The old hospital had stood at the edge of town for over a century, its red-brick walls weathered by time and neglect. No one really knew when it had stopped admitting patients, but rumors swirled that the building still held secrets—secrets that only the brave or foolish dared to uncover. Most people avoided the place, especially after dark, when the wind would whistle through broken windows like a mournful whisper. Lila had always been curious, drawn to the strange and unexplained. She was a student of folklore and local history, and the abandoned hospital was the perfect subject for her thesis. She had heard stories from the townsfolk about ghostly figures wandering the halls, about doctors who never left, and about a hidden wing that no one could find. But she dismissed most of it as superstition—until she found the journal. It was tucked inside a rusted filing cabinet in the basement, the pages brittle with age. The handwriting was jagged and uneven, as if written in a hurry. The entries spoke of a mysterious illness that had swept through the hospital in 1947, a disease that left patients in a deep, unresponsive sleep. The staff had tried everything, but nothing worked. Eventually, the hospital was closed, and the patients were never seen again. Lila spent days reading the journal, piecing together fragments of the past. She noticed something odd—every entry ended with the same phrase: "They are still here." She couldn't shake the feeling that the words were meant for her. One evening, she decided to explore the hospital herself. Armed with a flashlight and a notebook, she stepped through the rusted gate and into the forgotten corridors. The air was thick with dust and the scent of mildew. Flickering lights overhead cast long shadows on the walls, and the silence was oppressive. She moved carefully, listening for any sound beyond her own breathing. She found the main hallway, where rows of empty beds lined the walls. Some had sheets pulled up neatly, as if waiting for someone to return. In the center of the room stood a large clock, frozen at 3:17 a.m. She glanced at her watch—3:16. A chill ran down her spine. As she ventured deeper, she stumbled upon a set of double doors marked "Restricted Access." They were slightly ajar, as if someone had left in a hurry. Inside was a small room with a single chair and a desk covered in yellowing papers. On the desk sat a typewriter, and beside it, a stack of files labeled "Case #47-12." She opened one and found a photo of a young woman, her face pale and lifeless, lying in a hospital bed. The name on the file read "Eleanor Voss." Lila’s heart pounded. She turned to the next page and saw her own name scrawled in the same jagged handwriting as the journal. Her breath caught in her throat. Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind her. The lights flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness. Lila’s flashlight died too, leaving her in total blackness. She could hear breathing—slow, steady, and close. She backed toward the wall, her hands trembling. Then, a voice whispered in her ear, soft and familiar: "You shouldn’t have come here." She spun around, but there was no one there. The air grew colder, and the temperature dropped rapidly. She felt a presence pressing against her, not physically, but mentally, like an unseen force trying to push into her mind. She stumbled backward, knocking over a chair. The sound echoed through the empty halls, and then—silence. When she finally managed to get back to the entrance, the hospital seemed different. The walls looked newer, the air cleaner. She looked back, but the building had vanished, replaced by an empty field. She didn’t remember walking there, nor did she know how long she had been inside. The journal was gone, and so was the file with her name. Back in her dorm, Lila tried to write about her experience, but the words wouldn’t come. She kept seeing Eleanor Voss’s face in her mind, her eyes wide and pleading. And every night, she dreamed of the hospital, of the clock that never moved, and of a voice that called her name. She never went back. But sometimes, when the wind blew just right, she swore she could hear footsteps in the empty halls, and the faint echo of a voice saying, "You’re still here."