The old hospital had stood on the edge of town for over a century, its red-brick walls weathered and its windows clouded with dust. No one knew exactly when it had stopped accepting patients, but rumors swirled that it had been abandoned for decades. Still, some claimed to see lights flickering in the upper floors, and others swore they heard whispers echoing through the empty halls at night. Eli was a young journalist with a fascination for forgotten places. He had read about the hospital in an old newspaper clipping, buried in the archives of a dusty library. The article mentioned strange occurrences—patients disappearing without a trace, doctors vanishing, and a series of unexplained deaths. It all added up to something more than just neglect. Eli decided to visit, not because he believed in ghosts, but because he wanted to uncover the truth. The gate creaked as he pushed it open, the rusted hinges groaning like a wounded beast. The grounds were overgrown, weeds spilling from cracks in the pavement. A single streetlamp flickered weakly above the entrance, casting long shadows across the broken steps. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of mildew and something older, something almost metallic. The main lobby was frozen in time. A reception desk sat untouched, its surface covered in a fine layer of dust. A clock on the wall had stopped at 3:17, its hands frozen in place. Eli moved carefully, his footsteps muffled by the carpet that had once been red but now looked gray and lifeless. He passed a row of doors, each marked with numbers that no longer matched any known ward. He found himself drawn to the stairwell. The wooden steps groaned under his weight as he climbed, the sound echoing strangely in the silence. At the top, the hallway was dimly lit by a single bulb that buzzed faintly. Doors lined the walls, some slightly ajar, others sealed shut. He noticed that the numbers on the doors were different from those below—numbers that didn’t match any hospital records he had ever seen. One door caught his eye. It was slightly open, and from inside, he could hear a soft humming, like a lullaby played on an old radio. He hesitated, then stepped inside. The room was small, with peeling wallpaper and a single window that overlooked the city. A bed sat in the corner, its sheets taut and clean, as if someone had just left it. On the desk, a photo lay face down, its edges curled. Eli picked it up and turned it over. It was a group photo of nurses and doctors, all smiling, but their faces were blurred, as if they had been smudged by time or something else. He set it down quickly, feeling a chill creep up his spine. As he turned to leave, the door slammed shut behind him. Panic surged through him, but he forced himself to stay calm. He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. The hum grew louder, and the air became colder. Then, from the corner of the room, a shadow moved. Not a person, not a reflection, but something else—something that watched him without eyes. He backed toward the door, heart pounding, when the light overhead flickered and went out. In the darkness, the whispering began. It wasn’t words, but a sound like wind through a hollow pipe, low and mournful. It wrapped around him, pressing against his thoughts, filling his mind with fragments of memories that weren’t his. Then, just as suddenly as it started, the sound stopped. The door creaked open, and Eli stumbled into the hallway, gasping for breath. He ran down the stairs, past the silent lobby, and out into the night. The hospital loomed behind him, its windows dark, its presence still lingering like a dream he couldn’t quite remember. He never wrote the story. He couldn’t. Every time he tried to put it into words, the pages would become blank, as if the paper itself refused to hold the memory. But sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still hear that whisper, and feel the cold touch of something watching, waiting, just beyond the edge of the real world.