Saturday morning arrived gray and cold, with the kind of persistent drizzle that seemed designed to discourage outdoor activities. Marcus had packed his car the night before: camera equipment, digital recorder, laptop, extra batteries, flashlights, and a first aid kit that felt inadequate for whatever he might encounter. He'd also brought several bottles of water and energy bars, uncertain how long he'd be inside the asylum.
The drive to Millbrook's diner took him progressively further from civilization. Marcus followed Highway 47 north from the city, watching as suburban sprawl gave way to rural farmland, then to increasingly dense forest. The further he traveled, the fewer cars he encountered, until he seemed to be the only person on the road.
The landscape itself felt oppressive. Rolling hills covered in pine and oak created a sense of enclosure, as if the forest were slowly consuming the narrow strip of asphalt. Abandoned farmhouses dotted the countryside, their broken windows and collapsed barns suggesting a region in economic decline. Marcus passed several boarded-up gas stations and a shuttered factory complex that might once have provided local employment.
It was the kind of place where institutions like Blackwood Asylum had once thrived—remote enough to avoid public scrutiny, poor enough that local officials welcomed any source of jobs and revenue. Marcus had seen similar patterns in his previous investigations: vulnerable populations were always housed in places where their suffering would be invisible to the people with power to change their circumstances.
The radio had been playing classic rock for the first hour of the drive, but as Marcus penetrated deeper into the rural landscape, the signal began to fade. What replaced it was static punctuated by fragments of distant stations—religious broadcasts, foreign language programs, and occasional bursts of what sounded like emergency communications. The interference grew worse as he approached his destination, until he finally turned the radio off and drove in silence.
The silence was almost worse than the static. Without the radio to distract him, Marcus became increasingly aware of the desolation surrounding him. Mile after mile of empty road stretched ahead, with no signs of recent human activity. The few buildings he passed were clearly abandoned—farmhouses with collapsed roofs, barns with doors hanging open like broken jaws, grain silos standing empty against the gray sky.
He began to notice other disturbing details. The trees closest to the road appeared unhealthy, their leaves yellowed and sparse despite the season. Dead birds lay scattered along the roadside, too many to be explained by normal mortality. And there was something about the quality of light that seemed wrong—the overcast sky created a dim, underwater atmosphere that made distance difficult to judge.
Marcus pulled over at a rest stop to check his map and discovered that his GPS had lost signal entirely. The device showed his location as a blank area with no roads or landmarks, as if he'd driven off the edge of the mapped world. He consulted the paper map that Dale had given him and found that he was still on the correct route, but the experience left him feeling more isolated than he'd expected.
As he continued driving, Marcus began to encounter other signs of the asylum's presence. Historical markers appeared along the roadside, commemorating the area's role in "progressive mental health treatment" during the early twentieth century. The markers were weathered and difficult to read, but they suggested a history of institutional care that predated Blackwood by decades.
Millbrook's diner appeared exactly where his GPS had indicated before losing signal, though the building looked as if it might have been abandoned for years. The parking lot was cracked and weedy, occupied by a single pickup truck that had seen better decades. A neon sign advertised "Fresh Coffee" and "Home Cooking," but only half the letters were illuminated.
Marcus parked near the entrance and studied the building. Through grimy windows, he could see a figure moving behind the counter—presumably the owner or staff. But the place felt wrong somehow, as if it existed primarily as a waypoint for travelers who had no other choice.
Inside, the diner was cleaner than its exterior suggested, but barely. Red vinyl booths lined the windows, their seats cracked and patched with duct tape. A long counter dominated one wall, with a coffee pot that looked like it had been brewing the same pot since the Reagan administration. The air smelled of grease and disinfectant, with an underlying mustiness that suggested poor ventilation.
The only other customer was a man in his sixties, sitting alone in a corner booth with a cup of coffee and what appeared to be a plate of eggs. He looked up when Marcus entered, studying him with the careful attention of someone accustomed to strangers.
"You must be the reporter," the man said.
