The old building stood at the edge of town, half hidden by ivy and time. No one knew when it was built or who had lived there before. Some said it was a schoolhouse, others claimed it was a sanitarium, and a few whispered that it had once been a place where people disappeared without a trace. Whatever the truth, the building had long since been abandoned, its windows broken, its doors sagging on rusted hinges. Most people avoided it, but a few curious souls found themselves drawn to its silent presence. Among them was Elise, a young woman with a fascination for forgotten places. She had heard the stories—of shadows moving where there should be none, of whispers in empty halls, of doors that creaked open when no one was near. But she wasn’t afraid. Not yet. One autumn evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in hues of amber and violet, Elise made her way to the building. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying wood. As she approached, she noticed something strange: the iron gate, which had always been locked, was slightly ajar. It didn’t seem like it had been forced open. It just… opened. Inside, the silence was heavy, pressing against her ears. Dust motes floated in the dim light that filtered through the cracked windows. The floorboards groaned under her feet as she stepped into what had once been a foyer. A faded sign above the door read "St. Agnes Orphanage." She hadn’t known it was an orphanage. She moved deeper into the building, past rooms that had once held beds and desks, now reduced to skeletal remains. In one room, a child’s doll sat on a shelf, its head tilted slightly, as if watching her. Elise hesitated, then turned away. In the hallway, she found a staircase leading up. The steps were uneven, some missing entirely. She climbed slowly, each step echoing in the stillness. At the top, there was a small room with a single window. Inside, a desk sat in the center, covered in dust. On the desk, a journal lay open. The pages were yellowed, the ink faded, but the words were legible: *"October 12th, 1947. They are not gone. They never left. I hear them in the walls. They whisper my name. I think they want me to stay."* Elise’s breath caught. She flipped through the journal, finding more entries. Each one grew more frantic, more desperate. The last entry was written in jagged letters, almost as if the writer had been shaking: *"I can't escape them. They're inside me now. They’re waiting."* She closed the journal and stepped back, heart pounding. Something about the room felt wrong, as if the air itself had changed. She turned to leave, but the door was gone. Or rather, it was there, but the handle wouldn’t turn. She tried pushing, pulling, even kicking, but nothing worked. The walls seemed to press in, the silence louder than before. Then she heard it—a soft, rhythmic tapping, like fingers on glass. It came from the window. She looked up and saw a small hand pressed against the glass, tiny and pale. The hand moved, reaching toward her. Elise backed away, her breath shallow. The tapping stopped. The hand vanished. She closed her eyes, trying to steady herself. When she opened them again, the door was open. She rushed out, down the stairs, and back into the cold night air. The building behind her seemed to sigh, as if exhaling a long-held breath. But as she walked away, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed her. Not physically, but in her mind. The journal, the voice, the hand—each left a mark. And in the quiet of the night, she could still hear the faintest whisper, like a memory she wasn’t sure was real. The building stood as it always had, waiting. Watching. Perhaps, one day, someone else would come looking for answers. But until then, it would keep its secrets, and the echoes of those who had never truly left.