I’ve always been a bit of an introvert. My name is Sam, and I’m a photographer by trade, but a loner by nature. I’ve never been one for big crowds or loud parties. Instead, I’ve always found solace in solitude, comfort in the quiet. It’s just me, my camera, and the world around me. That’s all I’ve ever really needed.
I live in a small apartment in the heart of the city. It’s not much, but it’s home. The walls are adorned with my photographs, each one a frozen moment in time. They’re my companions, silent witnesses to the life I’ve lived. There’s a picture of the first sunrise I ever captured, the rays of light breaking through the darkness. There’s a photograph of an old man I met in a park, his face etched with lines of age and wisdom. Each photograph tells a story, a piece of my journey.
Despite my solitary nature, I do have a few close friends. There’s Mia, a fellow photographer and probably the only person who understands my need for solitude. We often go on photography expeditions together, exploring the forgotten corners of the city. Then there’s Jake, my childhood friend. He’s the complete opposite of me, outgoing and sociable, but we’ve always understood each other. We’re a testament to the saying that opposites attract.
My family is small. It’s just me and my sister, Lily. Our parents passed away when we were young, leaving us to fend for ourselves. It was hard, but it brought us closer. Lily is a nurse, caring and compassionate. She worries about me, about my solitary lifestyle, but she respects it. She’s my rock, my constant in a world that’s always changing.
My life is simple, but fulfilling. I spend my days exploring, capturing the world through my lens. I’ve photographed bustling city streets, quiet country lanes, and everything in between. But the places that intrigue me the most are the forgotten ones. The abandoned houses, the crumbling ruins, the silent graveyards. There’s a certain allure to these places, a sense of mystery and history that I find irresistible.
One such place was an old, abandoned asylum, nestled deep in the heart of the forest. I’d heard rumors about it, whispers of the horrors that had taken place within its walls. Stories of patients driven mad by cruel treatments, of doctors who had lost their minds, of spirits that still lingered. I was intrigued, and so, armed with my camera and a sense of morbid curiosity, I decided to explore.
The asylum was a good day’s drive from the city. I set out early in the morning, the city still shrouded in the soft light of dawn. The journey was long and tiring, but I didn’t mind. The anticipation of what lay ahead kept me going.
As the city faded into the rearview mirror, the landscape changed. Skyscrapers gave way to suburban homes, which eventually gave way to open fields and dense forests. The further I drove, the more isolated I felt. But it wasn’t a feeling of loneliness. It was a feeling of stepping into another world, a world forgotten by time.
By the time I reached the asylum, the sun was beginning to set. The building stood in the heart of the forest, a silhouette against the setting sun. It was a monstrous, imposing structure, its grand facade now weathered and decayed. The windows were boarded up, the doors chained shut. But that didn’t deter me. I was here, and I was determined to explore.
I spent the night in my car, parked a safe distance from the asylum. The forest was eerily quiet, the only sounds being the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustling of leaves. As I drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease. But I shrugged it off as nothing more than nerves.
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of birds chirping. I grabbed my camera and made my way towards the asylum. The front door was chained shut, but I found an entrance through a broken window at the back of the building.
As I stepped inside, a chill ran down my spine. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of damp and decay. The silence was deafening, the only sound being the soft click of my camera. I began to explore, my footsteps echoing through the empty halls.
The asylum was a maze of corridors and rooms, each one more chilling than the last. I saw rooms with rusted iron beds, their mattresses long since rotted away. I saw a cafeteria, the tables and chairs coated in a thick layer of dust. I saw a room filled with old medical equipment, their purpose unknown to me.
As I ventured deeper into the asylum, I stumbled upon a room that sent a shiver down my spine. It was a small, windowless room, its walls lined with rusty shackles. A single, rusted surgical table stood in the center, its surface stained with dark, dried blood. I could almost hear the screams of the patients who had been subjected to unimaginable horrors within these walls.
I was about to leave when I heard it. A soft, whispering voice, echoing through the silence. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. The voice was faint, but I could make out the words.
