a Marilyn Manson music video. Her sneering expression embellished with black lipstick and dark eye makeup added to her gothic look. You don’t pay much attention to her clothing as your eyes are fixated on the spiked dog collar around her neck.

You watch as the goth girl leans in close. You strain to hear the conversation.

“I spoke to some of the old fishermen down on the docks. Found a guy who will take us out to the island for $300.”

“$300? That’s steep for a boat ride,” Pickles retorts.

“He’s the only one willing to go that far. All the others flat out refused.”

The blonde turned to her purse. She pulls out a fistful of cash, handing it to the goth girl.

“Here,” she says. “Can we leave immediately?”

The goth girl smiles as she takes the money. “No. No one is allowed near the island. Not since that film crew went missing in 2016. We go after dark. He told us to meet him at the pier at 8 o’clock.”

“What does he look like?”

“What?”

The blonde clucks her tongue in annoyance. “What does this fisherman look like? Does he look like he’s a serial killer that’s going to bury our bodies on an abandoned island in the middle of this godforsaken shithole?”

The heavy guy sniggered as the goth rolled her eyes. “He looks like an old sea man. Unkempt, a stringy beard.”

“So, serial killer?”

“Yes, Cassie. He looks like a serial killer. John West meets John Wayne Gacy.”

You feel yourself breaking into a smirk as you silently chuckle to yourself. Now you know the blonde’s name.

Cassie slides off the seat, smoothing down her dress. She picks up her leather jacket and purse. “No need to be snarky, Ellie,” she retorts, slipping the jacket over her shoulders. “I just don’t want to wind up like the Paranormal Investigations crew.”

You get to your feet, gathering the books as the four friends bicker among themselves. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a $20 bill. Sliding it beneath the coffee cup, you pick up your backpack and sling it over your shoulder.

You exit the diner as a cool Autumn breeze whistles through the trees. You zip your jacket up and make your way along the cobblestoned street towards your hotel.

   *     *     *   *     *

The sun begins to set as you emerge from the hotel. The town of Blackstone is eerily quiet. Sinister shadows silhouetted from the old brick buildings emerge from the alleyways.

You make your way to the docks, casually checking your watch. You have 30 minutes to find the fisherman and convince him you’re a part of the group.

The breeze tussles your hair as you pass boarded up shop windows. So many businesses in Blackstone had closed in recent years. You stop in front of one window. Art’s Antiquities. You press your nose against the glass, cupping your hand to the side of your face to block out the glare of the setting sun. A painting on the wall of the old Asylum catches your attention.

Westwood Asylum stands proudly on the cliffside surrounded by trees. You squint, desperately trying to make out the inscription on the frame.

A rat scurries over your foot, causing you to jump backwards. Your startled cry echoes in the deserted streets. The rat hurries down an alleyway as you gather your wits.

Dusting your hands on your jeans, you step back onto the street, quickly making your way towards the docks.

“Psst.”

You turn around. A man in his late fifties stands before you, his scraggly grey hair peeking out from under a worn woollen hat. His beard, wiry to look at, gently blew in the breeze.

“You going to the island?”

You pause. This man seems strange, though he does fit the description you overheard. You nod.

His steely grey eyes sparkle. “The devil girl said there were four of you. Where’s the rest?”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you think of an excuse. You inform the man the others were on their way. You reach into your pocket, producing a $50 bill and hand it to him. He seems puzzled by the gesture.

“I told the girl it was $300,” he says.

“She told you there was four of us, right? She meant there was four plus her.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “You’re not a part of that group,” he accuses.

Figuring the best way to gain his trust was not to lie to him, you nod.

He shoves the money into the pocket of his grubby, torn jeans. “I’m not going to question your reasoning,” he says. “If you all want to kill yourselves, I ain’t gonna stop ya.” He motions for you to follow him.

 At the end of the old wooden pier was a small boat. It wasn’t much bigger than a rowboat you had seen at the lake your father use to take you to. He hands you a lifejacket.

You’re slipping it over your head when you hear footsteps approaching you. You turn to see the others approaching.

“Who are you?” Pickles demands.

Before you can say anything, the old sea dog steps forward. “They’re with me,” he says, extending his hand. “Now I believe we agreed on $300.”

Ellie hands over the cash, tapping her foot impatiently as the old man counts his earnings.

You reach into the boat and begin to hand the others the spare lifejackets.

