Shadows of the Forgotten

The last rays of sunlight bled across the sky as Claire’s car rumbled down the overgrown path to Ashcroft Asylum. The building loomed ahead, its cracked façade tangled with ivy and decay. It had been abandoned for decades, yet Claire felt its pull—a tug on her memories she couldn’t ignore. Her father had worked here before his mysterious disappearance when she was just a child. Now, armed with a flashlight and determination, she returned to uncover the truth.

The wind whispered through the shattered windows as she stepped through the main doors. Inside, the asylum felt like a mausoleum, silent except for the creak of the floorboards beneath her boots. Faded signs marked the hallways: “Ward A”, “Treatment Room”, “Records.” It was the last that caught her attention.

Claire’s flashlight beam swept across the room as she entered. Filing cabinets stood like sentinels, their drawers askew. Papers littered the floor, some yellowed and brittle with age. She sifted through them, searching for anything linked to her father. Then, she found it: a file marked Dr. Richard Albright.

The contents were sparse, but a handwritten note slipped between the pages made her blood run cold:

He hears them. They come for him in the dark.

A distant sound broke her concentration—a soft shuffle, like feet dragging across the floor. Claire froze, her breath hitching. “Hello?” she called, the echo of her voice swallowed by the oppressive stillness.

The shuffle grew louder, closer. She spun toward the hallway, flashlight trembling in her grip. Shadows danced along the walls, flickering like candle flames. But there was no one there.

“Get a grip,” she muttered, forcing herself to focus. She stuffed the file into her bag and turned back to the hall. The air felt colder now, heavy with the scent of mildew and something metallic. She pressed on, her footsteps reluctant but steady.

She found the old patient records room on the second floor. The door was ajar, revealing rows of shelves that stretched into the gloom. As she searched, she became aware of a low murmuring. At first, she thought it was the wind, but the sound grew distinct: voices speaking in hushed, frantic tones.

Claire’s chest tightened. She followed the sound to the far corner of the room. There, scrawled across the wall in jagged black strokes, were the words:

THE FORGOTTEN REMEMBER.

Her flashlight flickered, and the voices stopped. The sudden silence was deafening. Claire backed away, but as she turned, she collided with something solid. She yelped, spinning around to find a row of shelves tipped over, blocking her path.

The air seemed to ripple, and from the shadows emerged a figure—or what was left of one. Its face was gaunt, eyes sunken and empty. Its mouth moved soundlessly, yet the murmurs returned, louder now, like a dozen voices speaking at once.

Claire stumbled backward, heart pounding. The figure reached out, its skeletal hand brushing her arm. A searing cold shot through her, and suddenly, her surroundings shifted.

She was no longer in the asylum. She stood in a brightly lit room, sterile and clinical. Doctors moved around her, their faces obscured by masks. On a gurney lay her father, restrained and struggling. His eyes met hers, wide with terror.

“Claire!” he shouted, his voice muffled but unmistakable. “Get out! Don’t let them—”

The scene dissolved, and she was back in the records room, gasping for air. The figure was gone, but the voices remained, whispering her name now. She clutched the file in her bag as though it were a lifeline and bolted from the room.

The hallway twisted unnaturally as she ran, the walls seeming to close in around her. Doors slammed shut of their own accord, and the flickering lights cast grotesque shadows that writhed like living things. She reached the stairwell and descended, only to find herself back on the second floor.

Panic clawed at her mind. “This isn’t real,” she said aloud, her voice shaking. “It’s the asylum playing tricks.”

A laugh echoed through the corridor, low and guttural. It wasn’t human. Claire turned to see the figure again, but now there were more of them, their forms distorted and wrong. They moved toward her with unnatural jerks, their mouths opening and closing as if gasping for air.

“Why are you here?” one of them rasped, the voice grating and layered with echoes.

“I’m looking for my father,” Claire managed, her voice barely above a whisper. “What happened to him?”

The figures stopped, their heads tilting in unison. One pointed a bony finger toward the end of the hall. “The truth is in the dark,” it said, before dissolving into shadow.

Claire hesitated, but she had no other choice. She followed their direction, the whispers growing louder with each step. They seemed to guide her to a door marked “Basement.”

The descent was treacherous, the stairs slick with moisture and the air thick with rot. At the bottom, she found herself in a chamber lit only by the faint glow of her flashlight. In the center was an operating table, rusted and stained. Surrounding it were journals and photographs, their contents chilling.

The journals detailed experiments conducted on patients, their minds pushed to the brink in an attempt to access a “shared consciousness.” The photographs showed gaunt figures, their faces twisted in agony. One image made her stomach drop: her father, strapped to the table, his eyes vacant.

A sudden surge of static filled the room, and the lights flickered on. Standing before her was the same gaunt figure from before, but now it spoke clearly, its voice eerily calm.

“They made us forget who we were,” it said. “But you can remember for us.”

“What do you want from me?” Claire demanded, her voice cracking.

“Take the truth to the world,” it said, gesturing to the journals. “And free us.”

Before she could respond, the figure reached out and touched her forehead. Claire’s vision blurred, and her mind flooded with images—patients screaming, doctors laughing, her father’s anguished face. Then, everything went black.

She awoke outside the asylum, the journals clutched to her chest. The building stood silent, its windows dark. Claire didn’t look back as she stumbled to her car and drove away.

In the days that followed, she published the journals, exposing the horrors of Ashcroft Asylum. The world reacted with shock and outrage, but Claire knew the truth went deeper than anyone could imagine.

The whispers still haunted her, reminding her that the forgotten were not gone. They were waiting—and watching.