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The scream faded into silence, leaving only the sound of dripping water somewhere down the corridor.
Anaya's flashlight flickered weakly, its beam slicing through the dark like a trembling blade.
She reached a broken sign hanging from the ceiling — "Wards 300–310 →"
Her heart pounded. The scream had come from there.
As she walked, she passed doors labeled 301, 302, 303… each one slightly ajar, smelling of rust and rot.
Peeking inside, she saw beds covered in stained sheets, medical charts scattered on the floor — and something else:
every patient's name had been scratched out violently with red ink.
When she reached the end of the corridor, she stopped.
The final door had no number.
Instead, faint letters were etched into the metal: 309.
But according to the blueprints she'd studied, Room 309 didn't exist.
Her hands trembled as she pushed the door open.
It groaned like an old voice waking up.
Inside, the room was… wrong.
Too large. Too cold. The air was heavy, humming softly, as if the walls themselves were alive.
A single hospital bed stood in the middle, surrounded by flickering machines that shouldn't be working — there was no power in the building.
Anaya stepped closer.
A file lay on the bed. The name on the cover made her blood run cold.
> Patient: Anaya Roy
Diagnosis: Delusion of Entry
Condition: Still inside.
Then, from behind her, a whisper—so close it brushed her ear.
You shouldn't be here yet
She spun around, but no one was there.
Only the heart monitor beside the bed, now beeping softly.
Beep… beep… beep…
The line rose and fell — alive.
But the bed was empty.