Marcus approached the booth cautiously. The man was tall and lean, with the weathered features of someone who'd spent most of his life outdoors. His clothes were practical—work boots, jeans, a flannel shirt beneath a canvas jacket. But his eyes were intelligent and alert, suggesting more education than his appearance indicated.
"Marcus Chen," he said, extending his hand.
"Dale Morrison." The handshake was firm and brief. "Sit down. We need to talk before you go up there."
Marcus slid into the booth across from Dale. The vinyl seat was cold against his back, and the table surface was sticky despite appearing recently cleaned. A waitress emerged from the kitchen—a woman in her fifties with tired eyes and a professional smile that didn't quite reach them. Her name tag read "Betty," and she moved with the efficient weariness of someone who'd been serving coffee to strangers for decades.
"Coffee, hon?" she asked Marcus.
"Please."
She returned with a mug and a pot that had clearly seen extensive use. The coffee was stronger than Marcus preferred, but hot and caffeinated enough to serve its purpose. Betty lingered near the table, clearly curious about the conversation but professionally discrete.
"So," Dale said once they were alone again, "Sarah Kim tells me you're interested in what really happened at Blackwood."
"Among other things, yes. I understand you have access to the facility."
Dale nodded slowly. "I was head of maintenance there for the last eight years it was open. Kept my keys when they shut the place down—figured someone might eventually want to know the truth about what went on."
"And what did go on?"
Dale was quiet for a long moment, staring into his coffee cup as if it contained answers to difficult questions. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled.
"I saw things," he said finally. "Things that weren't supposed to happen in any medical facility. Patients who went into Dr. Voss's research wing and came out... different. Or didn't come out at all."
Marcus pulled out his digital recorder. "Do you mind if I record this?"
Dale shook his head. "No recordings. Not here, anyway. But I'll tell you what I can."
Marcus put the recorder away and took out a notebook instead. "What kind of things did you see?"
"Dr. Voss had her own section of the asylum. Sub-basement levels that weren't on any official building plans. She called it her 'research facility,' but it looked more like something from a horror movie. Operating theaters, isolation chambers, rooms full of equipment I couldn't identify."
"What was she researching?"
"Officially? New treatments for severe mental illness. Unofficially?" Dale shrugged. "I heard rumors. Biological weapons research, mind control experiments, genetic manipulation. The kind of things the government was interested in during the Cold War."
Marcus felt a chill that had nothing to do with the diner's poor heating. "Did you ever see evidence of these experiments?"
"I saw the patients who came out of her labs. People who'd been admitted for depression or anxiety, but who couldn't speak coherently anymore. Patients who developed strange medical symptoms that didn't match any known disorders. And I saw the ones who never came out at all."
"What happened to them?"
Dale's expression darkened. "According to the official records, they died of natural causes. Heart attacks, strokes, complications from their underlying conditions. But I helped transport some of those bodies, and they didn't look like people who'd died naturally."
Marcus wrote as quickly as he could, trying to capture not just Dale's words but the tone of suppressed anger beneath them. This was a man who'd carried these secrets for decades, waiting for someone who might actually do something with the information.
"Why didn't you come forward earlier?"
"To who? Dr. Voss had connections in state government, federal agencies, medical oversight boards. Anyone I might have reported to was either in her pocket or didn't want to know what was really happening. And besides," Dale added grimly, "people who asked too many questions about Dr. Voss's research had a tendency to disappear."
"You mean they were fired?"
"I mean they disappeared. Transferred to other facilities that turned out not to exist, or simply never showed up for work again. By the time the state finally shut Blackwood down, most of the original staff was gone."
Marcus thought about his aunt Lin, about the experimental treatments mentioned in her records. "Do you remember a patient named Lin Chen? She would have been admitted in 1983."
Dale frowned, concentrating. "Chinese woman, mid-thirties, very quiet?"
"That sounds right."
"She was one of Dr. Voss's research subjects. I remember because she seemed so normal when she arrived—just nervous and depressed, the kind of patient who should have responded well to standard treatment. But she ended up in the research wing."
