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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TheLastRiter on 2024-10-19 18:21:52+00:00.

Fourteen days. It has been fourteen days since my little brother and his friends were declared missing. Fourteen days since my family heard anything from Peter. He could be difficult, but he’d never just disappear like this.

Peter and his two friends, Michael and Corey, fancied themselves urban explorers. They enjoyed creeping through crumbling malls and abandoned theaters that people whispered were haunted. The police had searched every likely spot within a hundred miles and found nothing but old squatters and empty spaces. They shrugged it off, convinced Peter and his friends had taken off for spring break. But Peter’s phone, always glued to his hand, had gone straight to voicemail. And it stayed that way.

Frustrated with the lack of progress, I took a leave of absence from my job and returned to my hometown, determined to find Peter myself. The first place I went was our childhood home.

It was early morning when I arrived, and the house was quiet, or so I thought. My parents were awake, moving through the house like ghosts, their eyes hollow and tired. They hadn’t slept. How could they? Peter’s room was a disaster, made worse by the police rummaging through it for clues. His computer sat untouched in the corner. When I turned it on, I was greeted by my first obstacle, a password.

I tore through his desk, notebooks, and every scrap of paper I could find, desperate for a clue. A poster of some grungy, tattooed band caught my eye: Vexor. Peter loved that band. I typed the name into the computer. Incorrect it said bouncing back. I sighed, leaning back in his chair, frustration bubbling up. The room felt suffocating, as if Peter’s absence left a void I couldn’t fill.

Then I caught sight of the poster again, reflected in the mirror. Backwards. Vexor read “Roxev.” It was a long shot, but I typed it in. The screen unlocked.

I exhaled, a small victory in a sea of uncertainty. I clicked through his files until I found a chat between Peter, Michael, and Corey. One message stood out: a link to a YouTube channel called The Unexplained Adventurers Club. I clicked through their videos which were well-edited shots of the three boys exploring decaying buildings and forgotten places. The latest video was of them at an old mill on the outskirts of town, and in the final minutes, they mentioned their next destination: St. Dismas Asylum.

I Googled the asylum and immediately felt a chill. It was an old, abandoned place, shut down decades ago amid rumors of human experiments. The photos online were grainy, but enough to show a crumbling building shrouded in decay. The idea of Peter and his friends exploring that place made my stomach twist. Still, if that’s where they’d gone, that’s where I’d have to go.

The drive to St. Dismas was long and oppressive. The sky darkened as I left the highway, and the backroads leading to the asylum were barely roads at all mostly just dirt paths winding through thick woods that seemed to close in around me. The trees were lifeless, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal hands. My headlights barely cut through the gloom, and with each mile, the silence grew heavier.

Finally, after what felt like hours, I saw it. St. Dismas sat perched on a hill, towering over everything like a malevolent giant. It looked wrong, almost as if it was leaning toward me, beckoning me closer. The building’s jagged silhouette was barely visible against the night sky, but it exuded an aura of decay and abandonment. Yet, even from a distance, I felt eyes on me, like the asylum itself was watching.

I should have stopped. I should have turned back. But as I neared the gate, I spotted a Jeep Grand Cherokee, partially hidden by overgrown bushes. My heart hammered in my chest. It was the same Jeep the boys had last been seen in.

I pulled up alongside it and stepped out, the cold night air biting at my skin. My flashlight beam swept over the Jeep, and dread coiled in my stomach. Two tires were flat as if they had driven over something sharp. My breath caught as I tried the doors, but they were locked tight. The back hatch gave way after a few tugs, and I climbed inside. The keys were still in the ignition, but the engine wouldn’t turn. The battery was dead.

I rummaged through the glove box and found the insurance papers. Michael Cromwell. I was right, it was their car. But where were they?

I checked my phone again. No signal. Of course. I could go back, try to find service, but the thought of leaving them behind felt like abandoning them. I had to keep going.

