The asylum stood at the edge of the city, surrounded by trees that never seemed to sway, as if frozen in time. Its gates opened with a groan that seemed to echo too long, as if unwilling to let her leave once she entered. The walls inside were damp, with stains that looked like faces melted halfway into the plaster. The smell of bleach mixed with something older, like dust that had been locked inside for decades.
Her room was bare: a narrow bed, steel railings, a small covered window, and a single dim bulb that buzzed at night. Silence here was different. It didn’t soothe her—it pressed into her chest until she felt she could not breathe.
On the first night, she lay still, trying to convince herself she was imagining things. Yet she saw it. A long, thin shadow stretched across the far wall even though there was nothing to cast it. It stayed there, motionless, watching her. She whispered a prayer and forced herself to look away, her fingers tapping against the railing, three times in the same rhythm. One-two-three. One-two-three.
If she didn’t tap, the shadows grew closer. She could feel them crawl at the edge of her vision, bending themselves toward her.
By the third night, she was certain of it. They were alive.
She woke to the sound of faint breathing. At first she thought it was one of the other women in the ward. But when she sat up, her gaze fell on the corner near the bed. Something darker than dark stood there, tall and faceless. Its chest rose and fell too quickly, like panting. She reached for the bell but froze, afraid the faintest sound might provoke it.
She tapped the rail desperately. One-two-three. One-two-three. The shadow twitched. For a moment, she thought she had won. But then, slowly, it bent forward as if bowing toward her, and without a sound, it sank into the floor.
The staff said she was paranoid. They gave her small white pills each morning. "To calm you," they said. But the pills only blurred her mind. Shadows bled into her vision at all hours, slipping along the walls, sometimes laughing without mouths. Worse still were the voices.
They came at night, whispering just behind her ear. Sometimes they sounded like her late husband. Sometimes they sounded like her own voice, low and cruel.
One night the voice hissed: “You left the gas on in your kitchen. By now the flame has eaten the walls. Your grandchildren are choking inside. Their tiny hands are scratching the windows.”
Her fingers twitched violently as she started tapping again, harder this time, until blood stained the steel. She whispered numbers over and over. The nurses pulled her wrists away, but whenever she stopped, the whispers roared louder.
The other patients didn’t care, except for one girl. She was thin, with hollow eyes that never blinked enough. The girl sat on her bed muttering to herself until their gazes met. That night, the girl leaned close, her hair in clumps around her face, and whispered:
“They feed on obsession. They want you to count. Every time you do, they take more of you. When you stop, they take all of you.”
That night, as rain cracked across the roof, shadows spread like spilled ink across the walls. They stretched, twisting into human forms with long arms and no faces. The whispers multiplied, hundreds of voices climbing into her skull.
“You failed them.”
“They screamed for you.”
“They are burning. They are waiting.”
The room grew colder. The bulb flickered. When she looked into the small windowpane, she saw her reflection—but its eyes were sunken voids, and its mouth grinned wide enough to split her face into two.
She screamed, her nails tearing the paint from the wall as the nurses burst in. They strapped her down against her bed shouting that she was hallucinating. But behind their backs, the black shapes crowded close, their crooked arms rising, touching the air like smoke ready to ignite.
The injection quieted her body, never her mind. As the nurses left, silence returned, broken only by faint humming.
She turned her head. The hollow-eyed girl was watching from her bed, swaying softly as she hummed a rhythm. One-two-three. One-two-three.
But the girl wasn’t alone. Shadows bent behind her like puppeteers. One placed a long thin finger on the girl’s throat, yet she kept humming without fear. Her head turned too far, her mouth opening unnaturally wide.
The old woman shut her eyes, praying, but shadows curl in darkness even when you refuse to look at them. She forced her hands to tap. One-two-three. One-two-three. Her ritual was all she had left.
This time, however, her fingers did not move. They were still, locked down by something colder than her own flesh.
The humming stopped. The silence thickened. Then the tapping began again.
Slow. Patient. Terribly familiar.
But the sound no longer came from her bed. It echoed from every wall of the room—as if hundreds of invisible hands were tapping from inside the plaster.
One. Two. Three.
And then she realised, with growing terror, that they were not just feeding on her anymore. They were multiplying her.
The asylum had more shadows now.
By the third night, she was certain of it. They were alive.
She woke to the sound of faint breathing. At first she thought it was one of the other women in the ward. But when she sat up, her gaze fell on the corner near the bed. Something darker than dark stood there, tall and faceless. Its chest rose and fell too quickly, like panting. She reached for the bell but froze, afraid the faintest sound might provoke it.
She tapped the rail desperately. One-two-three. One-two-three. The shadow twitched. For a moment, she thought she had won. But then, slowly, it bent forward as if bowing toward her, and without a sound, it sank into the floor.
The staff said she was paranoid. They gave her small white pills each morning. "To calm you," they said. But the pills only blurred her mind. Shadows bled into her vision at all hours, slipping along the walls, sometimes laughing without mouths. Worse still were the voices.
They came at night, whispering just behind her ear. Sometimes they sounded like her late husband. Sometimes they sounded like her own voice, low and cruel.
One night the voice hissed: “You left the gas on in your kitchen. By now the flame has eaten the walls. Your grandchildren are choking inside. Their tiny hands are scratching the windows.”
Her fingers twitched violently as she started tapping again, harder this time, until blood stained the steel. She whispered numbers over and over. The nurses pulled her wrists away, but whenever she stopped, the whispers roared louder.
The other patients didn’t care, except for one girl. She was thin, with hollow eyes that never blinked enough. The girl sat on her bed muttering to herself until their gazes met. That night, the girl leaned close, her hair in clumps around her face, and whispered:
“They feed on obsession. They want you to count. Every time you do, they take more of you. When you stop, they take all of you.”
That night, as rain cracked across the roof, shadows spread like spilled ink across the walls. They stretched, twisting into human forms with long arms and no faces. The whispers multiplied, hundreds of voices climbing into her skull.
“You failed them.”
“They screamed for you.”
“They are burning. They are waiting.”
The room grew colder. The bulb flickered. When she looked into the small windowpane, she saw her reflection—but its eyes were sunken voids, and its mouth grinned wide enough to split her face into two.
She screamed, her nails tearing the paint from the wall as the nurses burst in. They strapped her down against her bed shouting that she was hallucinating. But behind their backs, the black shapes crowded close, their crooked arms rising, touching the air like smoke ready to ignite.
The injection quieted her body, never her mind. As the nurses left, silence returned, broken only by faint humming.
She turned her head. The hollow-eyed girl was watching from her bed, swaying softly as she hummed a rhythm. One-two-three. One-two-three.
But the girl wasn’t alone. Shadows bent behind her like puppeteers. One placed a long thin finger on the girl’s throat, yet she kept humming without fear. Her head turned too far, her mouth opening unnaturally wide.
The old woman shut her eyes, praying, but shadows curl in darkness even when you refuse to look at them. She forced her hands to tap. One-two-three. One-two-three. Her ritual was all she had left.
This time, however, her fingers did not move. They were still, locked down by something colder than her own flesh.
The humming stopped. The silence thickened. Then the tapping began again.
Slow. Patient. Terribly familiar.
But the sound no longer came from her bed. It echoed from every wall of the room—as if hundreds of invisible hands were tapping from inside the plaster.
One. Two. Three.
And then she realised, with growing terror, that they were not just feeding on her anymore. They were multiplying her.
The asylum had more shadows now.
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