"What happened to her?"
Dale was quiet for a long moment. "She was part of something Dr. Voss called 'genetic memory research.' The theory was that traumatic experiences could be inherited biologically, passed down through families in ways that affected brain chemistry. Dr. Voss thought she could identify and manipulate these inherited memories."
Marcus felt his stomach tighten. "How?"
"Chemical injections, surgical procedures, sensory deprivation, electrical stimulation. She was essentially trying to rewrite people's genetic programming." Dale shook his head. "Your aunt... she didn't respond well to the treatments. Started having seizures, hallucinations, episodes where she didn't recognize anyone around her."
"The official record says she died of pneumonia."
"Pneumonia brought on by immune system failure caused by repeated experimental procedures," Dale said bluntly. "I helped transport her body to the morgue. She looked like someone who'd been tortured."
Marcus set down his pen, no longer able to write. The image of his gentle aunt subjected to brutal medical experiments was almost too horrible to process. But it explained so much—her increasing paranoia in the months before her admission, her claims that she could hear voices of dead relatives, her family's reluctance to discuss what had happened to her.
"There are others," Dale continued. "Hundreds of patients who were subjected to similar experiments. Dr. Voss kept detailed records of everything she did, stored in a vault beneath the research wing. If those files still exist, they'd contain evidence of systematic abuse on a scale that would make other institutional scandals look minor."
"Are you willing to testify to what you've told me?"
Dale considered the question carefully. "If you find evidence that corroborates what I've said, yes. But you need to understand what you're getting into. Blackwood isn't just an abandoned building—it's a place where terrible things happened for decades. Some people believe that kind of suffering leaves permanent marks."
"What kind of marks?"
"The kind that affect sensitive people. Reporters, investigators, anyone who spends time trying to understand what happened there." Dale finished his coffee and stood to leave. "I've known three people who tried to investigate Blackwood over the years. Two of them suffered nervous breakdowns that ended their careers. The third one killed himself."
Marcus felt as if the temperature in the diner had dropped several degrees. "Are you trying to scare me away?"
"I'm trying to make sure you understand the risks. Blackwood isn't just about exposing past crimes—it's about entering a place where human suffering was systematically cultivated for decades. That kind of environment can affect people in unexpected ways."
Dale reached into his jacket and withdrew a ring of keys, setting them on the table between them. "Main entrance, service doors, and elevator access to the sub-basement levels. The building's structurally sound, but the electrical system was shut down years ago, so bring plenty of lights. And Marcus?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever you find in there, don't stay past dark. Blackwood has a way of making people lose track of time, and you don't want to be wandering those corridors after sunset."
With that warning, Dale left the diner, his footsteps echoing in the near-empty space. Marcus sat alone with the keys, feeling their weight both physical and metaphorical. He was committed now, for better or worse.
Betty refilled his coffee without being asked. "You're going up to the old asylum," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
She shook her head sadly. "Lot of people have tried over the years. Reporters, ghost hunters, curiosity seekers. Most of them don't stay long."
"Why not?"
"Place has a feeling to it. Like all the pain that happened there is still hanging in the air, waiting for someone sensitive enough to pick up on it." She paused, studying Marcus's face. "You look like someone who might be sensitive to that kind of thing."
"What do you mean?"
Betty glanced around the empty diner, as if checking for eavesdroppers. "My sister worked there, back in the day. Kitchen staff, nothing important. But she saw things that changed her. Patients who came in normal and left... broken. And the staff wasn't much better. People who stayed too long at Blackwood, they started acting strange. Paranoid, jumpier than usual. Some of them claimed they could hear voices in the walls."
"What kind of voices?"
"Patients who'd died, mostly. Or maybe the ones who disappeared. My sister said the building remembered everything that happened inside it, and some people were more sensitive to those memories than others."
Marcus felt a chill that had nothing to do with the diner's poor heating. "Your sister—what happened to her?"