The gatehouse beside the fence had a faint glow coming from inside. I hesitated, then entered, my nerves frayed with every step. The light inside flickered, casting long, wavering shadows. An old computer sat in the corner, but it was the bright orange button on the wall that caught my eye. It had to be for the gate.

With a deep breath, I pressed it. The gates groaned as they slowly creaked open, their rusted hinges screaming in the silence. I jumped, startled by the sudden noise. For a moment, I stood frozen, staring at the gaping entrance. There was no turning back now.

I passed through the gates, and they slammed shut behind me, the sound echoing through the air like a final warning. My flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the dry, brittle ground beneath my feet. The earth seemed dead, drained of life, much like the trees that stood sentinel around the asylum. In the distance, I spotted a single light in one of the upper windows. It shouldn’t have been there, there was no reason for a place like this to still have power.

I made my way to the front doors, their heavy oak frames bound with thick chains and a rusted padlock. I shook them, but they wouldn’t budge. My flashlight beam flickered as I peered through the grimy windows. Inside, I could see the outline of an old waiting room, but there was no movement, no sign of life. I swept the light around, looking for a way in, but the shadows seemed to twist and dance just out of reach, taunting me. I figured there must be a similar orange button inside the lobby to open the front gate again, there had to be or else I would be trapped here.

Then, I noticed the footprints. Three sets, leading around the side of the building, directly under the window with the light. I followed them, my flashlight flickering as if struggling against the oppressive darkness. The prints led to a metal trellis climbing the side of the stone wall. Several bars were broken, and my heart raced as I realized this was how Peter and his friends had entered.

I looked up at the window, the only sign of life in this dead place. I had no signal, no backup, and no way out until I found them. I took a deep breath, gripping the trellis. The metal flexed under my weight, but I climbed anyway, feeling the pull of something far darker than I’d expected waiting for me inside.

Hand over hand, I went until my fingers scraped against the rough stone of the window sill, and with a final heave, I pulled myself into the room, only to stumble and land hard on my chin, a cloud of dust erupting around me. Cursing under my breath, I rolled to my feet, the silence in the room heavy and oppressive, wrapping around me like a shroud.

The administrative room was oddly preserved, an old bank teller’s lamp casting a weak glow over a desk cluttered with disheveled papers. Despite the dust covering nearly everything, some sheets bore the official stamp of St. Dismas, their pages oddly missing a layer a dust as though someone had been examining them recently. I rifled through the documents, noting the sterile language detailing procedures and consents that felt cold and clinical. A low hum pulsed in the air, reminiscent of faulty electrical wires crackling somewhere in the depths of the building.

As I approached the door, a sudden crash echoed through the hallway, sharp and disorienting. My heart raced as panic surged within me. I was seconds away from bolting back through the window when I hesitated. Peter could be in danger; I couldn’t abandon him, even if fear gnawed at my insides.

That sound was heavy and metallic but might have been the boys. What if they were trying to escape from somewhere? The thought froze me momentarily, but I steeled myself, pushed down the dread, and opened the door to the hallway.

Peering into the murky darkness of St. Dismas, I aimed my flashlight into the gloom. A long, hospital-style corridor unfolded before me, lined with doors that whispered secrets. Some were slightly ajar, as if beckoning me closer, while others were locked tight, guarding their horrors.

A crooked sign hung on the wall, the word “ADMINISTRATION WING” scrawled in blood-red letters. I quickly checked my phone, praying for a signal, but the screen remained obstinately blank. With every step I took, the linoleum floor creaked, each echo amplifying my sense of vulnerability.

Then, I heard it. A faint dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled along the floor above me. My heart raced. Was it Peter? Or was it someone, or something else lurking in the shadows? Perhaps a deranged ex-patient or a sadistic doctor conducting nightmarish experiments on the unwitting?

A shiver danced down my spine. Calling out would be foolish; I needed to remain hidden, to find the source of the noise before it found me.

At the end of the hallway, I rounded a corner and stepped into a grand atrium that …

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