Don't Run

Three friends sneak into the creepy Blackwood Asylum to explore its dark history, but when they find an old cassette tape, they accidentally set off something sinister. My name is Edwin and here's a scary story. I don't remember when I started recording everything, but I know why I did it. When you're invisible at school and an easy target for jerks like Jake Connolly, you need a reason to keep going. Some people escape through video games, Others lose themselves in music. For me, it's my camera. When I'm behind the lens, I can pretend I'm somewhere else, someone else, and for a few hours, I don't have to think about the bruises on my ribs or the laughter behind my back. That's why I said yes when Noah suggested we check out Blackwood Asylum. The place had been abandoned since the nineteen eighties, and the official story the psychiatric hospital ran out of funding and shut down. But the real legend, the one whispered around in online forums, what's much darker. The story goes at one night, the patients and staff vanished, no signs of struggle, no bodies, nothing, just an empty building filled with overturned furniture and patient files scattered like dead leaves. Some believed they had been taken, maybe by something not entirely human. The others said a man in black had been seen wandering the halls just before the asylum closed, a shadow with no face, only movement. Even grown adults would talk about it sometimes, people like that crazy dude from the coffee shop, saying how it wasn't shut down, but that people had to escape in order to survive. But if there had been an outbreak of sorts the patient's roam the streets of the town, I'm sure it would have been all over the news. Right Well, anyway, I don't believe in ghosts, but I do believe in stories. If I could be the one to finally document Blackwood, to film what was inside and proved something was in there, maybe people would start paying attention to me for something other than being an easy target. So that's how I found myself standing outside the gates of Blackwood Asylum on a freezing January night, my camera clutched in one hand, Noah and Mia beside me. The asylum looked like a rotting corpse, all cracked brick and shattered windows. Ivy curled around the rusted sign at the entrance Blackwood State Hospital for the mentally unwell. Creepys hell Mia muttered, adjusting her beanie. I read that Blackwood had some of the worst patient conditions in the state. People weren't missing all the time, Noah, Scott, dude, it's just an old building. People love making up stories. I lifted my camera and pressed record, letting the red light blink to life. The one way to find out. We slipped through a hole in the chain link fence. As I stabbed onto the overgrown pavement, a chill crawled up my spine. Inside the place smelt like mold and dust, but underneath was something sour, like rotting paper and something long dead. Noah held up his flashlight, sweeping the beam across the decaying lobby. The front desk was overturned, file spilt across the floor, frozen in time, like the hospital had been abandoned in a hurry. This is crazy, Mia whispered. I felt it too, the weight of the past pressing down on us. I just had my grip on the camera. Let's check out the record's room, see what they left behind. Noah led the way his footsteps were echoing as he moved deeper into the asylum, and the deeper we went, the colder it got, and I could feel that somewhere out there in the shadows, something was watching us. The hallway stretched on, lined with doors that led to patient rooms. Each one was dark, empty and filled with peeling wallpaper. Some still had beds inside, restraints dangling from rusted metal frames. The thought of someone being strapped down there alone left my stomach in knots. Noah kept his flashlight aimed ahead. As we moved deeper. Our footsteps echoed in the silence, each one feeling too loud, as if we were intruding. We shouldn't be here. Mia murmured, she wasn't wrong. That was a thrill of it. Wasn't it the reason people whispered of blackwood but never stepped inside, The reason I hit record, documenting everything. No one had proof of what happened here. Maybe we would be the first. The wrecker's room was at the end of a very long hallway, its doors slightly open. The moment Noah pushed it though, a rush of stale, rotting air poured out. I covered my nose. Jesus, the room looked like I had been abandoned in a hurry. Papers scattered across the floor, chairs overturned, cabinets left open, like someone had been searching for something. The ceiling was sagging and the water stains spread like ink blots across the plaster. But what caught my eye wasn't the mess. There was a metal filing cabinet against the far wall. While everything else was all messed up, this one cabinet stood untouched, its rusted drawers slightly opened, and a single box was resting