Blackwood Asylum | Chapter 1: Sounds

 

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel as the looming silhouette of Blackwood Asylum appeared through the windshield. The building stood like a dark monolith against the barren Icelandic landscape, barely visible through the thick fog that clung to the air like a suffocating blanket. It felt as though the island itself was conspiring to keep its secrets hidden. My breath fogged up the glass as I leaned closer, eyes narrowed against the oppressive gloom. The heater worked overtime to stave off the frigid air outside, but there was no warmth to be found in the back woods of Blackwood.

This was it-my chance to prove myself. To finally escape the monotonous cycle of mundane assignments. To do more than cover charity events and ribbon-cutting ceremonies. For years, I had craved a story that would not only define my career but sink its claws into the world-something that would bring me recognition and maybe even respect. Blackwood Asylum, with its history steeped in whispers of malpractice, neglect, and vanishing patients, was that story. It was the kind of story that could make or break me, and the stakes had never felt higher.

I imagined my name in bold print: Nathan Cole, the journalist who exposed the dark truth behind Blackwood Asylum. I could see myself sitting in interviews, discussing my courage and determination. The accolades, the recognition, the promotion I'd been chasing for so long-it all felt within reach. But as I pulled up to the crumbling iron gates, a feeling of dread took root in my gut, colder than the winter air creeping through the car.

There was something about this place. A presence that seemed to linger just out of sight, heavy and malevolent. I had covered enough stories about haunted places and ghost sightings to know that most of them were just myths fueled by imagination. But Blackwood felt different. It felt wrong. It felt like dread.

I forced myself to ignore the sensation, shaking it off as just nerves. I was a journalist, not some thrill-seeker looking for a cheap scare. This was about uncovering the truth, no matter what it took. I grabbed my phone from the passenger seat, stuffing it into my worn satchel before stepping out of the car. The wind bit at my skin, cutting through my thick coat as I approached the gate.

The asylum loomed over me, its broken windows like empty eyes staring into my soul. Rusted iron bars groaned as I pushed the gate open, the sound echoing through the empty yard. Gravel crunched beneath my shoes, each step feeling like a deliberate intrusion. The asylum was a relic-a decayed monument to humanity's darkest impulses. I took a deep breath, my gaze tracing the jagged lines of the roof as it disappeared into the fog. I wasn't sure if it was courage or stubbornness driving me forward, but I knew I couldn't back out now.

I switched on my flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness as I approached the main entrance. The doors were massive, wooden and weathered, with iron handles that were ice-cold to the touch. I pushed them open, and the groan of the hinges echoed through the emptiness beyond. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of mildew and decay. Dust swirled in the beam of my flashlight, the particles moving like restless spirits.

With each step, the sound of my boots reverberated through the silent corridors, the atmosphere pressing in around me. I used my phone to snap a few pictures, capturing the eerie stillness. The asylum was a labyrinth of forgotten memories-old patient rooms with rusted bed frames, peeling wallpaper, and remnants of lives that had been abandoned. I could almost hear the whispers of the past, a low murmur that seemed to come from the walls themselves.

I moved deeper into the asylum, the oppressive atmosphere clinging to me like a second skin. I came across a hallway with a series of doors, each marked with faded numbers. Most were locked, the paint chipped and cracked, but one door at the far end was slightly ajar. The number '213' was scratched into the wood, almost as if someone had carved it there in desperation.

I hesitated for a moment, then pushed the door open with a creak. The room beyond was small and unremarkable-just a bed, a chair, and a small table. The bed was still made, the sheets yellowed with age, and the walls bore deep scratches, as if someone had tried to claw their way out. I felt a chill run down my spine as I crouched to get a closer look, my flashlight illuminating the jagged marks.

Something caught my eye-something sticking out from beneath the bedframe. I reached out, my fingers brushing against the edge of a worn file folder. I pulled it out, the old paper crackling in protest. The cover was faded, the name barely legible: Patient #1467 - Edgar Holmgren.

I opened the file, the pages brittle under my touch. The report detailed Edgar's condition-hallucinations, paranoia, an unshakable belief that he was being watched. My eyes narrowed as I read the patient notes. Edgar claimed that a dark, goat-like figure haunted him, always lingering just beyond his field of vision. It was always there, in the corner of his eye, but whenever he tried to focus on it, it would vanish. He described it in frantic, desperate detail: hollow eyes, twisted horns, a presence that radiated malice.

My mouth went dry as I read the final entry, written in shaky handwriting: "It's here. It's always here. I see it. I know it's real. It wants me. It won't let me leave."

A shiver ran through me, and I felt a sudden urge to drop the file and leave. The thought of that creature-always watching, always waiting-gnawed at the edge of my mind. I shook my head, trying to dispel the unease. I was here to uncover the truth, not to get caught up in old fears.

Suddenly, a noise broke the silence-a door slamming somewhere deeper in the asylum, the sound echoing through the empty halls. My flashlight flickered, and for a split second, I thought I saw something move at the edge of the beam-a shadow that shouldn't have been there.

I froze, my breath caught in my throat. The air seemed to grow colder, a creeping sense of dread wrapping itself around me. And then I heard it-a low, guttural growl, resonating through the walls, an unholy sound that made my blood run cold.

My heart pounded in my chest as I tried to steady my breathing. My mind raced with a thousand thoughts. Is this real? Did I just see something? What do I do? I felt my pulse pounding in my ears, the fear clawing at my chest. Run. Stay. Find out what it was. I have to get out. The darkness seemed to close in, the walls pressing closer, and every instinct screamed at me to turn and run. Then, a shadow moved-a figure standing right there, just out of sight. My heart stopped. I wasn't alone.