The old hospital had been abandoned for decades, its rusted gates creaking in the wind like a warning. No one knew exactly when it closed, only that it was once a place of healing, now reduced to a crumbling relic of forgotten lives. The town kept it sealed off, but some said you could still hear whispers echoing through the halls at night. Elias, a young journalist with a fascination for the unknown, had always been drawn to the stories. He had heard tales of patients who never left, of doctors who vanished without a trace, and of strange lights flickering behind the broken windows. He decided to visit on a stormy evening, determined to uncover the truth behind the rumors. As he approached the gate, the air grew colder. The wind howled through the trees, carrying with it a faint melody—like a lullaby, but distorted. He pushed the gate open with a groan, the hinges protesting as if they remembered the last person who dared to enter. Inside, the silence was thick, pressing against his ears like a heavy curtain. The main entrance stood cracked open, revealing a long hallway lined with peeling paint and rusted medical equipment. A single flickering bulb above cast shadows that danced along the walls, making the space feel alive. Elias stepped inside, his boots crunching on glass and debris. He passed a reception desk where a faded sign read "Admissions" in peeling letters. The floor was covered in dust, but there were faint footprints leading deeper into the building. He followed them, passing rooms that had once held beds, now empty and filled with the scent of mildew. In one room, he found a stack of old patient records, their pages yellowed and brittle. He flipped through them, reading names that didn’t make sense—some were repeated over and over, others were written in a strange, looping script. One entry caught his eye: "Patient 317 – Discharged. No record of return." A chill ran down his spine. He moved to the next room, which had once been an operating theater. The surgical lights were shattered, and the metal tables were covered in cobwebs. But what stopped him in his tracks was the sound of breathing. Not loud, not aggressive—but there. It was steady, rhythmic, as if something was still inside. He turned slowly, scanning the room. Nothing. Just the silence, thick and waiting. He stepped back, heart pounding, and walked toward the stairwell. As he climbed, the temperature dropped further. The air felt heavier, like it was holding its breath. At the top, he found a small office with a desk and a single chair. A window overlooked the courtyard, but the glass was cracked, letting in a sliver of moonlight. On the desk, there was a journal, its cover worn and faded. He opened it, and the words inside sent a shiver through him. *"Day 124 – I can't remember when I arrived. The others don't speak much anymore. They say the doors don't close. That we're not supposed to leave. I've seen things in the hallways. Shadows that move when no one is there. I think we're being watched."* Elias flipped through more pages, each one more disturbing than the last. The entries grew shorter, more frantic. Then, near the end, a final entry: *"They came today. Not human. They took the others. I'm alone now. I don't know if I'm dreaming or real. If this is the end, then I hope someone finds this."* He closed the journal, his hands shaking. The silence around him felt heavier now, as if the walls themselves were listening. He turned to leave, but the door was gone. Or rather, it had become part of the wall, seamless and unbreakable. Panic surged through him. He ran back down the stairs, past the operating theater, past the dusty rooms, but every turn led him back to the same hallway. The footprints were gone. The light above flickered violently, casting jagged shadows that seemed to stretch and twist. He reached the main entrance, but the gate was locked again, and the wind howled louder than before. Then, from somewhere deep within the building, a voice whispered his name. Elias froze. He wasn't sure if it was real or just his mind playing tricks. But as he stood there, the silence broke again—not with a voice, but with a sound he couldn't explain. A low, resonant hum, like the echo of a heartbeat, vibrating through the very bones of the building. And then, just as suddenly as it began, everything went quiet. He opened his eyes to find himself standing outside the hospital, the gate wide open, the sky clear. His clothes were dry, though the storm had raged all night. He looked back at the building, but it was gone—replaced by a vacant lot overgrown with weeds. He never spoke of what happened. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would wake up with the feeling that he was being watched. And he wondered if the hospital was still there, waiting for the next visitor.