**World of Horrors: Forgotten**
Prompt: World of Horrors: Forgotten ( EXO )
The night unfurled like a raven’s wing over the dilapidated town of Eldridge Hollow, where shadows danced with malevolence and secrets whispered through cracked windows. The air grew thick with a sense of foreboding as Elizabeth Mercer, a young journalist driven by curiosity and a determination to unearth the truth, stepped past the rusting gates of the Forsaken Asylum—a relic of despair that had once housed the town's most troubled souls.
The stories surrounding Eldridge Hollow were as dense as the mist that clung to the ground, tales of disappearances, madness, and unspeakable horrors. Elizabeth had spent weeks researching the asylum, poring over yellowed clippings and outdated reports. Most townsfolk were wary of the asylum, choosing to forget the dark history. They spoke in hushed tones, warning her against delving too deep. "Forget it," they said, their eyes shifting. "What happened there should stay buried."
But Elizabeth was not one to back down from a mystery. Armed with a flashlight and her trusty notebook, she crossed the threshold, her heart thumping like a war drum. The interior was a testament to decay—a labyrinth of splintered wood, peeling paint, and shattered glass. Each step she took echoed through the crumbling hallways, a reminder that she trespassed in a place long forgotten.
As she walked, the shadows wrapped around her, clinging to her skin like a second layer, while the musty air filled her lungs with every breath. She knew the tales of the staff who had worked here—doctors who lost their minds, nurses who had vanished without a trace, and patients whose anguished cries echoed through the night. But there was one story that sent shivers down her spine, the legend of the Forgotten—the patients who were excluded from records, lost in the depths of the asylum’s dark history.
Elizabeth's flashlight beam flickered, illuminating the remnants of the past: rusted gurneys, crumbling patient files scattered on the floor, and a large iron door at the end of the hallway, half-open as if inviting her in. With a deep breath, she pushed the door wider and stepped inside.
The room was chillingly quiet, holding its breath, as if the walls themselves were judging her presence. It was a stark contrast to the dimness outside. The walls were lined with dark, heavy iron bars, the remnants of a long-abandoned cellblock. In the center stood a solitary chair, worn and frayed, a sense of dread emanating from it. A single bulb flickered weakly overhead, casting eerie shadows that wove in and out of reality.
As she entered, the air shifted—an uneasy gust swept through the room, carrying with it the scent of something foul and rotten. Goosebumps crawled across her skin as she approached the chair, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, as if warning her to turn back. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the arm of the chair, when suddenly a voice pierced the silence—a soft, broken whisper laced with pain.
“Help… me…”
Elizabeth jerked back, her heart racing. The voice echoed again, lingering around her like a specter. It seemed to draw from the very fabric of the asylum, the anguish of lost souls enveloping her. “Who’s there?” she called, her voice trembling as she scanned the room. There was no answer—only the sound of her own breathing, quick and shallow.
Steeling herself, she took out her notebook, determined to document everything. Each word spilled onto the pages like a desperate plea for understanding. The atmosphere thickened, drawing her deeper into memory’s abyss, whispering secrets long concealed. The weight of despair was palpable, an invisible shroud that wrapped tightly around her chest, making it hard to breathe.
And then she saw it—a flicker of movement in the corner of the room. Her flashlight beam darted towards the space, illuminating a figure, a woman clad in a tattered hospital gown, her eyes hollow and sunken. The apparition seemed to shimmer with the remnants of life but was tethered to a different realm, a ghost caught between memories and oblivion.
“Help me,” the figure repeated, her voice a haunting melody of agony. “They… forgot us.”
Fear rooted Elizabeth in place, yet she felt an overwhelming urge to understand. “What happened to you?” she whispered, her pen hovering above the page, ready to capture the woman’s story.
“Dr. Wells… he created an experiment—isolated us. We were not supposed to be forgotten.” The woman’s voice trembled, resonating in anguish. “Failed attempts… twisted minds. We were like shadows to them… fed on fear until we were nothing.”
Elizabeth's heart ached for the woman, for the Forgotten. In her pursuit of the truth, she realized that history wasn't just dead words on paper; it was alive, pulsating, and aching for recognition. “I’ll tell your story,” she promised, her voice barely a whisper. “I won’t let you be forgotten.”
But the shadows shifted, their embrace growing tighter. The figures of the Forgotten surged around her, their grief clinging to her like a shroud. She felt their anguish press against her mind, memories flooding in—darkness, isolation, screams that splintered hearts. It was as if they collectively sought release through her.
In a surge of empathy, Elizabeth closed her eyes, feeling their pain intertwine with her own. Suddenly, clarity broke through the horror; she understood that their stories were not merely tales of tragedy but a testament to resilience. But the asylum wanted to keep those stories buried, tangled in the fear it instilled.
“Leave this place!” the woman cried as shadows encroached. “You’re not safe!”
With a fierce resolve, Elizabeth turned and ran, the echoes of the Forgotten tinted with urgency. As she fled through the labyrinth, the walls closed in around her, memories clawing at her conscience. She burst through the doors, crashing into the cold, night air, heart racing, lungs burning as she made her escape.
But she carried their stories with her—the tales of those lost in darkness, those who had faced horrors unimaginable. The past had bled into the present, and Elizabeth knew her journey was just beginning. The shadows of Eldridge Hollow would not be forgotten, and neither would she rest until their voices were heard once more.
