The old hospital had been abandoned for over thirty years, its rusted gates and cracked walls standing as a silent testament to forgotten lives. Most people avoided the place, whispering about strange occurrences—echoes of laughter in empty halls, lights flickering without cause, and the occasional sound of a child's voice calling out from the shadows. But for some, it was a magnet, a place where curiosity outweighed fear. Elias had always been drawn to the unusual. As a young journalist with a penchant for the obscure, he found himself researching the history of the now-derelict St. Elmo’s Hospital. The more he read, the more he felt an inexplicable pull toward the building. He wasn’t sure if it was the stories or something else, but the moment he set foot on the grounds, he knew he had to go inside. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and decay. Sunlight barely reached the ground through the broken windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. Elias moved carefully, his boots crunching over glass and debris. The main hall was eerily intact, with faded murals of saints and angels peeling off the walls. A few medical instruments lay scattered on the floor, their rusted edges glinting in the dim light. He wandered into what must have once been the patient wing. Rows of beds stood like sentinels, their frames bent and broken. A single window above each bed was shattered, allowing a cold wind to whistle through the empty space. As he passed one of the beds, he noticed a small, folded piece of paper tucked beneath the mattress. It was yellowed with age, the ink faded but legible. "Please don't let them take me again." Elias froze. The message was written in a childish hand, but the words sent a chill down his spine. He looked around, expecting someone to be watching, but the silence was absolute. He pocketed the note and continued deeper into the building. In the basement, the air grew colder, and the walls seemed to close in. A heavy door led to what appeared to be a storage room, but instead of boxes, there were shelves filled with jars. Each jar contained a small, preserved object—some human, others not. Elias stepped closer, his breath shallow. One jar held a tiny hand, curled and lifeless. Another contained a single eye, its pupil still wide open. He turned away, heart pounding. As he made his way back upstairs, he heard a faint sound—a soft, rhythmic tapping. It came from the second floor, near what had once been the nurses’ station. He approached cautiously, the sound growing louder. When he reached the room, he found no one there, but the tapping continued. It was coming from behind a locked door. Elias tried the handle. It was locked. He knocked, but there was no response. Then, the tapping stopped. A moment later, a voice whispered, "Help me." He stumbled back, heart racing. The voice was clear, yet distant, as if it had come from another time. He ran from the room, not looking back. The moment he exited the hospital, the air felt lighter, the world brighter. But the feeling didn’t last. That night, Elias dreamt of the hospital again. He saw children running through the halls, laughing, their faces pale and hollow. They called his name, beckoning him forward. He tried to run, but the doors would not open. In the dream, he found himself back in the basement, standing before the jars. One of them opened, and a small hand reached out toward him. He woke up drenched in sweat, the same whisper echoing in his mind: "Help me." The next morning, Elias returned to the hospital, determined to uncover the truth. He searched every corner, every room, until he found a hidden chamber behind a false wall. Inside, there were records—patient files, dated decades ago. All the names were the same: children, all under the care of Dr. Lorne, who had vanished shortly after the hospital closed. As he leafed through the documents, a single entry caught his eye. It described a boy named Samuel, admitted for "mental instability," but the notes were unclear. The final entry read: "Patient refused treatment. Disappeared during the night." Elias felt a weight settle in his chest. He left the hospital that day, but the questions remained. Why had the children been there? What had happened to them? And why did the hospital still call to him, even now? He never spoke of the experience to anyone, but sometimes, when the wind blew just right, he swore he could hear the whispers again. Not from the past, but from somewhere inside him. A part of the hospital that had never truly gone away.