“Is it safe?” Cassie asks, her blonde hair falling in front of her face.

You understand her nervousness. The boat is rusty, small holes appearing in the sides. You step into the boat, almost overbalancing as it rocks back and forth.

You steady yourself before extending a hand to Cassie. She accepts, allowing you to help her down. Her heeled boots make a loud noise as she clutches your arm to help with her balance.

One by one, they climb aboard.

The air in the small vessel is thick with the smell of gasoline and salt, but as the motor sputters to life, a heavier, more ancient scent begins to roll off the water. It’s the smell of stagnant earth and iron—the smell of Blackstone’s history.

The old fisherman says nothing as he manoeuvres the boat away from the pier. The town of Blackstone shrinks into a collection of flickering amber lights, soon swallowed by a fog so dense it feels like wet wool pressing against your face.

"So," Pickles says, his voice cutting through the damp silence. He’s looking at you, his steel-grey eyes narrowing. "You’re with the fisherman? Funny. He didn't seem the type to have an apprentice."

"I’m just interested in the history," you reply smoothly, your voice steady despite the frantic thrumming of your heart.

Ellie, the goth girl, snorts. She’s staring into the fog, her fingers tracing the studs on her dog collar. "History is just a polite word for a mass grave. That’s all Westwood is."

"Don't say that," Cassie whimpers, clutching her designer purse to her chest. "It’s just an urban exploration trip. For the 'gram, right, Jax?"

The heavy-set man in black—Jax—grunts. "Ten years ago, a whole TV crew vanished here. If we find even one of their GoPros, we’re famous. History doesn't pay, Cassie. Content does."

You realise then that these four are echoes of the group from the stories—the skeptics, the thrill-seekers, the lambs.

The boat's hull scrapes against wood with a sickening groan. Through the mist, the derelict pier appears like the skeletal fingers of a drowned giant.

"I don't go no further," the fisherman growls. He doesn't wait for you to disembark before he begins pushing off with a long oar. "Pick-up is at dawn. If you're still standing on the wood, I'll take ya back. If not... well, Elizabeth Holt likes the company."

He vanishes into the thick grey fog bank that has blanketed the bay before you can even protest.

You lead the way up the cobblestone path. It’s slick with moss that feels like rotting skin. You recognize the landmarks from your research—the stone walls, the heavy silence that seems to muffle your own footsteps.

Then, the gate.

The wrought iron is rusted to a deep, dried-blood red. As Jax pushes it open, the screech is so high-pitched it sets your teeth on edge.

"Look at this," Ellie whispers, her flashlight beam dancing over the headstones.

You stop. You don't need the light to know which grave she's looking at.

Elizabeth Holt. Born November 17th, 1765. Died November 17th, 1795.

"She died on her birthday," Cassie says, her voice trembling. "That's such a bad omen."

Jax scoffs and, with a heavy boot, kicks a loose stone. It skips off Elizabeth’s headstone and strikes another with a sharp clack. Cassie shoots him a disapproving glance before scolding him about respecting the dead.

"It’s just a rock, Cassie. Dead people don't care about—"

He stops. From the fog behind the headstones, a sound emerges. It isn't a voice. It’s a wet, rhythmic slapping sound, like someone walking barefoot through heavy mud.

"Who's there?" Pickles calls out, his bravado slipping.

The beam from his flashlight bounces over the headstones. Cobwebs glisten as the light touches them, reminding you that this place has remained untouched. Your eyes scan the darkness, head tilted as you listen.

The slapping stops. Then, a low, melodic humming begins—a lullaby that sounds like it’s being squeezed through a throat filled with silt.

"We need to get to the asylum," you say firmly. You feel a sudden, itching sensation on your neck. You reach up and pull away a strand of thick, yellowed spiderweb. It’s sticky, smelling faintly of formaldehyde.

The dilapidated mansion looms out of the dark like a crouched predator. It’s larger than the photos suggested, a Victorian nightmare of sagging porches and boarded windows.

As you reach the front steps, you see them: the cameras.

They are still there, ten years later. Mounted on rusted poles, their lenses are clouded with grime, yet as you pass, you could swear you see a tiny red "REC" light flicker deep within the glass of one.

Exposed to the elements there is no way they’d still be working. You shake your head, a desperate bid to calm yourself. You can see how weathered they are. You touch one of the poles. It wobbles and crashes to the ground, shattering the camera.

