Chapter Text
Dust adjusted his square-framed glasses on the bridge of his nose, his eyes fixed on the book in his hands. The world around him faded into the background, each page pulling him deeper into its contents. After a while, a cold sensation brushed against his cheek, snapping him out of his focus with a sharp jolt.
It turned out to be his best friend, Blue, wearing his trademark wide grin. He held out a cold grape soda he’d just bought from the vending machine.
With a playful glint in his eye, Blue teased, “If you keep staring at that book like that, the ghost in the story’s gonna rip your eyeballs out.”
That’s right, Dust had been reading a journal he borrowed from the public library, filled with documented sightings of so-called "ghosts" that had supposedly been captured over the years. He had consumed a vast amount of ghost-related content over time, from physical books and eerie podcasts to blurry photos of alleged sightings. If it had anything to do with the supernatural, Dust had probably read or seen it.
Dust took the soda from Blue’s hand with a small “Thanks,” and took a steady gulp, the fizz dancing on his tongue as the coldness settled in his chest.
Blue plopped down beside him on the bench, his sneakers tapping idly against the concrete. “So,” he asked, leaning back on his palms, “What is it that’s got you so obsessed with ghosts and all that supernatural stuff anyway?”
Dust paused, the question settling into the silence between them like a pebble dropped into a still pond. He looked at the journal resting on his lap, its dog-eared pages practically humming with stories of the unexplainable. What was it, really?
He frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he said at first, but then quickly added, “Actually, I think I’ve always been this way.”
Memories tugged at the edges of his mind, he remembered being a kid and practically lighting up every time someone mentioned they saw a spirit or had a weird dream. He’d beg for every detail, eyes wide and eager.
“There’s just something about it,” Dust continued, his voice softer now. “Like, what if there is something out there? Something we don’t understand? It’s scary, yeah, but also kind of amazing? The idea that the world’s not all rules and logic, that there’s more.”
Blue raised an eyebrow, sipping his own soda. “You wanna get haunted that bad?”
Dust chuckled, the sound short but genuine. “Not haunted, it's just… I want to know, I want to see it for myself. Not just stories, but something real.”
Blue smirked. “Well, if anyone’s gonna find a ghost, it’ll be you. Just promise me you won’t drag me into some cursed basement in the middle of the night.”
Dust gave him a sly look. “No promises.”
Blue swirled the last bit of soda in his can before tossing it into the nearby recycling bin. He leaned back again, arms stretched out along the back of the bench, eyes fixed on the slowly darkening sky.
“Honestly, man,” he said, his voice more serious now, “I don’t really believe in all that ghost stuff.”
Dust turned to look at him, one brow slightly raised.
“I mean, think about it,” Blue continued, “We’ve got, what, eight billion people on this planet? And not a single one’s been able to shoot fire from their hands or float off the ground or talk to the dead, at least not without being exposed as a fraud. Spirits, powers, all of it just feels like fantasy to me.”
Dust’s gaze didn’t waver. He held the journal a little tighter in his lap, as though its contents somehow validated the belief burning in his chest.
“They exist,” he said quietly but firmly. “Maybe not the way stories tell it, but I know they’re real. I feel it.”
Blue looked over, and for the first time that afternoon, his smile faltered. “Hey, I was joking before, alright? Don’t take it to heart. I’m not trying to tear you down.”
Dust shook his head, his expression calm but determined. “You’re not, but I will prove it to you.”
Blue’s grin faltered a bit. “Alright, uh, I get it. But... you’re not planning anything stupid, right? Like breaking into an abandoned mansion or summoning a ghost with a ouija board or whatever?”
“Yeah,” Dust said, his voice steady, eyes sharp with conviction. “I’ll find something undeniable, and when I do, you’ll see I was right. You always say I’ve got a good instinct for weird things, maybe this is the one thing I am right about.”
There was a silence between them then, filled only by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds settling in for the afternoon. Blue watched him for a moment, concern flickering in his eyes like a candle on the edge of a draft.
Blue sat up straighter, his playful demeanor now fully replaced by concern. “Okay, seriously, I hope you're not about to drag me into some kind of ghost-hunting scheme. If you end up in trouble, your mom’s gonna flip. And guess who she’s gonna blame first? That’s right, me.”
Dust cracked a small, amused smile, but his eyes still carried that distant look. “Relax, I’m not doing anything reckless. Yet.”
“That ‘yet’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting, man.”
Dust chuckled under his breath but gave no promises. He simply closed the journal, the soft thunk of the cover sounding like the closing of a door, or the opening of another. And somewhere deep in his mind, a plan had already begun to form.
…
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead in the classroom, and a gentle hum of idle chatter filled the air. Killer sat sideways in his seat, one leg draped over the other, his ever-present camera slung lazily around his neck. His teal hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing ink-stained wrists from scribbling notes in the margins of his textbook.