"She quit in 1986, right before the place closed. Said she couldn't take the nightmares anymore. Every night, she'd dream about the patients she'd seen, the ones who'd been taken to Dr. Voss's special ward and never came back." Betty's voice dropped to a whisper. "She died last year, but even at the end, she was still talking about Blackwood. Still hearing those voices."
Marcus paid for his coffee and gathered the keys. Outside, the drizzle had intensified, creating a gray curtain that reduced visibility and made the world feel smaller and more enclosed. He checked his equipment one final time, ensuring his cameras were protected from moisture and his flashlights had fresh batteries.
The drive to Blackwood Asylum took another twenty minutes, following increasingly narrow roads that seemed designed to discourage casual visitors. Marcus passed several "No Trespassing" signs, but Dale had assured him that security was minimal—the property was too remote and too stigmatized to attract many intruders.
The forest grew denser as he approached the asylum, with trees that seemed to lean inward over the road, creating a tunnel-like effect. The few clearings he passed were filled with dead or dying vegetation, as if the soil itself had been poisoned. And there was something about the quality of light that seemed wrong—the overcast sky created a dim, underwater atmosphere that made distance difficult to judge.
When the asylum finally came into view, Marcus felt his breath catch. The building was even more imposing than the photographs had suggested. Five stories of red brick rose from a hilltop clearing, with Gothic windows and towering spires that gave it the appearance of a medieval castle. Multiple wings extended from the central structure, connected by covered walkways that formed a complex maze of corridors and courtyards.
But it was the atmosphere surrounding the place that truly disturbed him. The trees seemed to lean away from the building, as if even the vegetation found it repellent. No birds sang in the surrounding forest, and the usual sounds of rural life—insects, small animals, wind through leaves—were eerily absent.
Marcus parked near what appeared to be the main entrance and sat for a moment, studying the building more carefully. Many windows were broken, their glass lying scattered on the ground below. Graffiti covered the lower walls, most of it recent and crude. But there was something else—scorch marks around some of the windows, as if fires had been set inside the building.
The silence was absolute. No wind stirred the trees, no insects buzzed, no birds called. It was as if the entire area had been placed under a bell jar, cut off from the living world. Marcus found himself breathing more shallowly, as if the air itself were somehow contaminated.
He gathered his equipment and approached the main entrance, a massive wooden door beneath a stone archway carved with words he couldn't quite make out. The carving was weathered and stained, but he could make out fragments: "...Providence and Healing..." and "...Sanctuary for the Afflicted..." The irony of those words, given what he now knew about the asylum's true purpose, was not lost on him.
The lock was old but solid, and Dale's key turned smoothly despite decades of neglect. As Marcus prepared to enter, he noticed something that made him pause. Fresh tire tracks led up to the building's service entrance, and there were recent footprints in the mud near the main door. Someone else had been here recently, and not long ago.
Marcus checked his watch: 11:47 AM. He had plenty of daylight left, but Dale's warning about not staying past dark echoed in his mind. He pulled out his camera and began documenting the exterior of the building, capturing the Gothic architecture, the broken windows, the signs of recent visitors.
As he worked, Marcus became aware of a sound from somewhere inside the building. It was faint and irregular, like machinery running intermittently. But that was impossible—the asylum had been without power for decades. He paused, listening carefully, but the sound faded until he wondered if he'd imagined it.
The main door stood before him, its dark wood scarred by weather and vandalism. Marcus inserted Dale's key and turned it slowly. The lock clicked open with a sound that seemed to echo through the empty building beyond.
He was about to cross the threshold into Blackwood Asylum, a place where his aunt had died and hundreds of others had suffered unspeakable horrors. Whatever he found inside, whatever secrets the building still contained, would change everything he thought he knew about institutional care and government oversight.
Marcus pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness beyond. that seemed to echo through the building's interior. Marcus stepped inside and immediately felt the weight of decades pressing down on him. The air was thick with dust and decay, carrying scents of mold, rust, and something else—something organic and unpleasant that he couldn't identify.