The group jump, terrified by the sudden impact of the camera on the broken cobblestones. You offer an apology and begin to look around.

Two large tents, both torn from the harsh winds and wildlife stand before the asylum. Though faded, you can still make out the Paranormal Investigators logo on the side of them. Wooden crates filled with expensive equipment line the courtyard, while large commercial cables are coiled beneath the thick underbrush.

The others have moved towards the front door of the asylum, stepping up onto the porch. The concrete stairs crumble beneath each step. “This place should be condemned,” Ellie says aloud to no one in particular.

“It is,” you reply, stepping up behind them.

"The door is barred," Pickles says, reaching for the heavy wooden handle. He gives it a pull before slamming his weight into it. “We may have to break a window to get in.”

Jax looks around. “Not many windows left to break,” he retorts, gesturing wildly to the ground floor.

Pickles tries the door again. “Nope. Barred. We’re not getting in this way.”

You stare at the large wooden door. Your hand moves over the brass knocker. The craftsmanship is exquisite. Not something you’d see nowadays. A chill runs up your spine. You spin around, your eyes scanning the dense woods that hides the asylum’s dark secrets. You blink rapidly as your eyes focus on a small girl all in white hiding behind a tree.

“Hey!” you call out as you race down the steps and towards her. But before you get to the edge of the clearing, your feet become tangled in some vines. You fall, your hands outstretched as you land hard, your elbow digging into your side, knocking the wind out of you. You gasp for air as the others rush to your side. You look up, your vision blurred as you scan the trees. The girl is no where to be seen. Vanished.

“Are you alright?” Cassie asks, kneeling by your side. She tucks her hair behind her ear as she helps you sit up. You nod, assuring her you’re fine. Pickles and Ellie untwine the vines that had captured your ankles like they had a personal vendetta against you. You notice the vines leading to an old fountain in the middle of the courtyard.

With Cassie’s steadying hand, you limp toward the concrete fountain. Up close, the once-beautiful mosaic floor is a jagged mess of chipped tiles, drowned under a layer of oily, stagnant water and the sharp, swampy reek of overgrown moss.

“Whoa.”

You glance over at Pickles; he’s frozen, his jaw dropped in a silent mask of awe. Following his gaze back to the asylum, your heart sinks. The massive wooden doors—the ones that had been stubbornly barred shut just moments ago—now stand wide, a gaping black maw inviting you to step into the dark.

You limp toward the porch, your weight heavy on Cassie as you navigate the treacherous, cracked stairs. As you reach the top, a sudden draft heaves out from the interior—an icy breath colder than the night air, thick with the metallic tang of copper and the sharp, electric sting of ozone.

"I’m not going in there," Cassie whispers, her voice brittle as she recoils from the threshold. She fumbles for Jax’s hand, her grip tight and pleading as she begs him to turn back toward the safety of the dock. Jax just offers a dismissive smile, squeezing her hand in a way that’s meant to be grounding. "Nothing is going to happen, Cass. It’s just an old building," he insists, gesturing to the ruins. "The wind caught the door, that's all. Look at the windows—there’s more air coming through the cracks than the vents."

They drift inside like shadows, leaving you to trail behind. As you step over the rusted lip of the entrance, the building seems to exhale. The door doesn't just close—it lunges, slamming shut with a finality that echoes through the hollow halls and swallows the moonlight whole.

*     *     *   *     *

The moment the heavy door slams shut, the world vanishes. A chorus of metallic clicks echoes through the vestibule as you’re plunged into total darkness. Rapid clicking of your flashlight fails to produce any light. You feel your heart begin to pound. You had put fresh batteries in this flashlight before you left the hotel.

"My light is dead," Ellie gasps, her voice climbing an octave. "It was full when we were at the dock!"

"Mine too," Jax mutters. A sharp scritch follows as he fumbles a match to life. The tiny, flickering flame is a pathetic defense against the swarming shadows. In the momentary glow, a hallway of overturned wheelchairs emerges from the dark.

Suddenly, one of the tattered gowns draped over a chair lurches forward. A pale face with a manic, toothy grin thrusts into the light.

"Looking for a light, kiddos?"

Cassie screams, stumbling back into you. Pickles cackles, clutching his stomach as he rolls out of the wheelchair. "You should have seen your faces! Total amateur hour."