A small group of friends clustered around his desk, eager-eyed and already whispering with anticipation.
“My man” one of them leaned in, grinning, “How’d the exploration go yesterday?”
Killer smirked triumphantly and held up his camera like a trophy. “Gold,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Total gold, I hit that tunnel near the old train yard. You wouldn’t believe the stuff I found.”
The group immediately leaned closer as Killer scrolled through the shots on the screen. The photos flicked by one after another: damp, graffiti-covered walls in an endless tunnel that seemed to stretch into darkness, rusted pipes lining the ceiling like veins, broken glass glittering like shards of ice in the flashlight’s beam.
“Whoa,” one of his friends murmured. “This is sick.”
“Look at that one,” another pointed to an image, a long corridor with a single child’s shoe lying in the middle, surrounded by what looked like dried mud and cracked paint. “That’s straight-up creepy.”
“And check this one,” Killer said, swiping again. This time, the photo made them all pause. It was a blurry image, taken just as the flash had gone off. In the middle of the frame, half-hidden by a broken doorway, was something, someone, that looked like a figure. Or maybe a shadow. Its proportions were off, just enough to feel wrong, like it didn’t belong.
“…You didn’t edit that?” someone asked, half-joking, half-nervous.
Killer snorted. “Nope, that’s raw. I didn’t even notice it until I got home.”
There was a beat of silence.
“That’s freaky,” one of the girls whispered. “What if it was, like, an actual ghost?”
Killer leaned back in his chair, looking smug. “That’s what makes it fun, you never know what you’re gonna find. That tunnel goes on for miles, I barely scratched the surface.”
“You’re insane, man,” one friend said, shaking their head but clearly impressed. “But this stuff’s cool, seriously.”
Killer’s grin widened. He loved this part, sharing the thrill, the mystery, the way their eyes lit up with both fear and wonder. Urban exploration wasn’t just about sneaking into off-limits places for him; it was about discovering the forgotten stories left behind.
One of Killer’s friends leaned in closer, eyes still scanning the eerie images. “So, what’s next? You got another creepy spot lined up?”
Another piped up eagerly, “Yeah, man, you always find the wildest places. Don’t hold out on us.”
Killer chuckled, the sound low and mischievous, as he slung the camera strap tighter around his shoulder. “I do have a place in mind,” he said, his tone almost teasing.
Their faces lit up with curiosity. “Where? Come on, don’t be stingy.”
But Killer just smirked and shook his head. “Nah, can’t say yet.”
“Oh, come on,” groaned one of them, half-laughing. “Why’s it a secret?”
He leaned forward, eyes glinting with that familiar mix of confidence and mystery. “Because this one’s different, not just some abandoned warehouse or empty schools. Something about it feels off, I need to check it out first to see if it’s even real. Then I’ll let you know.”
The others exchanged intrigued glances. That kind of talk from Killer usually meant the place had a story behind it, a rumor, a legend, something darker than the usual rust and graffiti. And if he was keeping it under wraps, it had to be something good.
“Dude, you’re gonna get possessed or something,” one of them joked, only half kidding.
Killer grinned. “If I do, at least I’ll get some solid footage.”
“Just don’t forget us normies when you go viral.”
“I wouldn't lololol.”
…
The shrill ring of the bell echoed across the school grounds, signaling the end of lunch break. Dust rose from the worn bench at the quiet corner of the school’s small park, brushing off a few fallen leaves that had settled on his pants.
Blue had already taken off a few minutes earlier, his next class was on the opposite end of the building. They didn’t share the same schedule this semester, and Dust was mostly fine with that.
He preferred the solitude of the park anyway. It was tucked behind the science wing, shaded by tall trees and half-forgotten by most students. No one really came here unless they were skipping class or trying to sneak in a quick nap. For Dust, it was a sanctuary, quiet, still, and just distant enough that he didn’t have to deal with the usual side-eyes or muttered jokes.
Most people didn’t get his obsession with the supernatural. If anything, they treated it like a weird personality quirk. Some found it creepy, others just rolled their eyes and called him “Ghost Boy” behind his back. At first, it bothered him. Now, he simply avoided giving them the chance.
He tucked the journal under his arm and made his way back into the building, the halls already thinning as students shuffled into classrooms. The air inside was cooler, sterile with the scent of floor cleaner and dry erase markers.
He reached his classroom and stepped inside just as the last of the chattering faded. Students were settling in, and the hum of idle conversation still lingered. Dust moved to his desk near the window, ready to slide his journal back into the cubby beneath the desk.
But then he paused.
His hand was empty.
