"I Spent the Night in the Abandoned Asylum Everyone Warned Me About — I Should've Listened"

Everyone in my hometown has a story about the old Blackridge Asylum.

Some say it’s haunted by the patients who were forgotten. Others swear they've seen faces watching from the broken windows. There’s even an old urban legend that a nurse went mad and stitched patients’ eyes open so they’d “never stop watching.” I always chalked it up to small-town gossip and bored teenagers. I never believed any of it.

Until last weekend.

I’d just finished a college documentary project and wanted something thrilling for my next upload—something that would get views. So, I posted on Reddit asking for spooky suggestions in rural Pennsylvania. Blackridge Asylum came up again and again.

“Don’t go alone.”

“Something watches from the third floor.”

“I went once. My friend never talks about what happened.”

It was perfect.

Armed with a flashlight, my GoPro, and a fully charged phone, I drove two hours to the crumbling remains of Blackridge. The place was fenced off, of course, but part of the barrier was bent like someone—or something—had crawled through. I ducked under and stepped into the rotting courtyard, adrenaline already kicking in.

At first, it was just what I expected—graffiti-covered walls, moldy floors, smashed windows, and the stench of mildew and decay. I wandered the halls, whispering commentary into my mic, trying to act braver than I felt.

I didn’t even notice the silence at first.

No wind. No distant car noises. Not even the chirping of insects. Just a heavy, unnatural stillness.

About an hour in, I made it to the central stairwell. I don’t know why, but something about the third floor pulled at me. Maybe curiosity. Maybe ego. Maybe something else.

The third floor was colder.

I could see my breath in the beam of the flashlight, even though it was a warm July night. The walls were cleaner here, less graffiti. The silence felt heavier.

That’s when I heard it.

A soft wheezing breath… not mine… coming from one of the patient rooms.

I froze.

“Probably the wind,” I whispered to the camera, though I knew it wasn’t.

I slowly pushed open the nearest door. The flashlight flickered—just for a second—but enough to send panic crawling through me.

The room was empty.

A rusted bed frame, cracked tile floors, and an overturned medical tray. Nothing more.

I turned to leave—and froze.

There was a mirror on the far wall I hadn’t noticed before. And in it, I saw someone standing behind me.

I spun around.

No one.

The room was empty, just like before.

I turned back to the mirror.

Still there.

Not a reflection of me. Someone else. A patient in a hospital gown, their face pale, their mouth open in a silent scream, and their eyes—stitched open with thick black thread.

I dropped the flashlight. The beam spun wildly, making shadows jump across the walls.

When I picked it up, the mirror was cracked. Shattered. But I hadn’t heard a sound.

I bolted out of the room, but every hallway looked the same now—gray walls, flickering lights, endless rows of doors. I was running, trying to find the stairs, when I saw it again.

The same patient. Standing still at the end of the hall.

Then another—closer.

And another.

Dozens. All with those awful, unblinking eyes.

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I just ran.

I burst through a set of double doors and found myself in what must’ve been the operating theater. Metal tables, restraints, rusted surgical tools still laid out as if waiting for a patient.

Then I heard it.

A woman’s voice humming softly. A lullaby. Familiar. My mother used to hum it to me when I was little.

But this was wrong.

Slower. Off-key. Menacing.

The humming grew louder.

Then, footsteps. Not hurried. Calm. Deliberate.

I backed into the corner, heart hammering in my chest. My flashlight flickered again, and when it came back, she was there.

The nurse.

Tall. Pale. Eyes empty sockets stitched crudely shut. She smiled without lips.

“Time for your treatment,” she whispered.

That’s when I passed out.

I don’t know how long I was unconscious. I woke up on the lawn outside, gasping for air, covered in dirt and old blood. My phone was gone. The GoPro was cracked, but the footage was still intact—at least some of it.

But here’s the worst part.

When I got home and reviewed the video, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before.

In the very beginning of the footage—before I even entered the building—there was a face in the second-floor window watching me.

It was the nurse.

She was waiting.

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And sometimes… I still hear the humming when I try to sleep.

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