The Carved Marble

Every autumn, my friends and I would drive up to the old Ridgemont Asylum, a crumbling relic perched on a hill above the fog-choked valley. We’d bring along that ridiculous ghost-hunting app, the one that claimed to detect spectral energy through your phone’s sensors. I never believed it, but every year, something happened that made my skin crawl. This year, we decided to split up, as usual, the boys and the girls. I was with the girls, and we took the east wing, while the boys took the west.

We wandered through rooms littered with rusted bed frames and shattered windows, the wind whistling through gaps in the walls. My phone buzzed, the app’s radar showing a faint blue blip—a weak presence. I laughed it off, but a knot tightened in my stomach. Then we heard the boys shouting from the other side of the building. They came running, faces pale, holding up their phone. The radar showed a red figure, the strongest level, and the word “OUT” flashing in bold. They said it had appeared when they entered the old chapel, and they bolted. We rolled our eyes, but something about their urgency felt real.

“We’ll go with you,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. I took the rear, the last in a line of six. The others chattered nervously, their footsteps echoing in the long corridor. We moved toward the chapel, our flashlights cutting through the dark. Up ahead, I heard someone whisper, “It says ‘leave’ now.” My heart skipped. I felt a sudden sting on my calf, sharp and hot, like a needle being dragged across my skin. I yelped and looked down. Through my jeans, blood was soaking, a deep scratch, three parallel lines, welling up. But no one was behind me. I was the last one. The corridor was empty.

“I’m bleeding!” I shouted, clutching my leg. The others turned, their faces lit by flashlights, but they just stared. “You’re fine,” Mark said, a hint of irritation. “It’s just a scratch.” I showed them my hand, blood smeared across my palm. “This isn’t nothing!” Only Sarah, the girl directly in front of me, believed. She came closer, her eyes widening at the wound. “Oh God,” she breathed. Before she could say more, my phone buzzed again. The app flashed a new word: “GO.”

A primal panic seized me. Everyone started running, as if a switch had been flipped. I ran too, despite the throbbing in my leg, the blood now dripping into my shoe. We sprinted down the hallway, the darkness swallowing us. I could hear footsteps behind me, faster than mine, but when I glanced back, I saw nothing. We burst through the asylum’s main doors into the cold night air. I collapsed onto the gravel, gasping. Sarah knelt beside me, pulling a band-aid from her pocket and pressing it to my wound. “We’re leaving,” she said, and we all piled into the car.

As we drove away, I looked back at the asylum, its silhouette etched against the pale moon. I pulled up the app, and the screen was frozen on a static image of the chapel. But now, in the corner, there was a small, flickering text: “You left something behind.” I felt a chill run down my spine, and I swore I felt a breath on my neck, as if something was leaning over my shoulder from the back seat. But when I turned, the seat was empty.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The scratch burned, and when I peeled back the band-aid, I saw the wound had turned an angry, blackened color, shaped like three letters: “OUT.” I tried to call Sarah, but the line was dead. I knew, in that moment, that the asylum had carved more than my skin. It had carved its name into my soul, and it wasn’t done with me yet.