The entrance hall stretched before him like a cathedral of institutional despair. High ceilings disappeared into shadows above, supported by Gothic arches that had once been painted white but now showed water stains and patches of exposed plaster. A grand staircase curved upward to the second floor, its wooden banister carved with intricate patterns that spoke of a time when the building had been intended to inspire confidence rather than dread.
Marcus pulled out his camera and began documenting what he saw. The lobby contained remnants of its former function—a reception desk carved from dark wood, filing cabinets that had been ransacked and left open, scattered papers that had yellowed with age. But it was the personal details that made the space feel haunted: a child's drawing still tacked to a bulletin board, a calendar from 1987 showing the month the asylum had closed, a coffee mug sitting on the reception desk as if someone had just stepped away.
He moved deeper into the building, following a corridor that led toward what appeared to be administrative offices. His footsteps echoed in the empty space, and he found himself walking more quietly, though he couldn't explain why. The silence felt oppressive, as if the building were holding its breath.
The first office he entered had been Dr. Voss's domain, according to the nameplate still mounted beside the door. It was larger than the others, with tall windows that would have provided natural light during the day. But now, with storm clouds gathering outside, the room felt cave-like and oppressive.
Marcus set up his equipment and began photographing the space systematically. The office had been thoroughly searched at some point—file cabinets stood open, papers were scattered across the floor, and a large safe in the corner had been left ajar. But there were still clues to the room's former occupant: medical texts on the shelves, diplomas from prestigious universities, photographs of Dr. Voss with government officials and pharmaceutical executives.
He found her personal files in a locked drawer that Dale's keys opened easily. Most of the documents were routine administrative paperwork, but buried among them were references to something called "Project Blackwood"—a research initiative that seemed to involve multiple government agencies and substantial federal funding.
As Marcus photographed the documents, he became aware of a sound from somewhere deeper in the building. It was rhythmic and mechanical, like machinery running in the distance. But that was impossible—the asylum had been without power for decades. He paused, listening carefully, but the sound faded until he wondered if he'd imagined it.
As Marcus worked through Dr. Voss's files, he became increasingly absorbed in the horrific details of the research. The documents referenced "genetic memory extraction" and "inherited trauma manipulation"—papers heavily redacted but revealing enough to suggest that Dr. Voss's research had involved systematic attempts to alter patients' fundamental psychological makeup.
Hours passed without Marcus realizing it. He found himself rubbing absently at his left forearm, which had developed a slight irritation—probably from leaning against the dusty desk edge or brushing against something in the deteriorating building. The asylum was full of hazards: peeling paint, asbestos insulation, mold spores, and decades of accumulated decay.
The irritation gradually became more noticeable, a persistent itch that made it difficult to concentrate. Marcus rolled up his sleeve and saw a small red mark on his forearm—nothing dramatic, just the kind of minor skin reaction that often occurred in old buildings full of allergens and contaminants. He'd always had sensitive skin, and places like this were notorious for causing reactions in people with allergies.
As he waited for the medication to take effect, Marcus explored more of the administrative wing. He found patient files that had been left behind during the hasty closure, medical records that painted a picture of systematic abuse disguised as treatment. Many of the files showed evidence of unauthorized procedures, experimental drugs, and treatments that had no basis in accepted medical practice.
But it was in the basement that Marcus found the most disturbing evidence.
The elevator to the sub-basement levels required a special key, one that Dale had included in the ring with specific warnings about what Marcus might find below. The elevator car was ancient, with brass fixtures and a manual gate that had to be closed before the car would move. As it descended, Marcus felt his ears pop from the pressure change, suggesting that the sub-basement was significantly below ground level.
The doors opened onto a corridor that looked more like a hospital than an asylum. The walls were lined with white tile, and the floor was polished concrete designed for easy cleaning. But the clinical appearance was undermined by the institutional green paint that had been applied over everything, giving the space a sick, underwater quality.
Marcus followed the corridor deeper into the building, using his flashlight to illuminate the way. The first rooms he encountered were clearly medical facilities—examination rooms with ancient equipment, a pharmacy with empty drug cabinets, what appeared to be a small surgical suite. But the deeper he went, the more the space began to feel like something other than a medical facility.
