The Locked Ward

The old Aldergate Asylum had been abandoned for decades, its halls still echoing with the whispers of the forgotten. My sisters, Clara and Mae, and I had inherited it from a distant uncle we never knew. We thought it was a stroke of luck—a sprawling Victorian mansion, albeit one with peeling wallpaper and a history that clung to its walls like cobwebs. Our first night was uneventful, save for the occasional groan of the floorboards, which we chalked up to the house settling. But by the second week, the sounds grew bolder.

It began with footsteps in the corridor outside our rooms—slow, deliberate pacing, as if someone was keeping watch. Clara swore she heard a child’s laughter, high and fleeting, just beyond her door. Mae, ever the skeptic, tried to rationalize it, but her hands trembled as she poured her tea. Then the doors started to move. Not just the creaking of hinges, but the full swing of a door as if someone had pushed it open. Our bedroom door would creak inward at odd hours, revealing nothing but darkness. One night, I saw it—a shadow, tall and thin, slipping past the threshold and disappearing into the hall.

Clara and Mae began to sleep in the same bed, their fear binding them together. They would wake in the middle of the night, hand in hand, and walk the entire house, checking every lock. They claimed it was to keep out intruders, but I knew better. They were searching for something, or someone. They told me in hushed tones about the children—shadows of kids, they said, that would tear down the hallway, giggling in that unnerving way. They would pull the covers over their heads, too terrified to even call out.

The events escalated. My bedroom door would swing open on its own, sometimes slamming against the wall. Knocks would come at my window, three taps in rapid succession, even though my room was on the second story. Voices began to seep through the walls—muffled, as if from a distant room, but growing clearer each day. They called my name. They asked for help. And the creaking—God, the creaking—it started at the far end of the house, a low, drawn-out moan that would build in volume as it traveled down the main hallway, until it reached our rooms and then abruptly stopped, as if whatever made it was standing right outside, listening.

Desperate for answers, I dove into the asylum’s records. I found a ledger from its final years, detailing the patients. There was a ward for children, labeled ‘The Locked Ward.’ The entry for the last night was smudged, but I could make out a name: Thomas. The notes said he was a boy who claimed to hear the voices of the dead. On the night of his death, he told the night nurse that ‘the caretaker’ was coming to collect them all. The nurse dismissed it as delusion. But the next morning, every child on the ward was found dead, their faces frozen in terror. Thomas was missing, and the nurse was later found in the basement, her body twisted in a way that defied anatomy.

I confronted Clara and Mae with what I’d found, but they were beyond reason. Their eyes were hollow, their movements mechanical. They continued their nightly patrol, their hands clasped so tightly their knuckles were white. I decided to follow them one night, to see what they were really doing. They moved through the house with a purpose I didn’t recognize, checking each lock with obsessive precision. But as they reached the end of the hall, they stopped. They turned to face the wall, and I saw them press their ears against it, as if listening. Then, in unison, they whispered, ‘He’s here.’

I tried to call out, but my voice caught in my throat. A cold air swept through the corridor, and the doors began to bang shut one by one. The creaking started, louder than ever, and I watched as a dark shape materialized at the far end—tall, gaunt, wearing what looked like a tattered orderly’s uniform. It moved toward us with a slow, inexorable gait. Clara and Mae didn’t run. They stood frozen, their hands still clasped, and I heard them sob softly. The shape raised a hand, and the shadows of children emerged from the walls, dancing around it, their giggles echoing off the peeling paint.

I ran to my sisters, grabbing their arms, but they were stiff as stone. The shape stopped before us, its face obscured, but I could feel its gaze boring into me. It spoke, not with a voice, but with a pressure in my mind: ‘Welcome home.’ The children’s shadows converged, and the world collapsed into darkness.

When I woke, I was in the basement, the same room where the nurse had been found. I was bound to a gurney, a stained sheet draped over me. Clara and Mae stood over me, their expressions blank, their eyes black as pitch. They held a key, large and rusted, and they spoke in perfect unison: ‘You have to lock the door. He needs us to keep the house safe.’ I screamed, but no sound came out. The key hovered over my chest, and I realized the truth—this was the new ‘intruder’ they had to keep out. And I was the one they had to contain. The last thing I saw was the shadow of the orderly filling the doorway, and the children’s giggles fading into a shrieking, endless creak that would never stop.