The Second Skin

The road to Maplehurst Asylum was a wound in the countryside, a scar of cracked asphalt that wound through pines so dense they seemed to swallow all light. My fiancée, Elena, squeezed my hand as our friend Marcus turned the old Ford onto the gravel path that led to the asylum gates. The sky, a bruised purple, pressed down like a heavy lid.

Marcus had been here once before with his brother, two years ago. They’d come for a dare, to see the abandoned building where they said a doctor had gone mad and sealed himself in the basement. Their car had died in the middle of the main drive, and when they popped the hood, the battery cables were gone—neatly cut, coiled, and left on the driver’s seat. They’d walked out, and his brother never spoke of it again, but Marcus was the type who needed to face his fears to conquer them. Now, with me and Elena, and his cousin Rita, he wanted to try again.

I had a bad feeling from the moment we passed the rusted sign that read ‘KEEP OUT.’ It wasn’t just the stories; it was a weight in the air, a thickness that made breathing feel like wading through water. As we drove deeper, the asylum’s hulking silhouette emerged from the trees, its windows like blind eyes, its main door a gaping mouth. We parked near a crumbling fountain choked with weeds. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant caw of a crow.

We pushed the front door open; it groaned as if in protest. Inside, the smell of decay and old chemicals hit us. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light coming through boarded windows. Marcus led the way with a flashlight, our footsteps echoing in the vast hall. I noticed that the walls were covered in what looked like scratches, deep grooves in the plaster, like something had been clawing its way out.

We went deeper, into a long corridor lined with doors. Some were open, revealing rotting beds and metal cabinets. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck, the sense of being watched. I turned, but there was nothing. Then I heard a sound like rustling fabric, and I looked up at the end of the hall. There was a figure—a woman in a tattered white dress, her face pale, her eyes glowing a faint, unnatural red. She smiled, but it was wrong, too wide, her teeth too sharp. I felt a pull, a hypnotic urge to walk toward her, to touch her, to help her.

‘Don’t,’ Rita whispered, grabbing my arm. I blinked, and the woman was gone. Marcus was already sprinting down the hall, shouting something I couldn’t understand. We ran after him, but he had disappeared around a corner. When we caught up, he was standing in a room filled with old patient files. He was trembling, pointing at a blackboard that had ‘SHE KNOWS YOUR NAME’ written in chalk.

We decided to leave. The air grew even heavier, and I felt something brushing against my skin—like cobwebs, but more oppressive, clinging to me, pulling at me. As we rushed out, I saw handprints on the walls, wet and dark, appearing as we passed, as if something was leaving its mark. Outside, the sky had turned a sickly grey. The car wouldn’t start. We all knew why, but we didn’t dare open the hood. Marcus knelt, saying a quick prayer, and for a moment, the engine sputtered to life. We didn’t speak the whole way back to town.

That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling of those webs. I showered, but my skin still crawled. I felt a presence in the room, something invisible but heavy. I’ve always been sensitive to spirits; a kind old ghost named Mary has watched over me since I was a child. I could feel her weak, as if pushed aside by something stronger. I whispered through the dark, ‘Mary, please help me.’ The air grew cold, and I felt a brief, gentle touch on my shoulder, like a reassurance. Then that oppressive weight returned, and I finally fell into a fitful sleep.

It’s been three days. The handprints have faded, but the feeling of something dark lingers. I can’t shake the image of that smiling woman, her red eyes seeing into my soul. I haven’t told Elena, but last night I woke to find scratches on my arm—three long cuts, like from a fingernail. And under my pillow, I found a torn page from one of the asylum’s files. It was a patient record, with the name scratched out, but the diagnosis read: ‘Delusions of being followed by a woman in white.’ I fear I’ve brought something back with me, something that has marked me, and that woman in white is not done with me yet.