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The night hung heavy over Saint Elora's Asylum, an old, crumbling building swallowed by fog and silence. Its walls, once white, were now yellowed with age, the paint peeling like the skin of something long dead. The faint buzzing of the overhead lights flickered in and out, like dying stars refusing to go dark.
Down the narrow corridor of the east wing, where the most disturbed patients were kept, a single bulb glowed weakly above Ward 19—the room that belonged to Sarah's mother.
She sat at the edge of her bed, hands clasped tightly together, whispering her nightly prayer.
> "God, please… protect my daughter. Keep her from the nightmares that follow me."
Her voice trembled, her eyes darting to the corners of the room as if the shadows were listening. Somewhere far off, a patient screamed—a long, hollow cry that faded into laughter.
The air turned colder.
Sarah's mother looked up sharply.
There it was again—a sound.
Creak.
Scratch.
Something was moving… above the ceiling.
At first, she thought it was rats. But then—slow, deliberate thuds began crawling along the roof, tracing the shape of the room like footsteps searching for her.
She rose from the bed, heart hammering.
> "Hello?" she called out, her voice thin. "Is someone up there?"
Silence.
Then—scratch. The sound returned, closer now. Directly above her.
Panicking, she stumbled toward the door and banged on it.
> "Guard! Guard, please! Something's wrong!"
No answer.
From the hallway, she could hear only the faint rhythm of steady breathing—as if someone was standing right outside her door, listening.
She froze.
> "Who's there?"
No reply.
Then—drip.
A cold droplet fell onto her shoulder. Slowly, she looked up.
A vine—thin, black, and glistening—was snaking its way down from the ceiling vent. The vine quivered, as if alive, then slithered forward and wrapped itself around her wrist. She screamed and tried to pull back, but more vines spilled from the vent, twisting and coiling like living ropes, tightening around her arms, her neck—pulling.
The sound of a whisper filled the room—low and broken, like wind moving through a hollow throat.
> "She is mine…"
The vines constricted. Her knees buckled. She clawed at them, gasping.
Then—
> "Oi!" a voice shouted from the corridor.
The vines froze.
A flashlight beam flicked through the small window on the door. A police officer barked,
> "You two asleep again? You're supposed to be watching the woman in Ward 19!"
The guards jolted awake from their post, scrambling to their feet. Inside the room, the vines loosened their grip, retreating into the shadows as though they were never there.
And then—Sarah's mother screamed.
The officer kicked the door open, the guards rushing in behind him. The room was in chaos—bed overturned, sheets tangled, the woman trembling and gasping on the floor.
But nothing else.
No sign of forced entry.
No attacker.
Only a small branch, dark and wet, lying in the middle of the room.
The officer picked it up slowly, frowning.
> "Where did this come from…?"
Outside, the night wind rustled through the asylum courtyard—where, for just a moment, the faint shape of a scarecrow could be seen swaying in the fog… watching.
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