on top. The surface was layered in thick dust. I walked up to it and wiped it clean. Inside, neatly stacked were dozens of cassette tapes. Whoa Noah, whispered? Are those patient recordings? Mia stepped closer. Her flashlight was catching the faded writing on the labels. Each tape had a patient number and a date, some from the late seventies and others from the asylum's final days. I reached in and grabbed the one at random. The ink was smudged, but I could still make out the words patient one oh nine, Final session me, I exhaled slowly. Final session. That's not creepy at all no smirret, but there was tension in his eyes. Probably just all therapy recordings, but you know the fun kind or the doctor. There's electrocuted people, magnoredom. And I reached into my bag. It's finally gonna get to use it. I always carried a portable cassette player when we explored old places. Sometimes we found old interviews, static filled radio recordings and stuff like that. It would make great content. But this this one was different. Something inside me hesitated to press play, but I did it anyway. For a few seconds, there was only static crackling softly through the speaker, and then a voice. He watches me a froze. The voice was weak, trembling, the voice of someone who hadn't slept in days. I told him, but they don't believe me. A long, shaky breath, and then quieter and almost pleading. She stands in the doorway, always in the doorway. The three of us exchanged uneasy glances. The patient's voice was hoarse, filled with exhaustion and something else, something close to fear. And then suddenly the voice changed. You have to listen when he runs bang. A loud thump rattled the speakers, followed by the patient's sharp gasp. Then silence, and not the kind of silence where the tape had ended, the kind where you know there's still something breathing on the other side of it. I stared at the recorder. My pulse was hammering. Did you hear that? Noah whispered me, as breathing had gone shallow. That wasn't just noise, that was She stopped, then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Guys, look at the door. We turned. Something had changed. When we first walked in, the door was wide open, and now it was halfway closed, and in the dim light, the shadow behind it was too tall to be any of us. For a long moment, none of us spoke, none of us took a breath, and then a slow creaking sound. The door inched open. Noah took a step back. That's not the wind. There was another breath, not ours, and then the sound of sprinting footsteps and charging straight for us. The foots steps came fast, too fast, as a pounding rhythm, like something sprinting full force right toward us. I froze. My breath was catching in my throat. It was coming from the hallway, but when I turned my head, nothing was there, No movement, no shape, just a slamming of invisible feet against a tile floor, getting closer closer, and then the door slam shut. The impact sent the shutter through the room. A filing cabinet rattled, and old documents slid from the shelves, fluttering to the ground like dying birds. And then silence, not the kind of silence you get when a room is empty, the kind where you're not alone, but whoever's with you hasn't decided to speak yet, the kind of where something is waiting. Mia let out a shaky breath beside me. What was that? Noah took a step back. It's flashlight quivering. It's just it's probably the building settling or something. Both places do that. But his voice was too thin. He didn't believe what he was saying, and neither did I. I reached for the door handle, my palm clammy against the worn brass. The moment my fingers touched it, a jolt of cold just shot up my arm, a deep, biting chill that wasn't normal. They still twisted the knob very slowly. It wasn't locked. The door creaked open about an inch and then two. I braced myself, expecting something to jump out from the hallway, but there was nothing. Nothing visible anyway, It's still The air felt different now. It was heavier, thicker, like the atmosphere inside a room right after someone died. No exhaled hard. Screw this man. Yeah, I wasn't looking at the door. She was looking at the cassette player in my hand. Her voice was still very low, even the tape. I turned my gaze downward. The red light was blinking. The tape was still recording. That was impossible. I hit play, not record. I'd done this a thousand times. A sick feeling crawled up my spine as a press stop, and then rewound the last few seconds. When I hit play again, the recording crackled to life. But it wasn't the patient's voice anymore. It was ours, our breathing, Noah cursing, the sound of the door slamming shut, and then layered beneath it something else, a whisper, another voice. It was warped, deep and distorted, like it was coming from somewhere far away. Yet I could still make out the words he will run. A slow