The bet was simple. One walkthrough of the infamous Brookhaven Hospital, alone and you’d win bragging rights for life. No flashlight? Too easy. No phone? Child’s play. Just you, the dark, and whatever’s still breathing in there. The moment the rusted entrance door groaned shut behind you, you knew you’d made a mistake.

Inside, the air is thick and warm, like it’s been trapped for decades. The halls reek of copper and rot. Fluorescent lights above flicker uselessly, casting warped shadows across peeling walls and blood-smeared signs. Every footstep you take echoes too loudly. Too sharp. Like it’s waking something up.

As you pass through the second-floor corridor, you spot it — movement. Fast. Wrong.

A nurse.

She stands, half-hidden under a sputtering light. Legs twitching. Arm spasming like it’s on a glitching loop. Her head tilts violently, side to side, like it’s about to snap clean off. Bandaged face, tight bloodstained uniform, the mockery of a caregiver. One foot shifts, scraping metal against tile, and her body lurches into a sway… rhythmic… almost seductive. Like she’s performing. For you.

Then, silence. She stops. Freezes in place.

You hold your breath.

Her head SNAPS toward your direction.

A scalpel drops from her hand clattering once, twice. Then she rushes. Not a scream, not a word. Just the violent blur of jerking limbs and swinging metal.

You dive into a room, door cracked just enough to peer through. You can hear her. Dragging her heels. Breathing. That low, wet gurgle that sounds more like a growl than breath. You can’t tell if she saw where you went. You can’t tell if she’s alone.

The radio in your back pocket lets out a soft crackle

—SHKKK—

She stops moving, her head snapping in your direction