"You idiot!" Jax snarls, his hand trembling as the match burns toward his fingers. "We’re already on edge—"

His voice dies in his throat.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy office door creaks inward. A woman steps out, but she isn't part of the decay. She is dressed in a mourning-black nurse’s uniform, her hair pinned up in a rigid, 17th-century coil. She stands perfectly still, staring into the middle distance as if the five of you are nothing more than dust.

Then, her head snaps toward the flickering match light.

Her eyes aren't eyes at all—they are pits of glowing, pressurized coal. She opens her mouth, and instead of a plea, a bone-shredding banshee wail tears through the hall. The sound is a physical force, vibrating in your very marrow.

"RUN!" Jax bellows.

The nurse doesn't run; she glides, her black skirts motionless as she gains ground with impossible speed. You bolt down the hallway, the sound of her screaming right at your heels. You see Jax and Ellie dive into a side ward, their shadows swallowed by the gloom.

You grab Cassie’s arm, hauling her into a cramped administrative office just as the nurse’s shriek nears the doorway.

"In there!" you hiss, pointing Cassie toward a towering wooden cabinet. She scrambles inside, her eyes wide with terror as she pulls the door shut. You dive beneath a heavy oak desk, pressing your back against the cold wall and holding your breath until your lungs burn.

From your vantage point, you see her. The Black Nurse doesn't walk; she floats past the office door, a dark smudge against the grey hallway. She doesn't stop. With a flicker of her shadow, she passes straight through the solid brick wall of the opposite wing and vanishes.

Silence returns, heavier than before. You crawl out from under the desk, your limbs shaking, and signal for Cassie. She emerges from the cabinet, her face drained of all colour.

You step back into the hallway, whispering for the others. Jax and Ellie stumble out of the side room, gasping for air, their faces slick with sweat.

"Is everyone okay?" Ellie whispers, her eyes darting around the empty corridor.

You look toward the line of wheelchairs where the chase began. The tattered gowns are still there, slumped and hollow. But the wheelchair Pickles had been hiding in is upright and empty. The yellow fog begins to swirl around the floorboards where he last stood.

Pickles is gone.

"Pickles, knock it off!" Jax’s voice bounces off the tiled walls, sounding more hollow than he intended. "The joke’s over. It’s not funny anymore. She’s gone so come out!"

Silence. Not even the rustle of a medical gown.

"He’s probably just hiding in the next ward, waiting for us to walk past," Ellie whispers, though she’s white-knuckling her dead flashlight.

You walk back to the line of wheelchairs. The one Pickles had used for his prank sits perfectly still, but the yellowed garments he’d hidden under are gone. There’s no sign of a struggle—just that lingering, jaundiced fog clinging to the floor.

"He wouldn't stay quiet this long," Cassie says, her voice trembling. "He saw that... that thing. He wouldn't stay here alone."

"We should go back to the docks," you say, the cold of the asylum seeping into your bones. "Wait for sunrise. We can't find him in the dark."

"And leave him here?" Jax snaps, his bravado returning as a mask for his panic. "We don’t leave a brother behind. If he’s hurt, he’s as good as dead if we leave him."

“But we’re as good as dead if we stay here,” Ellie snaps, her usual cool and dark demeanour cracking under the fear that consumes her. “We all saw that… that thing. It chased us. It was going to kill us.” She pauses, rapidly clicking her flashlight, silently praying for it to illuminate. “I will never be able to get that scream out of my head.”

“Which is why we need to look for him,” Jax argues.

Cassie shakes her head. “No. No, I can’t. If you want to skulk around this hellhole, you can, but I’m going back to the dock.” She looks to you, her eyes pleading. “Please tell me you’ll come with me,” she begs.

You nod. You don’t want to take your chances with whatever was just chasing you. Those eyes – black like the devil – staring into the abyss will haunt you for the rest of your days.

You immediately turn back towards the entrance. Cassie follows closely behind. Ellie looks at Jax and apologises as she slowly jogs towards the large wooden door. Jax throws his hands up in frustration but follows too.

You desperately throw your weight against the door. It doesn’t budge. You look to Cassie, hope fading from her eyes when she realises the door won’t open.

“We’re trapped,” she says, her voice barely a whisper.

Ellie squeezes her hand, attempting to reassure Cassie that things would work out.

“Now that we’ve established that there’s no way out, let’s look for Pickles,” Jax says. You look to the girls.

