Don't Open the Thirteenth Door

The old Blackridge Asylum had been shut down for over forty years. Locals called it the hollow heart of the forest, a place swallowed by ivy and whispered rumors. Parents warned their kids to stay away, and even birds avoided the crumbling roof.

But Jamie wasn’t the kind to listen.

Seventeen and obsessed with the supernatural, Jamie ran a YouTube channel where he explored abandoned places and dared the darkness to show its face. “Real horror, not Hollywood crap,” he’d say.

So when he heard about Blackridge—the asylum where thirteen children vanished before it was shut down—he knew exactly where he was going on Halloween night.

Alone.

---

The main gate creaked open like a warning breath. The place smelled like mildew, dust, and old metal. His flashlight beam danced across wheelchairs, overturned gurneys, and shattered glass.

He recorded everything. "This is it," he whispered into the mic. "Blackridge. Forty-two confirmed deaths. Thirteen missing. And tonight, I’m going to find out why.”

He followed an old map he found online, winding through a maze of crumbling corridors until he reached the patient wing.

Twelve doors lined the hallway, each numbered in fading gold paint.

But there was a thirteenth door.

No number. No record. Just an old wooden door with a massive red X carved across it—like someone tried to keep whatever was inside from ever coming out.

Naturally, Jamie went straight to it.

---

He ran his fingers across the red X.

“Some say this door was never meant to exist,” he said into the camera. “That it only shows up to certain people. Lucky me, right?”

The doorknob was ice-cold. As he turned it, a sudden gust of air hit him from underneath—like something had been waiting on the other side.

Inside was a small, windowless room.

A rusted iron bed stood in the center, its leather restraints still buckled, as if waiting. Chains hung from the ceiling like metal vines. Along the wall: dozens of children’s shoes, arranged in rows, covered in dust.

A cracked mirror leaned in the corner, smudged with handprints and something darker.

And on the far wall, scratched into the plaster with what looked like fingernails, was one word:

STAY.

---

Jamie stepped in.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He spun. Reached for the handle.

It was gone.

The flashlight died.

Darkness swallowed him like a wave.

He fumbled for his phone. No signal. But the camera worked. He used the screen light to scan the room again.

In the reflection of the mirror—

a little girl stood behind him.

Pale. Thin. Dressed in a hospital gown. Her head was tilted slightly, and her eyes—pitch black.

He turned. Nothing there.

Looked back at the screen.

She was closer.

---

The shoes began to shift.

One by one. Turning, scraping across the floor. As if unseen children had just stood up.

The chains above rattled. The walls began to whisper—soft at first, then louder.

“He’s here...”

“He opened it...”

“He’s one of us now...”

Jamie’s hands shook. His breaths came fast and shallow.

Then his reflection in the mirror stopped matching his movements.

He stepped back. The reflection didn’t.

He lifted his arm.

The reflection smiled.

Then its mouth began to stretch. Wider. Too wide. A mouth that kept growing until it nearly split its face.

A hand reached out from the mirror—cold, decayed fingers brushing Jamie’s neck.

He screamed and dropped the phone.

The camera hit the floor and cracked, still filming upward.

The last image it captured was Jamie’s terrified face being dragged into the mirror—then static.

---

The next morning, police arrived after Jamie's friends reported him missing.

They found the camera still recording. The thirteenth door was sealed shut. No handle. No keyhole. Just the faint imprint of a red X.

They never found Jamie.

But those who have watched the recovered footage say sometimes, if you pause the video at the right moment, you can see the little girl blink.

---

Locals say the thirteenth door still appears in the asylum—though not for everyone. But if you find it, and if you knock three times, something will knock back.

And if you hear your name whispered from behind the mirror...

Run.

But most don’t.

And those who don’t?

They join the whispers.

---

Moral:

Not every locked door is meant to be opened. Some truths aren’t hidden—they’re buried. And if you dig too deep, they don’t stay buried for long.