A cold prickle crawled up the back of his neck, he looked around his desk, patting himself down, checking the chair, even the floor. Nothing.
Then a voice called out from the front row.
"Looking for this?"
Dust turned to see Red standing a few feet away, his lips curled in that familiar, smug smile. He held the journal between his thumb and index finger, swinging it lazily like bait.
Dust's eyes narrowed. "Give it back, Red."
Red raised the book slightly, just out of reach, clearly enjoying himself. “You still reading this creepy garbage? What’s next, you gonna summon a demon in the bathroom?”
Dust stepped forward, his shoulders tense, but his voice remained level. “I said give it back.”
“Come on, relax,” Red said, now holding the journal even higher, his taller frame making it effortless to keep it out of Dust’s grasp. “You scared a ghost might get mad if I mess with their little fanboy?”
A few nearby students glanced over, snickering quietly, Dust didn’t care, his jaw clenched, and he lifted his eyes to meet Red’s with a sudden, sharp glare. There was no fear there, only a quiet, simmering anger.
For a moment, Red hesitated.
Then he chuckled, lowering the book slowly. “Jeez, alright, alright. No need to hex me or anything.” he handed it back, brushing invisible dust from the cover with a mock flourish. “I’m just messing with ya.”
Dust snatched it from his hand without another word and turned back to his seat, heart still pounding, jaw still tight.
Red walked away, still grinning, but there was a flicker of unease behind his eyes.
Dust sat down, clutching the journal close. He opened it slowly, checking the pages, nothing was torn, nothing out of place. But still, his fingers lingered on the paper.
He was used to being judged, mocked, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t doing this to impress anyone, he was doing it to find the truth.
Dust slid the journal carefully into the hollow compartment beneath his desk, as if returning something precious to its resting place. He glanced up, noting the conspicuous absence of their teacher. The whiteboard remained untouched since the morning, and the door stood ajar with no sign of footsteps approaching.
It didn’t take long for the realization to ripple through the class.
“Free period!” someone called.
A few students cheered half-heartedly, grateful for the break. Phones came out like magic tricks, screens lighting up faces with videos, texts, and games. Someone in the back had already started a loud conversation about a breakup, laughter mixed with gossip, the classroom morphing into a casual lounge space.
Dust didn’t bother joining in. He didn’t care.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a well-used notebook, the cover scuffed and the pages filled with cramped, careful handwriting. Flipping past sketches of symbols, scattered notes from podcasts, and summaries of local hauntings, he landed on a blank page.
Then, he began to write.
Location: The Black Hollow Asylum.
He underlined it twice, just the name had a weight to it.
He paused, chewing lightly on the edge of his pen. He’d heard about it a few months ago from one of his favorite storytellers online, a content creator who specialized in real-life horror cases and unsolved mysteries. This particular story had stuck with Dust.
Black Hollow Asylum had come up in one of the episodes: an isolated, half-forgotten ruin on the edge of town, once a psychiatric facility back in the 1950s. Shady experiments, sudden shutdown, unmarked graves on the grounds.
“They say more than twenty paranormal activities have been recorded there,” the narrator had said, “but that’s just the official count, the unofficial stories? They go way deeper.”
Dust’s pen moved quickly now, listing:
History:
-Opened 1953.
-Shut down 1971 after an undisclosed internal incident
-Locals believe it’s cursed, most of them avoid the trail leading to the ruins.
Reported Phenomena:
-Crying in the halls.
-Screaming at 1:17 AM, consistently.
-Sudden drops in temperature.
-Poltergeist.
-Doors slamming on their own.
Supplies:
-Flashlight (extra batteries)
-Voice recorder
-Phone with full charge + backup power bank
-First aid kit
-Salt + iron (Just in case)
-Water and snacks
-Chalk (to mark the trail)
Dust paused, tapping his pen against the paper. His next words he wrote slower, more deliberate.
Goal:
Document proof of paranormal activity, prove to Blue that this isn’t fantasy.
He paused, staring at the list. His heart had picked up a little, an excited flutter that felt like both anticipation and anxiety.
This wasn’t just about chasing a thrill anymore, it wasn’t a story on a screen or a theory in his head, this was going to be real. And when he showed Blue the footage, when he had proof, he would finally make him believe. No more eye-rolls, no more teasing.
And Dust had already made up his mind.
He was going to Black Hollow Asylum.
At night, alone.
In another wing of the school, sunlight filtered through dust-streaked windows, casting long, lazy rays across the desks of Killer’s classroom. The chairs were arranged haphazardly, and the mood was unmistakably relaxed, like a storm that never came.
They had a free period too, whatever substitute was supposed to show up hadn’t, and the students had immediately slipped into their personal worlds. Phones out, music on, conversations scattered.