“We don’t have a choice,” you say bitterly.

The air grows heavier, thick with the scent of wet lime and rot as you venture further down the halls. You gag. The smell is overpowering.

As you navigate a debris-strewn corridor, Cassie stops. Her foot has hooked on something thin—a glint of silver against the grime. She reaches down, wiping away a decade of dust to reveal a delicate heart-shaped locket.

Her audible gasp causes you to turn your head. You catch her eye. "Gail," she whispers, tracing the name engraved on the back. "This was Gail’s. From the 2016 disappearances. She was never found."

“Let me see that!” Ellie says, snatching the delicate locket away. She turns it over in her palm. A shiver runs down her spine. The realization that they are walking over a graveyard hits like a physical blow. The locket feels unnaturally cold in her palm, a piece of a puzzle that ended in blood ten years ago.

The hallway terminates at a yawning architectural wound: a rusted spiral staircase that winds down into the lightless belly of the basement. You pull out your notebook. Flipping through the pages, you squint at the words on the page. In the dim lights, it’s hard to make out any of the text. You come to a page about Paranormal Investigators. You wet your lips. A crude drawing of the iron staircase stares back at you. According to the tapes that had surfaced online, this was the site of the infamous 2016 massacre—the place where Anna where last seen alive and where Bric’s body was found.

The air rising from the depths is different. It’s warmer, humid, and reeks of copper and ancient, fermented decay.

"We shouldn't be here," Ellie whimpers, but Jax is already descending, his single match casting long, skeletal shadows against the curving walls.

At the bottom, the matchlight catches something large and pale. You blink and it’s gone.

It’s been ten years, but the basement has preserved its horrors like a tomb. Strung up from the rusted plumbing pipes is what remains of Bric.

He isn't just a skeleton. The damp, stagnant air of the basement has mummified segments of his skin into a leathery, translucent grey. He is suspended by thick, blackened wires that have grown into his very collarbones.

His chest cavity is a jagged ruin—wide, vertical claw marks have shredded through the ribs, leaving the bone splintered and bleached. What’s left of his internal organs has long since sloughed away, leaving a hollow, dark cavern where a heart once beat. His jaw hangs at an impossible angle, held in place by a few remaining strands of shrivelled sinew, as if his final scream was frozen in time.

A few feet away, a tattered, blood-stained scrap of denim—all that's left of Anna's jacket—lies crumpled in a pool of dried, blackened ichor.

"Ten years," Jax chokes out, the match burning his fingers before it goes out. "He’s been hanging here for ten years."

The darkness rushes back in, but the image of Bric’s clawed remains is burned into your retinas. And then, from the corner of the basement, you hear it.

Clang-drag. Clang-drag.

The clang-drag grows deafening, a heavy metallic pulse vibrating through the floorboards. Jax, fuelled by a reckless, macho adrenaline, squares his shoulders. He doesn't back down; he steps into the centre of the basement, his fists clenched as if he can punch a ghost.

"Come on then!" he roars, his voice cracking with a fear he won't admit. "Show yourself!"

You don't wait for the reply. You lunge for Ellie and Cassie, shoving them behind a rusted partition wall. "Stay down," you hiss, forcing them into a crouch. You grab their trembling hands and press them firmly over their own mouths, your eyes wide and pleading. Don't. Make. A. Sound.

The Nurse doesn't emerge from the shadows; she is the shadows. She materializes directly in front of Jax, her black gown billowing in a wind that shouldn't exist. She lets out a banshee shriek—a piercing, glass-shattering sound that turns Jax’s bravado into a whimper. Before he can swing, her hands, white as bone and cold as a grave, lock around his throat.

She hoists his six-foot frame into the air like he’s made of straw. Her coal-black eyes bore into his as she glides toward a rusted operating table in the centre of the room. With a violent, jerky motion, she hurls him onto the cold steel. Her movements are sickeningly unnatural—with every step, her joints emit a loud, wet crack, like dry branches snapping underwater. Before Jax can roll off, she pins his limbs, her movements a jagged blur as she cinches heavy leather straps around his wrists and ankles.

Then, the temperature drops until your breath comes out in thick plumes of frost. A mass of ink-black shadow begins to pool in the corner, rising and knitting itself together. The darkness bleeds away to reveal a man who looks horrifyingly... human.