creeping coldness settled in my gut. That wasn't on the tape. Before Neo whispered no, I shook his head, No, No, that's not possible. How the heck did it? And then we heard it, a sound that didn't belong in an abandoned asylum, A long and slow exhale, and it was coming from the hallway. It was close, right outside the door, Noah's flashlight being moved as he aimed it into the corridor. The walls were cracked and peeling, and the floor warped the water damage. Something was different now, something was standing there and I couldn't see it, not fully anyway, but I could feel it. And then something moved. It wasn't a shadow, not a trick of the light. Something shifted inside of the darkness, and I don't know how to explain it. The air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and something sour, like a rotting breath. I don't know. MIA's fingers dug into my arm, trembling, and then a single step, It was slow, deliberate, and right outside the doorway. The three of us held perfectly still. I don't know why, but I suddenly knew, knew deep in my bones that if we moved, if we so much as breathed too loudly, it would see us. Another step, and then another. The sound was light, almost gentle, like bare feet on tile. I gripped the camera tighter, fighting the overwhelming urge to bolt. My body screamed, run, just run, to get the heck out of that place, but my mind flashed back to the tape. He will run. It sounded like a warning, a rule. There was another step, and then the flashlight flickered. It was once, then twice, and then it just died. Now we were in total darkness. MIA's breath hitched beside me. I felt her nails pressing into my arm again. Noah was too quiet all this time, but I could hear his breathing too. It was short and shallow. And then the worst sound yet, a whisper, right next to my ear, not in front of me, not in the hallway, a little bit behind me. Don't move. The voice was not human. It was later like two voices speaking at once, one deep, ragged and the other light. I froze completely. I couldn't tell if I was imagining the feeling of someone behind me, but I know I felt it, and I could almost picture it, something inches away, leaning in waiting. Mia whimpered softly. The whisper came again, right against my ear. Don't run. I wasn't sure if my eyes were open, but I knew that Noah moved, and in that instant the silence shattered. A deafening screech tore through the room, inhuman and full of rage. And then the sound of rushing footsteps coming straight for us, and this time I ran. We were all running. I barely registered the world around me, the filing cabinets, the shattered glass, the endless rows of rusting doors. I knew it was the sound of our footsteps hammering against the floor, and the thing behind us chasing. The sound was wrong, not like bare feet anymore. They were wet and slapping against tile, and it was fast, faster than us. Noah was ahead, Mia, beside me, but I couldn't tear my gaze away from the darkness behind us, where the thing could have been. Yet I couldn't see it, because it wasn't just chasing, It was right there. The corridor stretched too long, as if the asylum itself was warped, refusing to let us go. My lungs burned. My heart beat, a wild drum beat of terror. No matter how fast we ran, the thing's footsteps stayed with us. And then I tripped the floor, caught my foot, and I hit the ground hard, my camera smashing against tile, skidding away. Painting bloated through my knees and palms. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs, leaving me gasping, vulnerable me. I screened my name, but I didn't hear properly because at that moment the footsteps stopped and they were right behind me. It was there. I couldn't moved, not because I was heard, but because I knew, knew deep in my bones that if I turned around, I would see it, and if I saw it, I wouldn't be able to run. Ever Again, this low exhale ghosted across the back of my neck. It was warm, damp, and too close. And then why did you run? The whispers slithered through my ears like oil, and something touched my shoulder, no, not touched, pressed, A deep, suffocating weight settled all over my body right then and there, something unseen pressing down, as if an invisible hand was pushing me into the tile. The pressure grew heavier and heavier, until I thought my bones would snap, My fingers dug into the floor, nail scraping against the cracked surface as I struggled to breathe. It was a terror like I had never known, was swallowing me whole. And then my mind fractured into something else, something older, something I had buried. The weight pressing me down wasn't new. I had felt it before at the school locker room, wet tile, sweat and chlorine mixing in the air. I was fifteen, shoved into the ground, my cheek pressed against the cold floor, My nose was bleeding, and my ribs ached from the last punch. My backpack