Killer sat at the far end by the wall, one foot propped up on a chair, earbuds dangling from around his neck as he scrolled through his phone. He wasn’t looking at memes or chatting in group texts like everyone else.
He was staring at a photo.
The image was grainy and a little crooked, taken from behind a chain-link fence that had long since been overtaken by vines. Behind it stood a hulking structure of cracked brick, partially swallowed by the woods, with shattered windows like dark eyes peering out.
The Black Hollow Asylum.
Even the name sounded like something straight out of a horror movie.
Killer tapped to enlarge the image, noting the barbed wire, the scorched fire escape, the "No Trespassing" sign that looked like it had been clawed at rather than weather-worn.
He’d first heard about it from a fellow urban explorer on an online forum, the guy was seasoned, been to a dozen ghost towns, subway tunnels, even climbed the roof of an abandoned prison once. But when he talked about this place?
He sounded shaken.
“I’m serious, man,” the message had read. “Do not go near that place. I don’t know what’s in there, but it’s not just rot and echoes. I felt like I was being watched the second I stepped inside, I didn’t last ten minutes. Whatever’s there, it’s not for us.”
Killer had reread the post three times.
And then, he grinned.
That kind of warning? That kind of fear? That was an open invitation.
He tapped through a few more images, internal shots, some from years ago. Broken gurneys, chains on the wall, rooms with drawings scratched into the paint. And then the more recent ones: out-of-focus shapes, warped shadows, a stairwell with a handprint smeared in something far too dark to be rust.
Killer leaned back, eyes gleaming with interest. His pulse was already rising, not out of fear, but thrill. The kind of thrill that made him feel alive.
“Black Hollow, huh…” he muttered to himself, a wicked smirk tugging at his lips. “Let’s see what you’re hiding.”
He opened his notes app and started typing:
Gear Up – This Night
Target: Black Hollow Asylum.
Explore solo, record everything.
Don’t chicken out.
He locked the phone and slipped it into his pocket, heart thumping like a drumbeat in his chest. Whatever was waiting inside those walls, he was going to find it.
…
The final bell rang out with a lazy buzz, signaling the end of the day, and still, the teacher never showed.
Dust sat quietly at his desk for a moment longer, watching as the other students erupted into movement, grabbing their things, slinging bags over shoulders, laughing and shouting as they rushed for the door like they’d been let out of a cage. He let out a long, quiet sigh and put his belongings safely into his bag.
Three whole hour wasted, at least in the school’s terms. But to Dust, it hadn’t been a waste at all.
He stood up, pushing his chair in neatly behind him, and made his way out with the rest of the crowd, though his pace was far slower, more deliberate, less chaotic.
As he stepped into the corridor, the fluorescent lights flickering weakly above, he spotted a familiar shape leaning against the wall just outside the classroom door.
Blue was chewing lazily on a lollipop, his other hand stuffed into the pockets of his pants. one leg propped casually against the wall. When he spotted Dust, a wide grin spread across his face.
“There you are!” Blue said, straightening up. “Man, I thought you got abducted by a ghost or something.”
Dust gave him a tired look but didn’t hide the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Very funny.”
Blue shrugged, falling into step beside him as they started walking down the hall. “What happened? Teacher ditched you guys?”
“Apparently,” Dust muttered. “Three whole hours, and no one showed.”
“Lucky~” Blue replied. “Meanwhile, I had to sit through some painfully long presentation about plant reproduction. There were diagrams, animated ones. I may never recover.”
Dust snorted softly, they stepped out of the building into the afternoon light. The air was mild, with the scent of cut grass and warm concrete. Students spilled into the streets and down sidewalks, their voices rising and falling around them like a fading wave.
But Dust and Blue walked at their own pace, side by side, their usual quiet rhythm. Blue talked about some new game he’d started playing, occasionally throwing in wild theories about the storyline. Dust mostly listened, occasionally chiming in with a dry remark or a small chuckle.
Dust’s gaze drifted up to the sky as they turned the corner toward home. It was still bright now.
But soon, night would come.
And he had plans.
As they reached the familiar street where their paths split, Blue slowed to a stop and gave Dust a light punch on the shoulder, not hard, just enough to be annoying.
“Alright, Dust.” Blue grinned. “Don’t go summoning anything spooky tonight, yeah?”
Dust rolled his eyes but allowed a faint smirk to show. “No promises.”
“Text me if a ghost tries to drag you into a mirror or something. I wanna know how ugly it is before I call an exorcist.”
Blue grinned and gave a two-finger salute and turned down his street, still chuckling to himself.
Dust continued walking, the familiar rows of houses slowly giving way to his own small but cozy home. The garden out front was modest, with potted plants arranged neatly beneath the windows. The curtains were drawn back, and through them, he could see the soft glow of the living room light.
