The spiral staircase seemed to go on forever. My boots squelched with every step, leaving wet, muddy footprints on the rusted iron treads. I was shivering violently now, the freezing water from the immersion tank having soaked through to my skin.
"Hypothermia check," I whispered, holding the camera up to my blue lips. "If I start speaking in tongues, it is not possession. It is just my brain freezing."
I reached the top landing. A heavy wooden door stood slightly ajar, painted a peeling, cheerful yellow that looked sickly in the flashlight beam. A hand-painted sign hung crookedly on a nail: REPARTO PEDIATRICO (Pediatric Ward).
"Children's Ward," I muttered. "Why is it always a Children's Ward? Why couldn't it be a haunted tax office?"
I pushed the door open with the barrel of The Negotiator.
The silence here was different. Downstairs, the silence was heavy and oppressive. Here, it felt... waiting. Expectant.
I stepped inside.
The room was vast, stretching the entire length of the building's east wing. Rows of small, rusted iron cribs lined the walls. In the center of the room, rotting rocking horses and headless dolls lay scattered across the floorboards. The walls were covered in murals—faded paintings of bunnies and bears that time and mold had turned into twisted, leering monsters.
Giggle.
The sound came from everywhere at once. It wasn't a scary laugh. It was innocent. Pure. Which, given the context, made it infinitely worse.
"Hello?" I called out softly. "I am not here to hurt you. I am just passing through."
Giggle.
A ball rolled out from under a crib. It was an old leather ball, grey with dust. It stopped right at my feet.
I looked up.
They were there.
Standing in the center of the room, amidst the debris, were a dozen faint, translucent figures. Children. Some looked no older than five. They wore grey hospital gowns that hung loosely on their emaciated frames. Their eyes were dark hollows, but they were smiling.
They held hands, forming a circle.
"Ring around the rosie," I whispered, watching them. "Pocket full of posies."
They began to spin. Slowly at first, then faster. The air in the room began to swirl, picking up dust and dead leaves, creating a vortex in the center of their circle.
Ashes... Ashes...
The children didn't sing it. The wind sang it.
We all fall down.
On the last word, the children collapsed to the floor. But they didn't hit the wood. They melted into the floorboards, disappearing like smoke.
"Okay," I breathed, backing up. "That was creepy. Beautiful, but creepy. I am going to go now."
I turned toward the door at the far end of the ward, the one that led to the staff quarters and the roof access.
SLAM.
The door slammed shut.
A shadow detached itself from the far corner of the room. It wasn't a child. It was massive. A towering figure draped in heavy black fabric that looked like a nun's habit, but tattered and ancient. She floated a foot off the ground, her face hidden deep within a cowl.
"The Matron," I realized. The protector. The one who kept the children here.
She raised a hand. It was grey and withered, with fingers that were far too long. She pointed a bony digit at me.
"LEAVE... THEM... ALONE."
The voice sounded like tearing paper.
"I am trying to!" I yelled, raising the shotgun. "You are the one locking the doors, lady!"
She shrieked. It was a sound of pure rage. The cribs along the walls began to rattle violently. The rocking horses started to rock, faster and faster, until they tipped over.
The Matron surged forward. She didn't glide; she rushed, a blur of black cloth and malice.
I leveled the gun. My finger tightened on the trigger.
Then I stopped.
Between me and the Matron, the ghost children reappeared. They formed a wall, shielding her. They looked at me with sad, pleading eyes. They were protecting their tormentor. Stockholm syndrome from beyond the grave.
"Move!" I shouted. "Kids, get out of the way!"
They didn't move.
"I can't shoot them," I panicked. "Uncle Silas didn't say what happens if you shoot a kid ghost. Does it hurt? Do they go to heaven? Or do I just obliterate a toddler's soul?"
The Matron laughed, a dry, hacking sound. She knew I hesitated. She waved her hand, and the toys on the floor—heavy wooden blocks, metal trucks—lifted into the air.
"Oh, come on," I groaned.
She hurled them at me.
I ducked, covering my head as a barrage of antique toys rained down. A wooden block bounced off my shoulder. A metal truck clipped my ear.
"Okay! New plan!" I yelled, peeking over my arms.
I couldn't use the buckshot. The spread was too wide. I would hit the kids. I needed precision. I needed a slug.
I fumbled with the ammo belt I had draped over my shoulder. I found a blue shell. Slug - Solid Brass.
I cracked the action open, ejecting the spent shells from the pool fight. I loaded the single slug into the right barrel.
The Matron was pushing through the line of children now, her clawed hands reaching for my throat.
"Sorry, kids," I muttered. "Close your eyes."
I didn't aim at the Matron's chest. I aimed at the ceiling above her.
Specifically, at the heavy iron chandelier that hung by a rusted chain directly over her head.
"Gravity check!"
BOOM.
The solid brass slug hit the chain with the force of a sledgehammer. The metal shattered.
The chandelier dropped.
It crashed down onto the Matron, burying her under five hundred pounds of wrought iron.
She shrieked as the iron pinned her spiritual form to the floor. The metal seemed to burn her, sizzling against the black fabric.
The children screamed and scattered, fading into the walls in terror.
"Run!" I yelled at them. "Go be free! Go annoy a medium!"
I didn't wait to see if the Matron could lift the chandelier. I sprinted across the room, dodging the overturned cribs. I hit the far door with my shoulder, bursting through into the hallway.
I slammed it shut behind me and jammed the barrel of the shotgun through the handle to hold it.
"Cleared," I panted, leaning against the wall. "Pediatric Ward cleared. No children harmed. Only furniture."
I looked down the hall. A narrow wooden ladder led up to a hatch in the ceiling.
"The roof," I said, looking at the map on my phone screen, which was cracked but working. "The Bell Tower is on the roof. And if I can get to the Bell Tower, maybe I can get a signal. Maybe I can call for actual help."
I climbed the ladder, my wet boots slipping on the rungs. I pushed the hatch open and climbed out into the cold night air.
I was on the roof of the asylum. The wind was howling up here, whipping my wet clothes against my skin.
And there, looming above me in the dark, was the Bell Tower.
"Okay," I shivered. "High ground. Let's go."