The old hospital had stood on the edge of the town for over a century, its red brick walls weathered by time and wind. No one knew exactly when it had closed, but rumors swirled that it was abandoned after a string of strange disappearances in the 1950s. The locals avoided the place, whispering about ghosts and doctors who never left. But to some, like Elise, it was a place of curiosity rather than fear. She had always been drawn to the unknown. While others saw decay, she saw stories waiting to be uncovered. One rainy evening, she found herself standing before the iron gates, their rusted hinges groaning as if protesting her presence. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic, like blood or old secrets. Inside, the halls were silent, save for the occasional drip of water from a broken pipe. The floorboards creaked under her feet, and the flickering overhead lights cast long shadows that seemed to move when she wasn’t looking. She passed rooms filled with dusty medical equipment, cabinets with broken glass, and beds that still held the faint outlines of sheets. In one corner, a wheelchair sat tilted, as though someone had just left it there. In the basement, she found the records room. Dust covered the filing cabinets, and the air was colder here, almost suffocating. As she pored over yellowed files, she noticed a pattern: patients admitted with no known cause of illness, all disappearing within days. Some had no records at all, only blank pages where names should have been. A name caught her eye—Dr. Evelyn Cross. She had been the head physician during the hospital’s final years, and her last entry was dated October 31st, 1957. Elise found a journal tucked inside a drawer. The handwriting was jagged, frantic. "They are not sick," it read. "They are chosen. I cannot stop it. The doors open at midnight. They come for the ones who listen." The next page was torn out, leaving only a smudge of ink that looked like a handprint. As she turned the page, a cold draft swept through the room, extinguishing the flashlight in her hand. Darkness swallowed her, and for a moment, she heard whispers—low, murmuring voices that didn’t belong to anyone she could see. Then, a sound from above: footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving toward the basement. Elise froze. The door creaked open, and a shadow moved against the wall. She backed away, heart pounding, until she stumbled into a cabinet. A metal tray clattered to the floor, and the noise echoed through the empty halls. The footsteps stopped. Silence. Then, a voice—soft, calm, and familiar. “You shouldn’t have come here.” She turned, but no one was there. The temperature dropped, and the air felt heavy, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. She ran, stumbling up the stairs, her hands scraping against the cold stone. When she finally reached the surface, the rain had stopped, and the sky was clear, but the hospital loomed behind her like a forgotten dream. The next day, Elise told no one what she had seen. But late at night, she would hear the same whispers in her dreams, and every so often, she’d find a small, white envelope on her doorstep. Inside was a single word: *Remember.* She never opened them. But sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, she swore she saw a reflection that wasn’t quite her own—eyes wide, mouth slightly open, as if trying to say something. And in the silence between heartbeats, she wondered if the hospital had taken more than just the patients. Maybe it had taken pieces of those who dared to look too closely.