Echoes from the Asylum
There was once a small, quiet town of Scrivensville, tucked away near the Englewood forest. One of the most iconic features in this town was the old asylum, known as the Englewood Asylum. Although it had been abandoned for many decades, it still loomed large in the community’s memory and town’s folklore. People, particularly children, were often warned to stay away from the dilapidated structure. Despite this, the Asylum held a kind of macabre allure for many.
A group of three daring teenagers, Sam, Clara, and Ethan decided to venture into the asylum one chilly autumn evening. The sun had just begun to set, casting long, evocative shadows across the front of the imposing building. They were armed with little more than a shared sense of adventure and Ethan’s father’s old, worn-out camera.
As they approached the asylum, their light-hearted banter gave way to silence. The myths and legends surrounding the asylum started to become all too real in their minds. Sam, the leader of the trio, pushed the rusty iron gate. It opened with a creak, sending a shiver down their spines.
The inside of the asylum was much colder than the evening air. Clara, the most apprehensive amongst them, grew more nervous. They explored room after room, floor after floor. Sam and Ethan began flipping through mouldy patient records they found strewn across the place, occasionally reading out diagnoses and treatment details in hushed, eerie tones to unnerve Clara.
In the midst of their exploration, they stumbled upon a room sealed with multiple locks. Sam managed to break open the locks with an old iron rod lying nearby. They found an old fashioned straight jacket and an ancient wheelchair that seemed to convey stories of forsaken lives and despair. The room, unlike others, showed signs of recent human presence. Suddenly, Ethan’s camera began clicking pictures on its own. The sudden shrill sound of the camera startled them.
Clara, on the verge of tears, wanted to rush out, but something flickering behind the glass pane of a little cabinet caught her eye. She hesitantly opened it and found an old, dusty book. It was the asylum psychiatrist’s diary, she concluded after flipping through a few pages.
Eerily intrigued by the diary, they spent hours poring over it. It was not just a chronicling of patient profiles, but also the psychiatrist’s personal reflections - his struggles, regrets, and the loneliness he felt. This was the diary of Dr Alfred Watkins, the last asylum head doctor.
One entry became increasingly prevalent towards the end. Dr Watkins wrote about a young patient, Christine, who seemed particularly challenging to treat and whose tormented screams troubled him even in his sleep. One final entry mentioned that Dr Watkins had found a cure, but there were no records beyond that.
The diary gave a human touch to the horror and myths surrounding the asylum. It was now a place of suffering and misplaced intentions, of lost souls struggling to find a cure. With a newfound respect for the asylum, the trio decided to leave the asylum, leaving everything as they had found it.
For years to come, their adventure was repeatedly narrated around campfires and at gatherings, the story of the Asylum gaining new layers with each telling. The asylum was seen not as a monument of horror but of tragedy.
And so, Scrivensville continued to live with the echoes from the asylum. The childish dares to visit the asylum ceased, and the once ominous building stood there, a silent reminder of the town’s past, shaded with sorrow and the constant effort to understand the human psyche. The souls of the asylum continued to rest, and the saga of the Englewood Asylum lived on, only to be shared in hushed tones under the twinkling sky.