was dumped out beside me, its contents, scattered books, a journal, my recorder, and then above me him, Jake Connelly, my bully, a boy built like a tank with a grin full of teeth, someone who had decided I was weak the moment he saw me, someone who loved that I liked old school horror, ghost stories and things that weren't normal. His friends laughed from the lockers, watching, not stopping him. They never did. He leaned down, gripping the back of my hoodie, yanking me up just enough so that I could see a sneer. Why do you run? Huh, he mocked, shaking me. You always do that. Just stand up for yourself. For once, my mouth was full of metallic taste of blood and shame. I hated him, but worse, I hated myself because I always ran. It was easier. The weight on my back intensified. The thing behind me knew, and I dug into my mind, into my past, into my fears. He'll always run. The voice warped, twisting into something familiar. Jake, No, not him, but something wearing his voice, something inside this place that knew who I was. My chest heaved with panic, but I didn't scream. I didn't beg because I suddenly knew that this was a test I had been since the moment we played the tape. He will run, a warning, a rule. Maybe the patience here had survived by following it. Maybe those who ran never made it out. I felt its fingers, long, thin, impossibly cold, curl around the back of my neck, and it did the hardest thing I've ever done. I didn't run. I went still. The footsteps started again, circling me Mia. I was crying whispering my name, but I didn't move. Noah's breathing was ragged, and he wasn't running anymore either. We all kind of understood. The thing circled us for what felt like forever, and then a whisper good. The pressure lifted, the room shifted, the air losing its oppressive weight, and then silence. The presence was gone. My chest went back to normal as I slowly pushed myself off the ground. My limbs ached, but I was alive. We all were. Mia grabbed my arm, her face streaked with tears, eathen. I nodded, swallowing hard. Noah was staring down the hallway, his flashlight working again. The asylum was just a building, now rotten, broken, abandoned. Nothing chased us, no footsteps echoed anymore. We didn't speak as we left. We didn't need to. We hadn't run. That was why we were still here. A week later, I uploaded the footage. I almost didn't. After everything that happened at Blackwood, A part of me wanted to forget, to pretend we hadn't broken into that asylum, that we hadn't heard that voice, and that we almost hadn't made it out. But the need to know, to understand was stronger. I posted the video under the same name I always used. The footage was raw, shaky, terrifying, the static laced whispers, the door slamming on its own, the thing we couldn't see but felt all of it was there. But the real terror was a tape, the audio that very last whisper, he will run. It didn't take long for people to react. Some called it fake. Others dissected every frame, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever was chasing us. But a few, just a few, believed one of those comments actually stood out. It was a user with no profile, picture, no history, no followers, just a name, P one o nine Underscore Survivor. Their message was short. Patient one o nine ever ran either. That's why he was the only one to leave Blackwood alive. I stared at it, my heart thumping, Patient one oh nine. I had never mentioned any numbers in my video. Nowhere in the footage did we talk about patients by their numbers, And so I clicked the username Nothing. The account had absolutely nothing. It was blank, no followers, no other comments, just that. But chill crept up my spine and I checked the footage again, and I rewound the tape. The whisper had changed. It was static silence. The final voice was gone, like whatever was in Blackwood had taken it back. I shut my laptop, my poll still pounding in my ears. That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn't shake the thought Patient one oh nine, the only survivor. Had he been like me? Had he broken the rule? Had he seen what I almost saw. I turned over, pulling the covers tight. Then, in the silence of my room, a whisper, not for my speakers, not for my phone, from right next to my ear. Good. I didn't move, I didn't run, and just like before, it left. Scary Story Podcast has written and produced by me Edwin Kbarubyas. Thanks for your ideas for upcoming stories. You can stay tuned for those. Also remember that this podcast is available on YouTube. If you search for Scary Story Podcasts a Scary Story Podcast Edwin Sometimes my name makes it easier to find, but if you find it, remember to subscribe. We don't have many followers on there just yet. Anyway, if you're following the show here, I will talk to you next week. Thank you very much for listening. Keep it scary, everyone, see you soon.