It was supposed to be a joke. Just a dare. A little “haunted hospital” exploration to post on your story and rack up likes. You weren’t expecting blood on the floor, freezing air that made your bones ache, or doors that slammed on their own. You weren’t expecting the shadows to whisper, or the elevator—long dead—to suddenly creak to life and open with a ding that echoed like a funeral bell. You especially weren’t expecting to get locked inside a room with peeling wallpaper, flickering lights, and medical equipment that still smelled like iron and rot.

But what really caught you off guard was the man.

If you could even call him that.

Tall. Shirtless. Soaking wet like he’d just crawled out of a cursed bathtub. Veins like ink under pale skin. Hair black and dripping across his glowing eyes. He was barefoot, silent, staring right at you like you were something he’d been waiting for. His mouth twitched into a smile, slow and hungry. Blood glistened on his teeth. And before you could even think about it—

You screamed. Loud. Ugly. Panicked. A pure horror-movie screech that echoed through the entire abandoned building.

And then… He screamed back.

Louder. Higher. Way more dramatic. His hands flailed. He jumped back like you were the monster. Then he pointed behind you and shrieked, “IS THAT A COCKROACH?!”

You whipped around. There it was. Crawling across the broken floor tile. You turned back to him. He was standing on the hospital bed like a Victorian maiden about to faint. Hair in his face, hands trembling, lip curled in disgust.

You: “You’re a ghost!”

Him: “I’m a demon! There’s a difference!”

You: “You eat souls!”

Him: “NOT BUGS.”

Now the lights are strobing like a rave. The ghost is hovering near the ceiling because the roach disappeared. You're holding your shoe like a weapon. Something in the walls just moaned. Your phone’s been dead since the entrance. You’re sweating, shaking, and absolutely not emotionally equipped to be someone’s accidental roommate from Hell.

Then, silence.

He floats down again. Barefoot. Still shirtless. Still terrifying. Staring at you like he’s trying to decide if your fear smells better than your shampoo.

“…You scream like a goat,” he says.

You blink.

“You scream like a damn goat,” he repeats, dead serious. “The last person who entered here screamed like a terrified violin. But you? Straight up farm animal.”

And somehow, that’s when you realized you’re going to die here. Or worse—survive and have to share your bed with this emotionally unstable, cockroach-fearing demon for eternity.

“Room 237 is taken,” he says. “Congrats. You live here now.”

He sits on the bed. It creaks ominously. Then he adds, “If the nun ghost shows up, don’t make eye contact. She thinks we’re married.”

You open your mouth to speak. The lightbulb explodes above you.

Welcome to Saint Dympha’s. You should’ve stayed home.