[The Abandoned Asylum – Midnight Fog]

The heavy door creaked shut behind them, the echo lingering through the asylum’s desolate hallways like a dying breath. A faint stench of mildew and antiseptic clung to the air — too old to be recent, yet too real to be forgotten.

Holmes advanced with his lantern raised, its trembling light sliding over cracked tiles and faded patient records scattered like the remnants of lost sanity. His coat was damp, the cuffs of his trousers soaked from the bog outside, but his mind — sharp as ever — was entirely consumed.

“Note, Watson,” Holmes murmured, his voice barely audible above the moan of the wind, “the markings along the corridor walls. Repetitive. Circular. Not unlike the sigils we found near the Thames warehouse.”

Watson followed close behind, revolver drawn. His breath misted in the cold.

“These symbols again… Good heavens, Holmes, what sort of people could devise such horror? It’s as if they worship—”

“—something beyond comprehension,” Holmes interrupted softly, touching one of the symbols with a gloved hand. “And I fear it is not metaphorical worship. There’s purpose in this geometry… a ritualistic intent.”

A sudden clang from the far end of the corridor froze them both. The lantern flickered.

Watson’s grip tightened. “Holmes… did you hear that?”

“Indeed. And I would advise against announcing our presence further. Whatever walks these halls, my dear Watson, is not fond of the uninvited.”

They moved toward the sound — each step echoing like a heartbeat through the empty ward. Behind one locked door, something scraped against the floor. Holmes knelt, examining a trail of wet footprints leading away from the door… bare feet, too small to belong to a man.

“Curious,” he whispered. “Either we are not alone… or the asylum itself remembers its inhabitants.”

Lightning flashed through a broken window, illuminating for a split second the silhouette of a figure at the far end of the hall — tall, robed, and perfectly still.

When the light faded, the corridor was empty.