He stepped through the front gate and up the short path, then opened the door.
“Daehyun-ah, is that you?” his mother’s voice called from the kitchen, warm and melodic.
“Ne, eomma.” he said, slipping off his shoes and placing them neatly by the door.
His mom peeked her head out of the kitchen doorway, her smile lighting up the space like the sun. “Welcome home, sweetie. I made your favorite, Sundubu-jjigae!”
Dust’s stomach responded before he could, the warm, spicy aroma was already drifting through the house, curling into his nose and stirring something deeply comforting.
He entered to find her already setting the table, the rich, spicy aroma of the stew wafting through the air. The bubbling pot sat proudly in the center, tofu, clams, enoki mushroom, and egg nestled perfectly within the red broth. His mother looked up and beamed at him.
“You’ve been looking so tired lately,” she said gently, brushing a bit of hair from his forehead. “Eat while it’s hot. I even added extra tofu, just how you like it.”
“Thanks, eomma,” he said, taking his seat and picking up his chopsticks. The first taste sent warmth flooding through him, the comfort of home grounding him if only for a moment.
For now, Black Hollow Asylum and ghosts could wait.
The sundubu jjigae was just as perfect as he remembered, warm, spicy, and rich in a way only his mom could get right. As he ate, the weight of the day slowly eased off his shoulders. There was something healing about the soft clatter of bowls, the quiet hum of a simmering pot, and his mother’s gentle presence bustling around the kitchen.
Eomma sat across from him with her own bowl, watching him eat with a satisfied smile. “Did something good happen today?” she asked, noticing the flicker of light in his eyes.
Dust paused for a moment, chopsticks hovering midair. “Not really,” he said after a beat, avoiding her gaze. “Just… thought about a project I’ve been working on.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Your ghost things again?”
“Yeah,” he murmured.
She didn’t press further, but the warmth in her gaze didn’t waver. “Just be careful, Daehyun. I know you like those stories, but don’t go poking around in dangerous places, okay?”
Dust nodded without looking up, letting the warmth of the stew distract from the growing tension inside him. He hated lying to her, even by omission, but he couldn’t tell her what he was planning. She’d never let him go.
…
The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of his desk lamp, casting long shadows over the walls lined with books and posters of classic ghost stories and mysterious places. Dust stood in the middle of it, methodically checking off items from his notebook.
Phone? Fully charged.
Flashlight? Batteries fresh.
Supplies? All accounted for.
And cash, just in case.
He zipped the bag closed and slung it over his shoulder, the weight hit immediately, solid and heavy, but reassuring. This wasn’t some vague idea anymore, it was real, it was happening.
He checked the time on his phone: 22:47.
Late, but not too late.
He paused at the doorway, listening.
Silence.
The house was still.
Eomma must be asleep already.
He moved as quietly as he could, creeping down the hallway with the practiced stealth of someone who'd snuck around more than once before. At the top of the stairs, he hesitated, looking back into the darkness of his room. His sanctuary. His starting point.
A knot twisted in his chest.
He didn’t know why the words came out, maybe it was guilt, maybe it was instinct.
“Mianhae, eomma,” he whispered, barely audible, as if saying it louder might wake the house or summon something worse.
Then, he descended the stairs.
At the door, he slipped into his worn black sneakers, tightened the laces, and pulled up his hood. The night air crept in as he cracked open the door, cool and still. One last glance over his shoulder, and he stepped out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
Dust walked the dim, uneven sidewalk with only the sound of his footsteps and the occasional car in the distance to keep him company. The streetlights flickered overhead like they were trying to stay awake, casting patches of pale yellow across the cracked pavement. His backpack bounced lightly against his spine, each step anchoring him more firmly to the decision he’d already made.
He didn’t risk calling an online taxi or getting a ride. It was too dangerous, too traceable. A teenager out alone at this hour? They’d report him in minutes. He needed to blend in. The bus was his best option.
After about fifteen minutes of walking, the familiar rectangular glow of the bus stop’s sign appeared up ahead, its flickering light buzzing faintly.
Rusted bench. Plastic paneling stained from years of weather and dust. He sat down, letting the cool metal chill the back of his legs as he pulled his hood up and checked his phone again.
23.06, the bus would be here any minute.
And sure enough, with a low mechanical hum, the headlights appeared in the distance, growing brighter as they cut through the dark. Dust stood and hoisted his bag higher onto his shoulder, stepping back slightly as the bus hissed to a stop in front of him.
The doors swung open with a pneumatic whuff, and Dust climbed in, offering a small nod to the driver.
The man, a middle-aged guy with tired eyes and a baseball cap, gave him a once-over. A kid, alone, hoodie up, carrying a stuffed backpack. Clearly suspicious.
“You alright, kid?” the driver asked, not unkindly.
