The old hospital had been abandoned for over thirty years, its rusted gates creaking in the wind like a whisper of forgotten secrets. No one knew exactly when it had closed, only that the last patient to leave had vanished without a trace. Locals spoke of strange lights flickering in the upper windows and the sound of laughter echoing through the empty halls at midnight. Most avoided the place, but a few curious souls, like a young journalist named Clara, couldn’t resist the pull of the unknown. Clara arrived on a cold autumn evening, her flashlight cutting through the thick fog that clung to the ground. The air smelled of damp concrete and something faintly sweet, like old flowers. As she stepped through the broken front door, the silence was almost oppressive. The walls were lined with peeling paint, and the floorboards groaned under her weight. She could hear the distant drip of water from somewhere above, as if the building itself was still alive, leaking memories. She wandered into what must have once been the main lobby, now a graveyard of dusty chairs and faded posters. A single flickering bulb overhead cast long shadows across the walls. In the far corner, she noticed a door slightly ajar, leading into a narrow hallway. The air here felt colder, and the deeper she walked, the more the temperature dropped. Her breath came out in visible clouds, and the silence grew heavier, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. At the end of the hall, she found a small room with a single bed, covered in a tattered sheet. Beside it was a desk with a stack of yellowed medical charts. One page caught her eye—marked with a name she didn’t recognize, but the date was recent: just three days ago. That didn’t make sense. The hospital had been closed for decades. As she reached for the paper, a soft voice echoed from behind her. “You shouldn’t be here.” She spun around, but the hallway was empty. The voice wasn’t loud, just calm, almost kind. She hesitated, then took a step back toward the door. But as she turned, the light above her flickered and died. Darkness swallowed the room. In the blackness, she heard footsteps—slow, deliberate, approaching from the other end of the hall. She pressed herself against the wall, heart pounding. The footsteps stopped. Then, a whisper: “You’re not the first.” A sudden gust of wind blew through the corridor, rattling the windowpanes. When the light returned, the door behind her was closed, and the hallway was empty. She ran, not stopping until she emerged into the parking lot, gasping for breath. The fog had lifted, and the moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie silver glow over the ruins. Back in her car, she sat for a moment, staring at the hospital. Something about it felt wrong, not because of fear, but because it seemed… unfinished. Like it was waiting for someone to return. She thought of the name on the chart, the voice, the footsteps. Had she really heard them? Or was it all in her head? The next day, she tried to find records of the hospital’s history, but the archives were incomplete. No one remembered when it had closed, and no one could explain the name on the chart. She even visited the local cemetery, hoping to find a record of the missing patient, but there were no graves matching the name. It was as if the person had never existed. That night, she dreamt of the hospital again. This time, she stood in the same room, the bed now occupied by a figure wrapped in white. The figure turned slowly, revealing a face that looked exactly like hers. It smiled, and said, “You’re not the first.” Then, the world went dark. When she woke, the clock read 3:07 a.m. She lay awake for hours, wondering if the dream was real or just a trick of her mind. But deep down, she knew the truth. The hospital wasn’t empty. It was waiting. And she had become part of its story.