The Salted Ground

In the autumn of 2012, I had grown weary of reading dusty tomes and cataloging secondhand accounts. The paranormal, I decided, needed fresh eyes in the field. That’s when I contacted a small investigative group known for their no-nonsense approach. We met at a diner on the edge of the county, and over burnt coffee and fries, they agreed to let me tag along on their next venture: a defunct tuberculosis sanatorium that had been abandoned for decades.

The place was called Merrow’s Rest, a crumbling pile of brick and rusted iron deep in the pine barrens. Its history was grim: built in the 1920s, it had housed the sick until a scandal broke in the ’50s involving unauthorized experimental treatments. The patients had been neglected, and many died in agony. Legend said that the last doctor, a man named Alistair Vane, took his own life in the basement, and his ghost still walked the corridors, seeking to continue his twisted work.

I had spent months practicing with my digital recorder and an old camcorder, but my previous attempts at capturing anything were laughable. The group’s lead, a wiry woman named Mara, handed me a small EMF reader and a set of strict rules: stay with the group, don’t touch anything, and never, ever go into the basement alone. I nodded, but inside I was already planning to break that last rule.

It was almost midnight when we parked outside the sanatorium. The building loomed against a sky thick with clouds, its windows like hollow eye sockets. A rusted chain-link fence surrounded the property, and the gate groaned as we pushed it open. The air smelled of decay and damp earth. I could see my breath fog, even though it wasn’t that cold.

We entered through a side door that hung off its hinges. The flashlight beams cut through the darkness, revealing peeling paint and piles of debris. The floorboards creaked under our weight. Mara led us through the main hall, pointing out patient rooms and the old operating theater. My heart pounded, not from fear, but from excitement. This was the real thing.

At the end of a long corridor, we found the stairway to the basement. A faded sign read ‘INFIRMARY – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.’ Mara said, ‘We’ll check the upstairs rooms first. Stay close.’ But as they moved up the stairs, I hung back. The EMF reader in my hand flickered, and I felt a cold draft from below. I told myself it was just the wind, but my feet were already moving down.

The basement was a maze of narrow passages lined with pipes and rusted equipment. My flashlight cast eerie shadows that danced and twisted. I heard a faint sound, like a muffled voice humming a tune. I followed it to a heavy iron door, slightly ajar. I pushed it open and found a small room that must have been an office. Papers were scattered across a desk, and a leather-bound journal lay open.

I picked it up. The handwriting was neat but frantic. It described experimental treatments, patients’ screams, and a desperate search for a cure. The last entry read: ‘They won’t let me leave. They say I must finish what I started. But I can’t take it anymore. Tonight, I will end it, but I will leave a part of me behind to watch over this place.’

A chill ran up my spine. I heard the door creak behind me. I spun around, but no one was there. The humming grew louder, and I realized it was coming from the corner of the room, where a small, rusted radio sat on a shelf. The dial was turned to static, but through the hiss, I could make out a woman’s voice, singing a lullaby.

I backed out of the room, my heart racing. I tried to call out for Mara, but my voice caught in my throat. The basement was silent now, save for the hum of the fluorescent lights above. I looked up and saw that they were on, casting a sickly green glow.

Suddenly, the iron door slammed shut behind me. I was trapped. I ran to the door, but it wouldn’t budge. I felt a presence, a cold pressure behind me. I turned, and there, in the doorway of the office, stood a tall man in a white coat, his face obscured by shadow. He said, ‘Why are you here, child? The work is not done.’

My camera, which I had been clutching, suddenly turned on by itself. I looked at the screen, and through the night vision, I saw not one but many figures in the corridor, all wearing tattered white gowns, all staring at me with hollow eyes. I dropped the camera, but the image stayed burned in my mind.

I don’t know how long I was down there. I must have passed out. When I woke, I was outside, lying on the grass near the fence. Mara was shaking me, calling my name. Her face was pale. She said, ‘You were gone for an hour. We thought you were dead. What happened?’

I couldn’t speak. I just pointed at the camera lying beside me, its light still blinking. Later, when I reviewed the footage, I found a video of myself lying on the floor of that office, my eyes open, staring at the ceiling, while a voice whispered over and over again, ‘You are mine now.’ The timestamp read 3:33 AM, but I had been found at 1:00 AM.

I never went back to the field after that. I sold all my equipment and moved to a city, where the lights drown out the dark. But sometimes, when I’m alone, I hear that lullaby. And I know that part of me never left that basement. It’s waiting for me to return, to finish what Dr. Vane started.