The gravel cracked under the tires as the van rolled to a stop. Kaine stared out the rain-streaked window at the looming building ahead. Greystone House looked more like an abandoned mansion than a place for healing its stone walls weathered, the windows tall and hollow like watching eyes. Ivy curled up its sides like veins, choking what little life the house might have once had.
"This is just temporary," his mother had said, avoiding his gaze as she signed the admission forms. "You'll get rest here. Peace."
Peace. That word echoed like a lie.
The front door creaked open as a tall, pale nurse stepped out with a clipboard. Her nametag read "Marla." She didn't smile.
"Welcome, Kaine. We've been expecting you."
The inside was colder than he'd imagined. High ceilings, wooden floors, and the scent of antiseptic clashing with something musty something older. Portraits lined the walls, faces of long-dead founders whose eyes seemed to follow him down the hall. One hallway to the left was blocked by a gate metal bars welded together and padlocked tight.
Kaine paused. "What's that way?"
Marla didn't slow her stride. "The west wing is under maintenance. You won't be going there."
His room was on the second floor, third door on the right. It was plain: a bed, a dresser, and a small window that overlooked the very wing they'd just passed. But what caught his attention wasn't the view.
It was the door across the hall from his.
It had no number.
That night, Kaine lay awake, the mattress too firm, the air too still. He stared at the ceiling, eyes refusing to shut. At 2:47 a.m., he heard it.
A soft, dragging sound.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
Like something heavy being pulled across wood slowly, deliberately.
He sat up. The hallway was silent. He tiptoed to his door, cracked it open.
Nothing.
But just before he closed it, he looked across the hall. The door with no number was open just a sliver.
And from the darkness behind it…
He heard a whisper.
"Kaine."