The Locked Ward

The night air in the old sanatorium was thick with the smell of decay and forgotten medicine. The building had been abandoned for decades, but the local legend persisted: Ward 13 was the site of a brutal experiment, and the patients who died there never truly left. Our team, led by the pragmatic Dr. Evelyn Marsh, had been granted rare permission to conduct a paranormal investigation within its crumbling walls.

We set up our equipment in the main ward, a vast room lined with rusted iron beds and peeling paint. The moon cast pale, skeletal shadows through the broken windows. Dr. Marsh, a no-nonsense skeptic, had brought us here to prove once and for all that the place was nothing but a relic of old fears. But I, a seasoned investigator, had seen too much to dismiss the unknown so easily.

We began the vigil, calling out into the silence, inviting any lingering presence to communicate. Our EMF meter flickered, and then the heavy ward door, which we had wedged shut with a chair, swung open with such force that the chair splintered. I rushed to the doorway, expecting to see a prankster from our group in the corridor, but only a stale wind met my face. The corridor stretched empty, lit by the distant glow of our battery lanterns.

We exchanged uneasy glances, but Dr. Marsh insisted it was a draft. She wedged the door again, and we resumed. Minutes later, the door burst open again, crashing against the wall with a sound like a gunshot. This time, I was closer and saw the door move on its own, as if pushed by an invisible hand. My heart hammered as I stepped into the corridor, but there was no one. The silence was so profound I could hear my own pulse.

We tried to calm ourselves, continuing the experiment despite the growing dread. Then, a voice whispered from a corner where no one stood: ‘Why have you come back?’ It was a woman’s voice, raspy, filled with sorrow. Dr. Marsh, white as the bedsheets, aimed her flashlight at the corner, but nothing was there.

Suddenly, the door swung open a third time, and we saw it — a figure in a tattered white gown, its face obscured by long, matted hair, hovering at the threshold. It pointed a long, thin finger at Dr. Marsh and said, ‘You must leave now.’ As one, our equipment failed, and a cold enveloped us, seeping into our bones.

We fled, scrambling over each other to get out, but the door slammed shut with a thunderous noise, trapping us. We turned to see the figure had moved closer, its hair now parting to reveal a face of pure terror — no eyes, just hollow sockets, and a mouth stretched in a silent scream. The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was Dr. Marsh, her hand outstretched in a final, desperate plea.

When I woke, I was alone in the ward, the first light of dawn filtering through the broken windows. The door was open. Our equipment was gone. And Dr. Marsh was never seen again. The police found me wandering the corridors, muttering about the woman in white. They dismissed it as shock. But I know the truth. On the wall, scratched into the paint, were the words: ‘She stays forever.’ And she does. I have the scars to prove it.