The isolation chambers were the first clear evidence of the building's true purpose. These were small rooms, each barely large enough for a single bed, with heavy doors that locked from the outside. Small windows in the doors allowed observation of the occupants, but there was no way for patients to see out. The walls were padded, but the padding had deteriorated over the decades, revealing the concrete underneath.
Marcus photographed everything, but found himself working more quickly than usual. The basement had a different quality than the upper floors—the air was thicker, the silence more oppressive, and he had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. The irritation on his arm continued to bother him, and he found himself scratching at it without thinking.
Something about the basement environment seemed to be affecting him. Perhaps it was the poor air quality, or the psychological weight of being in a place where such terrible things had happened. The irritation on his arm was spreading, becoming more inflamed, but that wasn't unusual in buildings filled with mold, dust, and chemical contaminants from decades of decay.
It was in Dr. Voss's private laboratory that Marcus found the most damning evidence.
The room was larger than the others, with multiple examination tables and enough equipment to perform complex medical procedures. But it was the filing cabinets that contained the real treasure. Unlike the ransacked offices upstairs, these files appeared to have been undisturbed since the asylum's closure.
The documents painted a picture of systematic human experimentation that went far beyond anything Marcus had imagined. Dr. Voss had been conducting research for multiple government agencies, using Blackwood's patients as unwilling test subjects for biological weapons, psychological manipulation techniques, and genetic modification experiments.
Marcus found his aunt's file among the others, and the contents made him physically ill. Lin Chen had been subjected to repeated injections of experimental compounds designed to alter brain chemistry, surgical procedures that involved implanting electrodes directly into her brain tissue, and sensory deprivation experiments that had lasted for weeks at a time.
The file contained photographs of her before and after various procedures, and Marcus barely recognized the woman in the later images. Her eyes had become vacant and staring, her face gaunt from weight loss, her body marked with surgical scars and injection sites. The final entry in her file, dated just days before her official death, noted that she had become "unresponsive to external stimuli" and was "no longer suitable for further experimentation."
Marcus sat in the abandoned laboratory, surrounded by the evidence of his aunt's torture, and felt something break inside him. This wasn't just institutional neglect or even criminal abuse—it was systematic dehumanization on a scale that challenged his understanding of human capacity for evil.
The irritation on his arm was now quite painful, and when he looked at it, he saw that the redness had spread significantly. What had started as a minor reaction had grown into an area of inflammation extending from his wrist toward his elbow. He attributed it to the building's contaminated environment—old buildings like this were notorious for causing skin reactions, respiratory problems, and other health issues in sensitive individuals.
Marcus found some ibuprofen in his first aid kit and took several tablets, hoping they would reduce the inflammation. He also applied some water from a sink that still functioned, though the relief was minimal. The stress of his discoveries, combined with the poor air quality and toxic environment, was clearly taking a toll on his body.
As he continued to photograph the files, Marcus became aware that his vision was starting to blur slightly. The basement's fluorescent lighting—powered by an emergency generator he hadn't noticed—seemed to flicker and pulse in ways that made it difficult to focus. He attributed this to eye strain and the stress of what he was discovering, but the sensation was becoming more pronounced.
It was then that he heard the first voice.
"They're all still here," someone said, the words echoing through the laboratory as if spoken by someone standing right beside him.
Marcus spun around, his heart racing, but the room was empty. The voice had been distinctly feminine, with a slight accent that reminded him of his aunt Lin. But that was impossible—he was alone in the building, and had been for hours.
"Hello?" he called out, his voice sounding smaller than he'd intended.
No response.
Marcus checked his watch and was surprised to discover that he'd been in the basement for nearly four hours. The time seemed to have passed in minutes, and he had no memory of eating or taking breaks. His throat was dry, and his head was beginning to ache in a way that suggested dehydration.
