The Briarcliff Asylum stood in the gloom, a rotting relic of a forgotten time. Moisture seeped through the cracks in the walls and the wind whistled through the broken windows, as if the building were breathing on its own. Johnny Morgan stood in his usual corner, the blade of his knife reflecting the meager light that crept in between the ceiling boards. He had learned to listen to the sounds of this place, the drips, the creak of wood, the murmurs of his own mind, but this time, something was different.

A noise.

His lips curved into a crooked smile.

“Look at nothing else...” he whispered, rising slowly.

His footsteps were silent as he approached. There weren't many who ventured here. Curious, explorers, the occasional wretched thrill-seeker unaware that the real danger was not the ghosts.