"Eyes That Never Blink"

Part Four: "Room 9B"

Oakbridge Psychiatric Hospital squatted at the edge of town like a scab no one wanted to acknowledge. It had officially closed five years ago, condemned due to “structural instability.” But the reality was far uglier—there had been a string of internal investigations, whispers of abuse, falsified records, staff disappearances. It was a place that swallowed things.

Detective Rafe Marlow stood in front of the rusted gates, squinting through the fog. His breath curled out in pale clouds. The wind howled through broken windows above like the building itself was whispering secrets.

The hospital administrator who’d agreed to meet him was late. So Rafe broke in.

Inside, Oakbridge was a mausoleum. Hallways stank of mildew and rot, walls flaking like diseased skin. Old medical charts littered the floor, their ink faded, names blurred. The electricity had been long cut—only Rafe’s flashlight guided him forward.

He found the patient archive room on the third floor, door half-hanging from its hinges.

Dust. Mold. Records scattered like leaves.

He searched until he found it: "Noah (Last name unknown)" — Patient ID 462B.

Date of admission: 2014.

Reason: "Severe psychosis, identity dissolution, chronic catatonia."

Notes: “Unresponsive. Does not speak. Draws constantly. Recurring themes: masks, hollow figures, exposed bone. Highly intelligent. Observes everything.”

Final note:

“Transferred from foster care system. Prior trauma suspected. Refuses therapy. Believes he is ‘not real.’”

There was one photo paper-clipped to the file.

A boy, maybe sixteen. Pale. Thin. Dead eyes.

His face was expressionless—but his eyes... alive. Watching. Measuring.

Written in red marker across the top corner of the file:

"DO NOT HOUSE IN 9B. SEE INCIDENT REPORT."

Rafe scanned the cabinet again.

There it was. Incident Report — Room 9B.

He read it in silence.

> Subject was left unattended for three hours due to staff shortage. Security footage unavailable due to power outage. Upon return, orderly found room covered in sketches. All surfaces—walls, floor, ceiling—covered with the same face. Porcelain. Hollow eyes. Smiling mouth. Subject was lying in the corner. Smiling. Eyes wide. He had swallowed his own tongue. Yet showed no signs of injury. Resuscitated. Did not speak. But from then on, he watched everything. Even when he blinked, it was like his eyes were still open.

Rafe swallowed hard.

He took the file. Slipped it into his coat.

As he turned to leave, he passed Room 9B.

He hadn’t realized he was standing outside it.

The door was cracked open.

He should’ve walked away.

But he didn’t.

Inside, the room was dark—graffiti layered across every inch. Hundreds of faces. All the same: blank, masked, with gouged-out eyes. Some wore Leah’s face. One looked exactly like Rafe.

On the far wall, a message scratched into the plaster:

"To understand the Watcher, you must be watched."

And beneath it:

"He’s not stalking her. He’s waiting for her to remember."

Rafe stepped back.

Suddenly, he noticed something.

A Polaroid, nailed to the wall above the message.

It was Leah.

Twelve years ago.

Younger. Bruised. Standing beside a boy who looked exactly like the patient. Noah.

The name scrawled at the bottom:

“Brother & Sister — 2013.”