The Forgotten Ward

Dr. Sarah Mallory always prided herself on her curiosity. As a new intern at St. Dorian’s Hospital, a place rumored to have a long and tragic history, she was eager to uncover its secrets. The hospital, an imposing building that loomed over the city like a silent sentinel, had been in operation for over a century, but rumors of strange happenings surrounded it. Patients spoke of eerie noises in the halls at night, while staff members whispered about the old, forgotten ward that had been sealed off for decades.

Though Sarah was told time and again that the ward had been abandoned after a series of unexplained events in the 1940s, something about it piqued her interest. It wasn’t just the strange tales she’d heard; there was something more—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Every time she walked through the old corridors, her eyes kept drifting to the distant, rusted door that led to the ward.

One evening, after a long shift, Sarah found herself alone in the hospital. The night had fallen cold, and the sterile hallways seemed empty, save for the occasional shuffle of a nurse's shoes or the murmur of distant voices. The urge to investigate the ward grew too strong to ignore. She told herself it was just a part of her training, a way to learn more about the hospital and its history. But deep down, she knew it wasn’t just curiosity driving her.

The door to the ward was locked, of course, but Sarah had been able to find a key earlier in the day while sorting through old files in the hospital archives. Her hands trembled slightly as she inserted the key into the lock, the cold metal clicking with an unnerving finality. As the door creaked open, a musty smell filled the air—like stale air trapped for decades.

She stepped inside.

The ward was a relic of a bygone era. Dust hung thick in the air, and old, faded hospital beds sat in rows, covered in torn sheets. The walls were cracked and peeling, and there was a layer of grime on every surface. But what struck Sarah the most was the silence. It wasn’t the peaceful silence of an empty room; it was the kind of silence that felt alive, oppressive, as if the very air held memories of something darker.

As she explored the room, Sarah’s flashlight flickered, casting long shadows across the floor. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her. She moved from room to room, the strange sense of being drawn deeper into the ward overwhelming her.

In one of the rooms, she found old patient records, yellowed with age and covered in dust. The names were mostly illegible, but one, in particular, stood out: Eleanor Finch. The notes spoke of strange symptoms—delirium, hallucinations, and violent outbursts. But the most disturbing part was the last entry: “Patient never seen again. No explanation for disappearance.”

Her heart began to race as a cold shiver ran down her spine. There was something about Eleanor Finch that unsettled her. She had to know more.

Sarah continued her search through the ward, the air growing colder with every step. Then, she found it—the old nurse’s station. It was in the back corner of the ward, hidden behind a collapsed wall, as if someone had intentionally tried to seal it away. The desk was covered in years of dust, but on the wall behind it was a large, cracked mirror. It was cracked, but intact, with an eerie reflection of the room—frozen in time, as if it had been untouched for decades.

She stared into the glass, and that’s when she saw it—a figure, standing behind her.

She spun around, but the room was empty. Her breath caught in her throat as she turned back to the mirror. The figure was still there, but now it was closer, its face a distorted blur.

Then, the reflection in the mirror began to move, its form slowly morphing, changing into something twisted and grotesque. It reached toward her with long, bony fingers.

Suddenly, a loud bang echoed through the ward, followed by whispers. Low, unintelligible murmurs that filled the air, making Sarah’s head spin. She felt her body go cold, and her mind raced. There was no escape. She had walked into a place where the past never truly left.

She tried to run, but her legs wouldn’t move. It felt as though something was holding her in place. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breath shallow as she struggled against the invisible force.

Then, a voice—soft and distant—whispered her name.

“Sarah…”

It was followed by a low, guttural laugh that echoed through the room, shaking the walls. She screamed, but the sound was muffled, swallowed by the darkness. Her mind began to unravel as the whispers grew louder, each word clearer than the last.

Her vision blurred, and she could see the figure again, now fully formed. It was Eleanor Finch, her hollow eyes staring into Sarah’s soul. The twisted form of the woman took a step forward, her hand reaching out, cold as ice.

“Don’t leave… you’re just like us now…” the voice rasped.

Suddenly, the hospital lights flickered and then died completely. The only sound in the room was the sound of Sarah’s breathing, ragged and panicked. She tried to move, but it was too late.

The last thing she heard was a soft whisper, a promise of something worse to come. “You’ll never leave this place…”

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