“Help me…”
I turned, my camera capturing the empty room. But when I looked at the photo, my blood ran cold. There, in the corner of the room, was a figure. A woman, her face twisted in a silent scream, her eyes pleading for help.
I ran, my heart pounding, the echo of the woman’s voice ringing in my ears. I didn’t stop until I was outside, the asylum looming behind me. I looked back, half expecting to see the woman standing in the window. But there was nothing. Just the silent, decaying asylum.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The woman’s face haunted my dreams, her voice echoing in my mind. I knew I had to go back. I had to help her.
The next day, I returned to the asylum. I felt a sense of dread as I stepped inside, the silence now filled with a sense of anticipation. I made my way to the room, my heart pounding in my chest.
The room was as I had left it, the surgical table still stained with blood. But there was something different. A sense of presence. I could feel her watching me.
“I’m here to help,” I said, my voice echoing through the room. “Tell me what you need.”
The room fell silent. Then, I heard her voice, soft and desperate.
“Free me…”
And that’s when everything went dark.
I woke up to the sound of my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears like a drum. I was lying on the cold, hard floor of the room, my camera lying a few feet away. I sat up, my head spinning. I had no idea how long I had been out, but it felt like hours.
I picked up my camera, my hands shaking. I looked at the last photo I had taken. The woman was still there, her face filled with a mix of fear and hope. I looked around the room, half expecting to see her standing there. But I was alone.
I left the room, my mind racing. I had to help her, but I had no idea how. I decided to explore the rest of the asylum, hoping to find some clue, some hint of what I needed to do.
I spent hours exploring the asylum, each room more chilling than the last. I saw things that sent shivers down my spine, remnants of a time best forgotten. But I found no clue, no hint of how to help the woman.
As the sun began to set, I found myself standing in front of a large, wooden door. It was different from the others, its wood polished and unmarked by time. I pushed it open, revealing a room unlike any other in the asylum.
It was a library, its shelves filled with books and documents. I began to search through them, desperate for any information that could help me. Hours passed, the only sound being the rustling of pages and the ticking of a large, antique clock.
Then, I found it. A patient file, its pages yellowed with age. It was the file of the woman, her name written in elegant script on the cover. I opened it, my hands shaking.
The file told a chilling story. The woman was a patient at the asylum, subjected to cruel and inhumane treatments. She was considered a lost cause, her mind lost to madness. But there was something else, something that sent a chill down my spine.
The woman was said to have a unique ability. She could project her spirit, her consciousness, outside of her body. It was this ability that had led to her being committed to the asylum, the doctors considering it a sign of madness.
The file detailed a procedure, an attempt to cure her. But something had gone wrong. The woman’s body had died, but her spirit, her consciousness, had remained trapped in the asylum.
I knew what I had to do. I had to free her, to help her move on. I returned to the room, the woman’s desperate plea echoing in my mind.
“I’m here to free you,” I said, my voice echoing through the room. “I’m going to help you move on.”
I could feel her presence, stronger than ever. I could feel her fear, her hope, her desperation. I reached out, my hand touching the cold, rusted surgical table.
And then, everything went dark.
When I woke up, I was outside, the asylum looming behind me. I looked at my camera, the last photo showing the empty room. The woman was gone.
I left the asylum, my heart heavy but hopeful. I had done it. I had freed her.
I returned to my solitary life, my days filled with exploring and photographing. But I was changed. I had seen things, experienced things, that had opened my eyes. I had heard the echoes of the forgotten, and I had answered their call.
But sometimes, when the world is silent and I’m alone with my thoughts, I can still hear her. A soft, whispering voice, echoing in the silence.
“Thank you…”
And I know that I’ve done something right. I’ve freed a forgotten soul, helped her find peace. And in doing so, I’ve found a purpose, a reason to keep exploring, to keep telling the stories of the forgotten.
Because every forgotten place, every forgotten soul, has a story to tell. And I’m here to listen.