The old hospital had been abandoned for decades, its rusted gates creaking in the wind like a forgotten lullaby. No one knew exactly when it had closed, but rumors of strange occurrences had persisted long after the last patient left. Some said it was cursed, others claimed it was just a place where time had stopped. Whatever the truth, it remained a place few dared to visit. One evening, a young woman named Elise found herself wandering through the overgrown grounds, drawn by an inexplicable pull. She had heard stories about the hospital from her grandmother, who spoke of shadowy figures moving between the halls and whispers that never quite made sense. But Elise wasn't afraid—she was curious. She had always believed in the unseen, in the quiet power of things that couldn’t be explained. She pushed open the heavy door, which groaned as if protesting her intrusion. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of mildew. The flickering light from her flashlight cast jagged shadows on the cracked walls. The hallway stretched endlessly, lined with doors that seemed to breathe slightly when she passed. She didn’t know why, but she felt watched—not by anything visible, but by something that existed just beyond her perception. At the end of the corridor, she found a room labeled “Storage.” It was locked, but the key was still in the door. As she turned the handle, a cold draft swept past her, carrying with it a faint, melodic hum. The room was filled with old medical equipment, some of which looked more like relics than tools. On the far wall, there was a mirror, its surface fogged and uneven. She stepped closer, and for a moment, she thought she saw someone behind her. But when she turned, the room was empty. Still, the mirror reflected not her face, but a child’s—small, wide-eyed, and staring directly back at her. Elise gasped and stumbled back, knocking over a stack of files. They scattered across the floor, revealing old records of patients who had died under mysterious circumstances. Names were crossed out, dates erased, and notes scrawled in a shaky hand: *“Not yet ready.”* She left the room quickly, heart pounding, and wandered deeper into the building. The floors creaked beneath her feet, and the walls seemed to pulse like they were alive. In one of the waiting rooms, she found a desk covered in yellowed newspapers from the 1970s. One headline caught her eye: *“Local Hospital Suspended After Patient Disappearances.”* She read further, but the articles were incomplete, as if someone had tried to erase the truth. As she climbed the stairs to the second floor, the temperature dropped sharply. Her breath formed clouds in the air, and the flashlight flickered before dying completely. She fumbled for her phone, but the screen was dark. Panic crept in, but she forced herself to stay calm. Then, she heard it—a soft, rhythmic tapping, like fingers on glass. It came from the end of the hall, where a single door stood ajar. Inside, the room was empty except for a single chair and a small table. On the table sat a cup of tea, steaming despite the lack of heat. A note lay beside it, written in the same shaky handwriting as the files: *“You’re not alone.”* Elise’s hands trembled as she reached for the cup, but before she could touch it, the door slammed shut behind her. The lights suddenly flared on, revealing a series of photographs on the walls. Each showed a different patient, all with the same blank expression, their eyes fixed on the camera. One of them, however, was different. It was a picture of Elise, taken from behind, her back to the lens, her head tilted slightly as if looking over her shoulder. She spun around, but the room was empty again. A low voice whispered in her ear, “You’ve come back.” She turned, but no one was there. The voice was familiar, like a memory she couldn’t place. She ran down the stairs, past the storage room, and out into the night. The wind howled around her, and the hospital loomed behind her like a sleeping giant. Back home, she tried to shake the feeling, but it lingered. The next day, she checked the local archives and found a list of patients who had disappeared from the hospital in the 1970s. Among them was a girl named Elise, born in 1962. Her file was marked “Closed,” but the reason was redacted. When she asked about it, the archivist gave her a strange look and said, “That hospital was never meant to be reopened.” That night, she dreamed of the mirror again. This time, the child’s face was hers. And in the reflection, she saw a door slowly opening, revealing a hallway she had never seen before.