Dust offered a half-smile. “Going to see my cousin, late study thing. Didn’t wanna wake my mom.”
It wasn’t the best lie, but it sounded normal enough.
The driver didn’t respond at first, but after a moment, he just grunted and gave a shrug, waving him in. “Alrights sit where you want.” he muttered, then turned his focus back to the road.
Dust gave a small bow out of habit and moved toward the middle of the bus, there were only a handful of people scattered inside. A woman in business attire dozing with her head against the window, a couple of college kids whispering over their shared earphones, an older man in a security guard uniform sipping from a thermos. Dust was the only one under twenty.
He slid into an empty seat by the window and pulled the drawstring on his hoodie a little tighter.
The city blurred past as the bus started its long trek. Neon signs dimmed, apartment lights faded, and eventually, concrete gave way to trees and empty stretches of road.
Dust stayed alert for the first minutes, watching the landmarks go by, but as they grew fewer and farther between, he felt the weight of the night settle on his shoulders. The buzz of the overhead lights, the rumble of the tires, it all blended into a quiet lullaby of motion.
45 minutes later, the bus slowed with a soft hiss, brakes sighing into the silence. The driver leaned his head back, speaking without turning.
“Last stop, kid. This is as far as we go.”
Dust stood, stretching his legs as he adjusted the weight of his bag again. “Thanks,” he said quietly, stepping down onto the lonely roadside.
The bus pulled away, leaving him in near-total darkness, save for the dull moonlight and the outline of trees that loomed in the distance.
There was no one else around.
No taxis.
No lights.
No going back.
Dust looked ahead at the barely visible trail entrance in the distance, the one that led deeper into the woods, toward the ruins of Black Hollow Asylum.
He took a breath, steadying himself.
Then he walked forward.
The gravel crunched under Dust’s sneakers as he moved deeper along the worn path, the woods thickening on either side like a curtain closing him off from the rest of the world. The cold air bit at his cheeks, and every gust of wind rattled the bare branches above him, making the skeletal trees groan and whisper in the night.
Then, after several long minutes, the path opened into a clearing, and there it was.
The Black Hollow Asylum, its towering frame loomed under the moonlight, a monstrous silhouette of crumbling stone and broken windows. Ivy strangled the outer walls like black veins, twisted and thick. The main doorway was cracked open, dark like the mouth of something ancient and starving. The air here felt heavier, colder, like it remembered every scream, every secret, every shadow that had passed through it.
Dust froze for a moment at the edge of the clearing, his breath visible in the chilled air.
This was it.
He reached into his bag and carefully clipped the small voice recorder to the collar of his hoodie. The red light blinked to life with a soft beep, steady and reassuring. Next, he pulled out his phone. His hands trembled slightly, not with fear, but adrenaline.
He opened his streaming app.
He didn’t have followers. No subscribers. No one had ever really cared to check his profile. He had only ever used the platform to consume, never to share. Horror essays, ghost theories, found footage breakdowns, the kind of videos people dismissed as fiction, but he didn’t.
And tonight, he wasn’t lurking.
He tapped the “Go Live” button.
The screen flickered, then began to stream, silent, pixelated video of his face framed by shadows, the asylum towering behind him.
He cleared his throat and adjusted the angle slightly before speaking into the mic.
Dust cleared his throat, then adjusted the collar mic slightly. “Uh… hi. I’m Daehyun, but most people call me Dust. I don’t usually do this, actually, I never do this.”
His voice trembled at the edges, but he pushed on.
“This stream is for someone important, my friend Blue. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, spirits, anything like that. Thinks it’s all fake.” he glanced over his shoulder, then back at the camera. “So I came here to prove him wrong.”
Dust panned the camera slightly, revealing the looming structure behind him.
“This is the old Black Hollow Asylum,” he continued. “Shut down in the 70s. Rumors say it was for malpractice, but other stories, they’re darker. People say it’s cursed, that things linger here.”
He faced the camera again.
“I’m livestreaming this so no one can say I edited it, no fancy tricks, no cuts, if something happens, you’ll see it exactly as it does.”
He took another breath, steadying his nerves. The wind whispered through the trees.
Dust reached into his bag, pulled out his flashlight, and clicked it on.
The narrow beam cut through the dark, landing on the heavy, rusted entrance door of the asylum. It stood slightly ajar, groaning in the breeze as if daring him to enter.
Dust gave the camera a final glance, his face determined.
“Let’s find out what’s really waiting inside.”
And with that, he stepped forward.
The air inside the Black Hollow Asylum was dense, heavier than outside, and filled with the sickly-sweet stench of rot and mold. Dust's flashlight beam swept over shattered tiles, cracked walls with peeling paint, and discarded hospital beds rusted through their legs. It was clear no one had stepped foot here in years.