Dr. Jonathan Westwood stands there in a pristine, yet dated, surgeon’s smock. His sandy brown hair is neatly swept back, and his piercing blue eyes spark with a terrifying, manic intelligence. He looks at Jax and offers an unnerving, wide-set grin that reveals too many teeth.

"Ah," Westwood whispers, his voice smooth and melodic. "A fresh specimen. High cortisol. Perfect for the harvest."

He doesn't hesitate. He pulls a rusted, notched scalpel from his tray. The metal is pitted with orange decay and dried, blackened blood from decades past.

Westwood leans over the screaming Jax. "Deep breaths, son. This will only hurt... forever."

With a surgeon’s precision and a madman’s strength, he drives the blade into Jax’s upper abdomen. The sound is like wet leather tearing. Jax’s scream is cut short by a choked, gurgling wheeze as the Doctor slices downward. The rusted blade hitches on the muscle, and Westwood simply laughs, putting his weight into the pull.

The skin parts in a jagged, yawning V-shape.

You can’t help but gag at the combined sounds and smell of what’s happening. You close your eyes, covering your own mouth with your hand. Beside you, Cassie and Ellie look pale.

You open your eyes. That was a mistake as you take in the sight before you’re your stomach turns as the internal pressure of Jax’s body pushes his contents outward. The glistening, grey-pink coils of his small intestine begin to slide out of the opening, steaming in the frigid air. They spill over the side of the metal table with a rhythmic, wet thlap-slop, piling onto the floor like a heap of oversized, pale worms.

Westwood reaches in, his hands disappearing into the steaming cavity of Jax’s torso. The sound of his gloves squelching inside the wet mess is rhythmic. He pulls a loop of the bowel taut, his blue eyes twinkling as he admires the slick, vascular tissue.

"Look at that," the Doctor croons, leaning close enough to Jax's face to smell the copper of his blood. "The anatomy of fear is truly a masterpiece."

From behind the partition, the smell hits you—the overwhelming, hot stench of faeces and raw iron. Ellie’s eyes roll back in her head as she begins to faint, her muffled whimpers lost in the sound of the Doctor’s manic, high-pitched whistling.

The carnage behind the partition wall is too much. You watch through the cracks as Westwood hums a tuneless melody, his hands slick and crimson as he continues his grisly work.

"Now," you breathe, your voice barely a ghost of a sound. "We run. Now!"

You heave Ellie and Cassie to their feet. The three of you bolt for the spiral staircase, your boots thudding against the rusted iron. The metallic clang-drag of the Nurse’s movement erupts behind you, a jagged, rhythmic snapping of bone as she pursues.

Ellie is behind you, her breath coming in panicked, ragged sobs. She reaches the midpoint of the stairs, her hand grasping for the railing, when her foot catches on a rusted riser. She stumbles, her chin hitting the metal with a sickening thud.

"Ellie!" Cassie screams, reaching back.

It’s too late. A pale, cold hand shoots out from the vacuum of the stairwell, locking onto Ellie’s ankle. She is yanked backward into the abyss with violent force. You hear the wet, frantic snicker-snack of blades—not scalpels, but something sharper, faster. Her screams are brief, transitioning into a bubbly, wet gargle before the sound of tearing meat takes over.

"Keep going!" You shove Cassie toward the top. You burst out into the upper hallway, lungs burning, and sprint toward what you hope is an exit. But the corridor betrays you. The walls seem to stretch and warp, terminating in a solid, unyielding brick wall.

"No, no, no!" Cassie sobs, clawing at the bricks.

A door at the very end of the hall creaks open. A flickering, translucent figure stands there—a young woman with a hollowed-out expression, yet her eyes are filled with a desperate, ancient kindness.

"In here," the ghost whispers. "Quickly."

You dive into the room. It is a time capsule: delicate lace, a rotted vanity, and the faint, cloying scent of dried lavender. This was Annabelle Westwood's sanctuary.

"I’m Gail," the spirit says, her voice like wind through dry leaves.

Cassie looks bewildered. “Gail? As in Paranormal Investigator Gail?”

The young woman nods, her hair falling in front of her eyes. "Yes. You must leave. The window—go! If you stay, you become a part of the legacy. You become them."

“Them?” you say.

Gail nods. “You become a part of the legacy of Westwood Asylum. I don’t have time to explain. Go. Go now!”

