Midnight Whispers

The road was long and winding, flanked by towering trees that swallowed the headlights of Jason’s car. His fingers gripped the wheel as he checked the map on his phone. There it was—the old Whitmore Asylum.

A chill ran down his spine as he pulled up to the rusting gates. The iron bars, twisted and broken in places, still bore the remnants of a sign that once read Whitmore Mental Institution. The locals whispered about the asylum, telling stories of ghostly wails that floated from the windows and shadows that moved on their own. But Jason wasn’t one to believe in ghost stories—he was a journalist in search of a gripping story, something eerie enough to go viral.

Armed with only a flashlight, a notepad, and his phone, he pushed open the creaking gate. The crunch of gravel beneath his boots was the only sound as he approached the entrance. The heavy wooden door, weathered and cracked, resisted at first but gave way with a groan.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and decay. Moonlight filtered through broken windows, casting jagged shadows on the walls. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional drip of water from the ceiling. Jason’s breath hitched as he stepped forward, his flashlight beam bouncing off peeling paint and graffiti that warned LEAVE NOW and THEY NEVER LEFT.

His footsteps echoed eerily as he moved deeper into the asylum. He passed rusted gurneys, old patient files strewn across the floor, and wheelchairs left abandoned in corners as if their occupants had simply vanished. The deeper he ventured, the more oppressive the air became, as if the walls themselves held their breath.

Then he heard it.

A whisper.

Jason froze. It was faint, barely more than a breath, but unmistakable. A voice. A whisper.

He swung his flashlight around, illuminating nothing but empty halls and forgotten debris. His heartbeat quickened, but he forced himself to press on. Maybe the wind? Maybe an animal? His rational mind struggled against the rising tide of dread.

As he reached what appeared to be a patient ward, the whispers grew louder, more distinct. Words swirled around him, just out of comprehension, layered on top of each other like a dozen voices speaking at once.

Then—

A door slammed.

Jason whirled around, his flashlight shaking. The door at the end of the hallway, which had been ajar, now stood firmly closed. He swallowed hard, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Against every ounce of reason, he stepped forward and grasped the knob.

The door swung open with an unnatural ease, revealing a dimly lit room. In the center sat an old hospital bed, its mattress torn and stained. Restraints dangled from the sides, swaying gently as if recently disturbed.

Then he saw it.

A figure in the far corner, half-hidden in the shadows.

Jason’s breath caught in his throat. The flashlight flickered, casting fleeting glimpses of a frail, hunched form, its long, bony fingers curled against the floor.

“Help me,” the voice whispered, barely audible.

Jason stepped back. His instincts screamed at him to run, but his journalist’s curiosity fought against it. He took a slow, cautious step forward, raising the flashlight.

The figure moved.

A sudden gust of cold air blasted through the room as the shape lunged toward him. Jason stumbled backward, his flashlight clattering to the ground. The whispers erupted into a cacophony of voices, overlapping in a frenzied chorus of despair and rage.

Scrambling to his feet, Jason grabbed his flashlight and sprinted down the hall. The air around him grew suffocatingly thick, the shadows stretching and shifting as if alive. He could feel something following, something just beyond his vision, breathing down his neck.

He reached the entrance, practically throwing himself through the door and into the night. The asylum loomed behind him, silent once more, its secrets swallowed in the darkness.

Gasping for breath, Jason fumbled for his car keys. As he slid behind the wheel and turned the ignition, his phone vibrated violently.

A message.

Hands shaking, he opened it.

A photo.

A grainy, distorted image of the room he had just escaped. And in the corner—

The figure, staring directly into the camera.

Jason’s blood ran cold. His car roared to life, tires screeching against the gravel as he sped away, the asylum’s whispers still echoing in his mind.

He never wrote the article.

But the whispers never stopped.