Dust’s voice came low, just above a whisper, the mic picking it up clearly.
“Abandoned beds, collapsed ceiling tiles… looks like this wing might've been the dormitory, there’s writing on the walls, not paint, carved.”
He paused to shine the light over the scrawl etched into plaster. “Can’t tell what it says, looks like… names? Some of them crossed out.”
He stepped deeper, his shoes crunching over broken glass and mouse droppings.
“That smell, something died here long ago, I think I’m near the operating rooms now. Equipment’s still here, scattered, bloody restraints. Oh stars, they left everything behind…”
His narration cut off when he heard something.
A single, deliberate footstep behind him.
Then, another.
He froze, the silence that followed was deafening.
Then a faint, slow exhale, right behind his back.
“씨발!” Dust swore, eyes wide, heart skipping a beat. “누군데?!!”
He didn’t hesitate, his fist shot out behind him with all the force he could muster. There was a crunch and a thud.
The figure dropped with a groan.
Dust backed away, chest heaving, flashlight shaking slightly in his hand. The camera caught a glimpse of the man on the ground, holding his cheek and groaning in pain.
“...What the-?!” Dust approached cautiously, heart pounding like a drum.
It was a dark skinned man, dressed in urban exploration gear, a camera strapped around his neck, and most notably, spiky black hair with a distinct raccoon tail of white and black trailing from the side.
“Ow, ow-damn, you hit like a train, dude,” the man muttered, holding his jaw. “Guess I should’ve said hi first, huh…”
Dust blinked, still trying to catch up. “Who the hell are you?!”
The stranger winced, then grinned through the pain. “Name’s Khalid Al-Aswad, some people call me Killer. We went to the same school, you were Daehyun Shirogane, right?”
Dust stared. “What?”
Killer laughed softly, nursing his cheek. “Yeah, different classes, but I remember you. Always in the back, scribbling notes about ghosts or whatever. Kinda hard to forget someone who looked so serious all the time.”
Dust’s face twisted in confusion and suspicion. “I don’t remember you.”
“No offense taken,” Killer shrugged. “You never really looked at anyone who wasn’t in your class, I guess.”
There was a pause.
Dust finally lowered the flashlight but didn’t turn it off. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you,” Killer said, slowly rising to his feet. “Ghost hunting, urban exploring, whatever you wanna call it. This place has a reputation, and I like seeing things for myself. Didn't expect company, though.”
Dust’s grip on the flashlight relaxed slightly, but his expression stayed guarded. “You could’ve said something instead of sneaking up on me.”
“I was going to,” Killer said with a sheepish smile, “Then you turned around and started punching like we were in a street brawl.”
Dust huffed, turning away with a low grumble. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Killer chuckled. “Fair.”
There was an awkward silence for a moment as they stood in the middle of the ruined hallway, the cold air and crumbling walls pressing in around them. Dust checked his camera, it was still recording.
Killer glanced at it. “You streaming this?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” He smirked. “Brave.”
Dust shot him a look. “You coming or going?”
Killer tilted his head. “That depends, you okay with a tagalong?”
Dust hesitated.
On one hand, he’d planned to do this alone. To prove something, but on the other, the thought of another unexpected noise in the dark, another breath behind him?
He nodded once. “Fine, but don’t touch anything without asking.”
Killer gave a mock salute. “Scout’s honor.”
And with that, the two stepped deeper into the ruins, the flashlight cutting a narrow path through the dark, their footsteps echoing into the haunted silence of Black Hollow Asylum.
As they moved deeper into the asylum, their footsteps echoing against the decayed walls, Killer adjusted the strap of his camera and glanced sideways at Dust.
“So,” he said, voice casual but edged with curiosity, “what brought you here, Daehyun? You don’t exactly strike me as the ‘urban thrill seeker’ type.”
“Dust,” he replied without hesitation, eyes scanning the hallways as they walked. “Call me Dust.”
Killer raised an eyebrow, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Alright then, Dust. So?”
Dust sighed, gripping his flashlight a little tighter. “I came here to prove something, to my friend.”
Killer raised a brow. “Prove what? That ghosts are real?”
Dust gave a single nod. “He doesn’t believe in anything supernatural, spirits, ghosts, the supernatural, he thinks it’s all fake. Nothing more than urban myths and bored people with too much time on their hands. So I came here to find proof.”
Killer let out a low whistle. “Damn, that’s intense. You trying to win a bet or something?”
“No,” Dust replied firmly. “It’s not a bet, it’s personal.”
They turned into what must have once been a recreation room, long-abandoned chairs circled around a shattered old TV screen. A few childlike drawings still clung to the mold-stained walls, their bright colors dulled by time. One depicted a man with no eyes. Another, a hallway with red streaks leading into black.
