It was supposed to be the ultimate urban exploration challenge. The rules of "Séance" were simple, passed down through campus whispers: get into the abandoned Silver Creek Asylum after midnight, go to the old hydrotherapy room on the third floor, and say the words, We are here to play.
We were five, armed with nothing but cheap beer courage and our phone flashlights. Me, Chloe, Ben, and the couple, Mark and Sarah. The air inside was thick with the smell of decay and forgotten things.
"We don't have to do this,"
Sarah whispered, her hand clutching Mark's arm like a vise.
"Don't be a baby,"
Mark scoffed, though his own bravado sounded thin.
"It's just a stupid game. A psychology experiment gone wrong, or something. It's not real."
We found the room. Rust-stained tiles, the ghostly outlines of where porcelain tubs had been ripped from the floor. A single, frayed leather restraint lay in the corner. The air was colder here, a deep, penetrating chill that our jackets couldn't block. Ben, ever the joker, pulled out his phone.
"Okay, kids. Moment of truth."
He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud.
"We are here to play."
For a second, nothing. Just the sound of our own nervous breathing. Then, the heavy metal door we'd propped open with a brick slammed shut with a deafening BOOM. We all jumped. Sarah let out a small scream.
"Wind,"
Mark said, but he was already pale. Then the whispers started. Not from one corner, but from everywhere at once, layered over each other, a susurrus of mad, overlapping thoughts that seemed to come from the walls themselves. A child's giggle echoed from a drain grate. A man's guttural sobs from the ceiling.
"Okay, very funny, Ben,"
Chloe said, her voice trembling.
“Turn off the speaker."
Ben just held up his hands, his phone shaking.
"It's not me."
That's when the lights went out. Not just our phones, but the sliver of moonlight from the grimy window vanished, plunging us into a blackness so absolute it felt solid. We fumbled for each other, a knot of panicked humanity.
A new voice cut through the whispers, clear and horribly close to my ear. It was a dry, rasping sound, like stones grinding together.
"New players. Welcome. Let us begin."
A cold, bony finger traced a line down my cheek. I recoiled with a strangled cry.
"The rules are simple,"
The voice continued, now seeming to circle us.
“We will count. One of you is not who they say they are. Find the impostor before we reach ten. If you fail... you all join the cast."
"Join the cast?"
Ben whispered.
“What does that mean?"
A spotlight, sourceless and cold, snapped on, illuminating a patch of floor in the center of the room.
"One."
The voice was a chorus now, a unified chant from a hundred dead throats. We stared at each other, our faces ghastly in the unnatural light.
“This isn't funny anymore!"
Sarah shrieked.
"Maybe it's one of them,"
Mark said, pointing a shaky finger at Ben and Chloe.
“They set this up!"
"Two."
"Us? You're the one who was so eager to get in here!"
Chloe shot back. The temperature dropped further. Our breath plumed in the air. I looked at Mark, at the wild fear in his eyes. But for a second, just a second, I thought I saw his mouth twitch into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Three."
"It's him,"
I blurted out, pointing at Mark.
“He's been different since we got here."
Sarah whirled on him.
“Mark?"
"Four."
"Don't be ridiculous!"
Mark yelled, but his voice cracked.
“It's a trick! It's trying to divide us!"
"Five."
A low moan filled the room, and from the dark periphery, shapes began to form. Pale, emaciated figures in tattered gowns, their eyes hollow pits. They shuffled towards the edge of the light, reaching for us with long, thin fingers.
"Six."
"Mark, your hand!"
Chloe gasped. I looked down. The hand that had been holding Sarah's was changing. The skin was becoming waxy and pale, the fingers elongating, the nails thickening into yellowed claws.
"Seven."
Sarah tried to pull away, but he held her fast. His face began to stretch, his jaw unhinging slightly.
“You were supposed to be my friends,"
He gurgled, his voice no longer his own.
"You left me here after the dare last year. You left me to play alone."
The memory hit me like a physical blow. A year ago. A different game. Mark had fallen through a rotten floorboard. We’d run, panicked, promising to get help. We did. But the police never found a body. They said the basement tunnels were flooded.
"Eight."
The thing that was Mark smiled, a wide, impossible grin.
“Now we can all stay."
"Nine."
The spectral patients surged forward. Their touch was like ice and static, pulling Ben and Chloe into the darkness. Their screams were cut short, replaced by the sound of the asylum's old pipes groaning to life, the gurgle of water where there was none.
Sarah and I were backed against the door, the cold radiating from the thing wearing our friend's skin.
"Ten."
It lunged. Sarah was pulled from my side, her form dissolving into the swarm of shadows with a final, echoing wail. I was alone with it. It stood inches from me, the smell of wet earth and rot overwhelming.
"Time's up,"
It whispered. I don't know how I got out. I remember the brick dislodging, the door flying open, and a desperate, blind sprint through corridors that seemed to twist and lengthen. I burst out into the dawn, collapsing on the dew-soaked grass.
They found me there, babbling. They said I was alone. That there were no signs anyone else had been there. But sometimes, late at night, my phone will light up with a notification from a group chat that no longer exists. It's always the same message, from Mark's old number.
“Your turn to count.”