You throw open the heavy sash. Thick, gnarled vines cling to the exterior stone like veins. You scramble out, your fingers bleeding as you shimmy down the wall, landing hard in the centre of an overgrown hedge maze.

Cassie trembles on the sill, frozen by the height. Behind her, the door to the bedroom shatters. The Nurse, her black dress stained with Ellie’s fresh blood, lunges into the room.

"Go!" Gail shrieks. With a forceful, spectral shove, she launches Cassie out the window.

Cassie screams as she falls, a silhouette against the moon, landing with a dull thud in a patch of thorns. She gasps, her hand brushing against a single, pristine white rose—the only thing living in this graveyard of a garden.

A hellish, piercing scream rips through the night air. From the centre of the maze, a new horror emerges. Annabelle Westwood, her face a mask of grief and fury, materializes from the hedges. She doesn't glide; she hunts.

You grab Cassie’s hand, dragging her through the twisting green walls, but the maze is alive. The hedges shift, closing off paths. Annabelle is everywhere—a flash of white lace, a shriek of rage. She corners Cassie near a moss-covered stone statue of a weeping angel. With a strength that defies her frail form, Annabelle lifts Cassie and drives her backward.

The sound is horrific—a wet, punching thud as the statue’s stone wing impales Cassie through the chest. She twitches once, her blood staining the white rose clutched in her hand, before going still.

Gail reappears, her hand locking onto yours. Her touch is cold, but it anchors you. "This way! Run! Don't look back!"

She leads you through a hidden gap in the hedges, spitting you out onto the gravel path in front of the asylum. "Go!" Gail commands, pointing toward the iron gates. "Run!"

You haul ass toward the cemetery, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You’re almost at the gate when a sound stops you cold.

Laughter. Cruel, distorted, and familiar.

You spin around. Emerging from the mist-shrouded headstones are three figures. Rhett, his body twisted; Bric, his chest a hollowed-out ruin; and Anna, her throat a jagged red smile. They move toward you with a predatory synchronized limp.

You turn to the left—there they are. To the right—closer now. Every way you turn, the ghosts of the 2016 massacre appear, their dead eyes fixed on yours, trapping you in a circle of rotting flesh and ancient grudges.

You see Gail standing nearby. She bows her head in defeat as you let out a blood-curdling scream, knowing you are the newest legend of Westwood Asylum.

*     *     *   *     *

Your eyes snap open.

The suffocating stench of open bowels and stagnant bile is gone, replaced instantly by the comforting aroma of fresh coffee and old paper. The bone-deep chill of the basement vanishes, overtaken by the warmth of the afternoon sun streaming through your kitchen window.

You sit frozen, confusion etched into every line of your face. Your heart is a frantic bird trapped in your chest, and sweat drips from your brow, staining the wooden table beneath you. Your gaze drapes across the room, desperate for something familiar, until it lands on the crisp white paper sitting before you.

The logo in the top right corner chills your blood. Paranormal Investigators.

With hands that refuse to stay still, you reach out and lift the letter.

“To Gail Summers,

We are pleased to inform you that your application has been accepted. You will be joining fellow investigators—Bric Hoskins, Rhett Morrow, and Anna DeWitt—for the 2016 autumn trek into the Westwood Asylum located in the town of Blackstone...”

You stare at the ink until the letters blur. Had you dreamed it? Was it just a vivid, waking nightmare? The "premonition" burns in the back of your mind like a fresh brand, the screams of Jax and the sight of Bric’s leathery, suspended corpse still vibrating in your retinas.

You look down at your hands. They are clean. No blood. No scratches from the vines. Your fingers curl instinctively around the silver heart locket hanging from your neck—the same locket you just watched a girl named Cassie find in the dirt ten years from now.

You try to control your breathing, but your eyes snag on the names again. Bric. Rhett. Anna. The ghosts from the cemetery.

Letting out a choked cry of fear and frustration, you crumple the letter into a tight ball and hurl it, along with its envelope, across the room. You back away from the table, your knees hitting the kitchen counters as you slump down, tears of pure terror streaming down your face.

The room is silent, save for your ragged gasps. Your eyes focus on the balled-up paper lying near the baseboards. Your brow furrows. You notice something else on the linoleum. Something that wasn't there before.

You get to your feet, your legs feeling like lead, and move across the kitchen. Your breath hitches. There, resting in the shadow of the crumpled letter, is a single, withered white rose petal.