Chapter Five : Paranoia
1043 Words
Margaret
I couldn’t sleep. Not properly. Even if my body rested, my mind refused to surrender. Dreams bled into reality, and shadows on the walls seemed to curl into symbols I swore I’d seen in Thomas’s drawings.
That name.
Thomas.
I couldn’t get him out of my head. His expression, the shift in his gaze, the glint in his eyes when he smiled that unnatural smile. The way he had looked directly at me and said, “They talk to me.”
I needed to know more. Something wasn’t right.
And I was tired of pretending I didn’t feel it. That maybe I was just stressed. Maybe the old, crumbling institute with its labyrinthine hallways and strange silences was just... unsettling. That maybe, just maybe, I was overthinking things.
I grabbed my coat and headed out. The clock on my wall said 2:33 AM.
I didn’t care.
The hallways were quiet as always, almost too quiet, as if the building held its breath while I walked. My boots echoed against the stone floors, and the air was heavy, laced with that smell of disinfectant and something older. Dust. Decay. Memory.
I had memorized the layout again and again, drawn it on napkins in the cafeteria, reviewed it before sleeping. The medical records room should have been on the east wing, past the empty Ward D. I passed it.
Ward D—no sounds. No lights. Just the dark, stale air of abandonment.
The door to the records room groaned when I opened it.
Rows of filing cabinets stood like tombstones. Each drawer labeled alphabetically and chronologically. I walked through them slowly, my fingers tracing the etched metal tags. A chill danced across my shoulders.
I went to the cabinet marked “P-T (1990-2000).” My heart began to race. I opened it. My hands were shaking.
Files. Dozens of them. Pages yellowed with time, patient photos clipped to the covers, some eyes scratched out, some pages missing corners. I flipped until I reached “Parsons, Christopher”—but that file was sealed, locked in a transparent plastic slip. I couldn’t open it.
I swallowed, forcing myself to focus. I went back.
"Thomas, Thomas," I whispered.
And then, I found it.
“Thomas E. Halvorsen. 1992.”
My blood went cold.
No. That can’t be. Thomas looked no older than twenty-five. He couldn’t have been here in 1992. That would make him... over fifty? It didn’t make sense.
I opened the file.
There it was—the same face. The same cold, empty stare. His photo was stapled to the upper left corner. There were records: intake documents, psychiatric assessments, incident reports. Dates: 1992, 1993, 1994. Multiple entries. He had been transferred to isolation more than a dozen times. Violent episodes. Delusions.
One report stood out.
"Patient claims to be in communication with two male entities named Gabriel and Christopher Parsons. Warns staff about 'the return.' Increased drawings of spirals and eyes. Violent outburst on March 17. Sedated."
I read it again.
Christopher Parsons.
The same name from the file earlier. The one that was sealed. My pulse quickened.
But it couldn’t be the same Thomas.
I closed the file, heart hammering.
Then, I opened it again.
The photo was gone.
I blinked.
No. No, no. It had been there. I reached into the folder again, rifling through the pages.
Gone.
All of it.
Every page in the file was now blank.
My breath caught in my throat. I closed the folder, slid it back into the drawer, and closed it slowly.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I’m tired.
I turned.
A shadow darted across the room.
I gasped, taking a step back. My eyes searched the corners. No one. Nothing.
I shook my head. "Get it together, Margaret."
I walked toward the door.
And the entire room was... wrong.
The layout had changed. The filing cabinets were now in a different order. The desk I used to pass on my left was now on the right. The walls looked taller, stretched, almost pulsing.
I clutched my chest. Was I hallucinating? Was the air getting thicker?
Suddenly, the lights began to flicker. One by one, like a heartbeat stuttering.
Then they went out.
Darkness swallowed me.
I couldn’t breathe. I reached into my coat pocket for the small torch I always carried. It clicked on, a weak beam slicing through the dark.
My hand brushed against a cabinet.
I turned the beam toward it.
One single file sat atop it.
Not in the drawer. Just sitting there. Waiting.
I picked it up.
It had no name. No label.
I opened it.
A photo.
Of me.
Not from the hospital. From my apartment. From outside. It was me standing by the window.
My hands trembled. My mouth went dry.
Pages followed, each with notes written in a handwriting I didn’t recognize.
"Subject unstable. Prone to hallucinations. Unfit for treatment."
"Not a doctor. Merely a vessel."
"Do not trust her. She opens the door."
I dropped the file.
It hit the floor with a deafening thud.
And then, the whispers started.
Low at first. Rising like wind through trees.
"Margaret... Margaret... Come home..."
I bolted.
I ran down the corridor, heart pounding so hard it echoed in my ears. The hallway was longer again. The doors I passed now had no handles. Paintings hung sideways. One showed a man with no face. Another, a spiral filled with black.
I didn’t stop.
I reached my room, slammed the door, and locked it.
I stood there, breathing hard, staring at the door.
Was I going mad?
I turned to look at my nightstand.
The telephone was off the hook again.
The dial tone buzzed.
And underneath it...
Thomas's file.
Back again.
Open.
Pages inside. His picture. The one that vanished.
But this time, a note was added in bold red ink:
"Don't look for the truth. Or it will find you first."
I backed away.
Sat on my bed, knees to chest, rocking.
Am I dreaming? Am I hallucinating? Is it all in my head?
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Sleep. That’s all I needed. Sleep and answers.
But even as I drifted off, I knew something was watching.
And whatever it was...
It knew my name.
- Writer
