Chapter 2

It was late autumn in Eastborough, and the chill cut right through me, especially as dusk settled in. The wind rustled the leaves, sounding almost like someone whispering in my ear.

I slung my backpack over my shoulder, gripping the copper lamp in one hand, and trudged step by step along the path at the foot of Ostville, heading toward St. Mary's Hospital.

Wild grass grew tall on both sides of the trail, reaching up to my waist, with scraps of old cloth, shards of broken glass, and a few rotting animal carcasses scattered among the weeds, filling the air with a sharp, nauseating stench.

Every now and then, the shrill cries of owls pierced the silence of dusk, sending chills down my spine.

After about an hour of walking, I finally spotted a rundown courtyard in the distance. That was St. Mary's Hospital. The hospital's walls were tall, built from gray bricks, and covered in dead vines. In some places, the walls had collapsed, exposing the buildings inside.

The entrance was two heavy wooden doors, stained and weathered, with deep scratches across the panels, as if something had clawed at them. Above the doors hung a battered wooden sign, carved with the words St. Mary's Hospital.

The characters were so faded by wind and rain that they were almost impossible to make out, with a few fragmented marks left, looking especially eerie in the twilight.

I stood outside the gates, hesitating for a long time. The copper lamp in my hand trembled slightly, making my shadow flicker in the dim light.

The wind grew stronger, making the gates creak and groan, as if someone was pushing from the inside, or maybe someone was crying. I took a deep breath, pulled out the silver cross Emerson had given me, and pressed it to my chest.

Then I reached out and gently pushed the gates. The gates opened a crack, and a wave of air, thick with the smell of medicine, mold, and blood, rushed out at me, so strong I couldn't help but cough a few times.

I took a deep breath to steady myself, gripping the copper lamp tighter as I crept inside. The courtyard was a jungle of waist-high weeds, with old hospital beds, medicine bottles, syringes, and a few mutilated skeletons scattered among the grass.

Some still dressed in patient gowns, others in nurse uniforms. The sight sent shivers down my spine and made my heart race. In the middle of the yard stood the main building, two stories tall.

Most of its windows were smashed, shards of glass littering the ground, and sunlight slanted through the broken panes, casting eerie, twisted shadows inside. By the entrance, two battered statues of the Virgin Mary stood watch.

Their heads had been knocked off, one was missing an arm, and their faces were streaked with dust and cracks, as if they were silently mourning in the gloom.

I made my way along the overgrown path, step by step, toward the main building. The wild grass crunched under my feet, and every now and then, I'd hear a sharp crack like I stepped on something brittle.

When I looked down, I saw it was a dried-up finger. I jerked my foot back, my blood running cold. When I reached the entrance, I stopped and looked up at the crumbling building.

Inside, it was pitch black and dead silent, so quiet that all I could hear was my own heartbeat and the wind howling outside.

I gritted my teeth, turned up the wick of the copper lamp, and the faint light lit up the path ahead. Clutching the lamp, I crept inside, moving as cautiously as I could.

The first floor of the main building was where the front desk and the exam room used to be. The counter was practically falling apart, strewn with torn-up medical records, faded prescriptions, and a handful of rusty pens.

The writing on the prescriptions was so blurred that I could barely make out a couple of drug names, mostly sedatives and painkillers.

In the exam room, a battered treatment bed sat in the corner, its sheet blackened and marked with dark red stains that looked like dried blood.

Right next to it was a worn-out drug cabinet, its door hanging open. Most of the bottles inside were smashed, leaving behind some leftover powder, and the whole place reeked of sharp, medicinal fumes.

I walked over to the treatment bed and picked up a medical record that had fallen to the floor. The cover was yellowed with age, and it read: [Patient: Emily Summers, Female, 22. Symptoms: severe mental disturbance, frequent crying and screaming, accompanied by hallucinations.]

I flipped it open. The handwriting was messy and mostly illegible, but I could make out a few lines: [The patient's mood is extremely unstable. Often wakes up at night, screaming, 'Don't come near me. Let me go'.

[The patient has multiple bruises, suspected abuse. Today, the patient attempted suicide. The nurse intervened in time and administered a sedative.]

My heart skipped a beat. What had Emily been through? Why was she so broken? And what could have pushed her to try to end her own life?

just as my mind was spinning with questions, a faint, broken cry suddenly echoed from upstairs, a woman's voice, raw and heart-wrenching, drifting down from the second floor.

It was so mournful, so full of pain, that it sent a chill straight through me. I froze; the medical record dropped to the floor. The copper lamp in my hand trembled, making the shadows flicker around me.

I remembered what Emerson had told me. I must never look back, never answer. I gritted my teeth, tightened my grip on the lamp, and forced myself to stay calm, telling myself, "It's the wind. It's my imagination."

But the crying kept getting sharper, more haunting, and piercing. Sometimes it felt like it was right in my ear, other times like it was echoing from far away.

There was a whimper in it, and a hint of resentment, making my scalp crawl and sending chills down my back. I couldn't help but look up at the second floor.

It was pitch black up there, with only a few broken windows letting in faint moonlight. I could barely make out shadows flickering in the hallway, like someone was pacing back and forth.

I stood there for ages, but in the end, curiosity won out. After all, I was a reporter. I lived for the truth, for uncovering what really went down at St. Mary's Hospital, and for breaking a story that would blow up all over Eastborough.

I took a deep breath, grabbed the copper lamp, and crept toward the stairs. The old wooden steps were so rotten, every move made them squeak and groan, like they might give way under me.

With each step, my heart thudded louder, and that crying upstairs got sharper, more haunting, echoing right through me.