He gathered his equipment and headed toward the elevator, but found himself moving more slowly than usual. The inflammation on his arm was now quite painful, and he was beginning to feel somewhat unwell—probably from prolonged exposure to the building's toxic environment. Old institutions like Blackwood were known to contain asbestos, lead paint, mold, and other hazardous materials that could cause serious health problems with extended exposure.
The elevator seemed to take longer to reach the ground floor than it had during his descent, and Marcus found himself struggling to stay focused. The building's architecture was beginning to seem maze-like, with corridors that didn't quite connect the way he remembered and rooms that appeared to have changed position. But that was probably just fatigue and disorientation from spending too many hours in an unfamiliar, windowless environment.
He made it back to Dr. Voss's office and sat down heavily in her chair, suddenly exhausted. The inflammation on his arm had continued to worsen, extending from his wrist to past his elbow, and he could feel heat radiating from the affected area. More concerning, he was beginning to feel feverish and unwell—clear signs that prolonged exposure to the building's contaminated environment was affecting his health.
Marcus pulled out his cell phone to call for help, but discovered that he had no signal. The building's remote location and thick walls made communication with the outside world impossible. He would have to drive back to civilization to get medical treatment, but the thought of navigating the winding forest roads in his current condition seemed challenging.
As he sat in the abandoned office, Marcus became aware of movement in his peripheral vision. When he turned to look directly, there was nothing there, but he had the distinct impression of figures moving just beyond the edges of his sight. The sensation was accompanied by whispers—voices speaking too softly to understand, but with an urgent quality that suggested important information.
He tried to focus on packing his equipment, but found his hands shaking badly enough to make delicate work difficult. The camera felt heavier than usual, and his laptop seemed to be running more slowly than normal. But it was the voices that were most disturbing—they were becoming clearer, more distinct, and he was beginning to recognize some of them.
"Marcus," his aunt Lin's voice said clearly, "you need to see the rest of it. You need to understand what they did to us."
Marcus looked around the office, but he was still alone. The voice had been so clear, so familiar, that he could almost believe his aunt was actually there. But Lin Chen had been dead for over forty years, and ghosts didn't provide information for news stories.
Still, the voice had mentioned "the rest of it," implying that his investigation was incomplete. Marcus had found evidence of systematic human experimentation, but he hadn't fully explored the asylum's upper floors or the other wings of the building. If he was going to write a comprehensive expose, he needed to document everything.
The rational part of his mind suggested that he should leave immediately and seek medical attention for what was clearly a serious allergic reaction. But the journalist in him recognized that this might be his only opportunity to fully investigate Blackwood Asylum. Once he left, he might not be able to return, and the building's demolition would destroy any evidence he hadn't already documented.
Marcus made a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life: he would continue the investigation despite his worsening condition. He had antihistamines and pain medication in his first aid kit, and he'd covered difficult stories under adverse conditions before. The symptoms were troubling, but not immediately life-threatening, and the importance of the story justified the risk.
As he prepared to explore the building's upper floors, Marcus failed to notice several crucial details. The inflammation on his arm was showing signs of something more serious than simple environmental irritation. His fever was climbing steadily, and his vision was becoming increasingly distorted—though he attributed these symptoms to stress, fatigue, and exposure to the building's toxic environment.
Most importantly, he didn't realize that what he was experiencing wasn't the result of environmental contamination at all. Somewhere in the building, dormant biological agents that had been part of Dr. Voss's research were still active, waiting for the right conditions to reactivate. The asylum itself had become a kind of biological weapon, designed to affect anyone who spent extended time within its walls.
The Blackwood Strain was awakening in Marcus's bloodstream, and with it came the accumulated memories of every patient who had suffered and died within the asylum's walls. As he climbed the stairs to the building's second floor, Marcus was beginning a journey into a nightmare that would blur the line between reality and madness, between past and present, between the living and the dead.
Behind him, in the shadows of the basement laboratory, equipment that had been silent for decades began to hum with electrical activity. And in the walls themselves, something that had been dormant for forty years began to stir, drawn by the presence of fresh blood carrying the genetic marker it had been designed to recognize.
The real horror of Blackwood Asylum was just beginning.