Killer stepped over a broken puzzle box and crouched by a scribbled message on the floor, traced in something that had turned brown over the decades. “‘GET OUT’, huh?” he murmured. “Classic.”
Dust remained near the doorway, flashlight steady in his grip. “What about you? Why are you here?”
Killer glanced up with a grin. “I’m not as deep into ghosts as you. I mean, sure, I’ve seen some freaky stuff, shadows where there shouldn’t be, but I don’t come chasing spirits.”
“Then why risk it?” Dust asked.
Killer stood and stretched, camera lens glinting in the beam of his light. “The thrill,” he said simply. “There’s something about sneaking into places like this, places people forgot, or were meant to forget. It’s like walking through a memory that doesn't belong to anyone anymore, gives me a rush.”
Dust studied him, skeptical. “You don’t believe in ghosts, but you keep ending up in haunted places.”
“Eh,” Killer shrugged. “I believe in danger, I believe in stories, ghosts?” he paused, giving Dust a sideways glance. “I’m still on the fence, but I won’t say no to a good scare.”
Dust frowned slightly. “This isn’t a game.”
Killer’s smirk faded, just a little. “I know, that’s why I brought a knife.”
He tapped his side, Dust noticed the handle of a small folding blade clipped to his belt.
A moment passed between them, tension mixing with mutual understanding. They weren’t the same, but they were here for something real. Dust for truth. Killer for thrill. And something unseen was waiting for them both.
Then a distant bang echoed down the hallway behind them, like a heavy door slamming shut.
Both boys froze.
Killer’s eyes widened slightly. “...That wasn’t you, was it?”
Dust slowly shook his head. “No.”
Killer grinned, excitement laced with nerves. “Well, looks like your proof might be waiting.”
Dust tightened his grip on the flashlight, expression hardening.
“Then let’s go find it.”
Dust and Killer turned slowly toward the sound, toward the corridor behind them. The air had grown still, the kind of stillness that screamed. Their flashlights swept across the peeling walls and fractured floor tiles until they stopped at a single, heavy door. It was shut.
Dust’s brows furrowed. “Wait,” he murmured. “Wasn’t that door open before?”
Killer didn’t answer immediately. He flicked on his camera and played back a few seconds of earlier footage. Sure enough, the same door was wide open just minutes ago.
“…Yeah,” he confirmed. “It was.”
They both stared at it in silence, the kind of silence that made your skin tighten over your bones. Then, a faint sob. Killer flinched.
It was soft, distant, but undeniably human. A fragile weeping, broken and low, like someone trying not to be heard.
Killer turned to Dust, concern knitting across his brow. “Hey, you okay?” he asked, voice lowered. “You crying or something?”
Dust blinked at him, confused. “What? No. I didn’t make a sound.”
Killer looked back toward the hallway, unease blooming in his chest. The sobbing hadn’t stopped, it was getting quieter now, more distant. Like the source was retreating, sinking deeper into shadow.
That was when Dust’s eyes widened.
“It’s not a person,” he whispered. “It’s the hallway.”
“What?” Killer asked, his voice caught between disbelief and dread.
“The hallway,” Dust repeated, his voice shaking. “It’s crying.”
The flashlight in Dust’s hand flickered, and with a soft buzz, the beam gave out, leaving them in near-total darkness.
The corridor ahead of them was pitch black. A swallowing black, thick like tar. It didn’t look like a place anymore, it looked like a void. Dust took a cautious step forward, but Killer’s hand snapped out, grabbing Dust by the wrist.
“Wait.”
Dust glanced back, surprised at the sudden firmness in Killer’s grip. Killer didn’t look at him. He brought his camera up instead, switching to night vision with a quiet click.
Green light illuminated the hallway on the camera screen, casting the world in ghostly monochrome. Killer squinted, slowly panning the lens.
Nothing.
The hallway was completely empty.
No people, no bodies, no shadows.
But the sobbing was still there, soft, somewhere in the walls, like the asylum itself was weeping for things long dead.
Killer licked his lips, trying to keep his voice steady. “There’s no one there.”
Dust didn’t respond.
His eyes were locked on the darkness.
And for a moment, he was sure the hallway was looking back.
Killer's grip tightened slightly, a silent warning in the cold, charged air. He lowered the camera, his voice low and deliberate.
“We shouldn't go that way.”
Dust turned to him, tense. “What? That’s where the sound came from.”
“Exactly.” Killer released his wrist. “And it’s still coming from there, that hallway hasn’t stopped crying since we noticed it. That’s not normal.”
Dust hesitated. “You’re the one who said you don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I said I was on the fence,” Killer replied sharply, “but I do believe in instincts, and mine are screaming right now.”
A silence settled between them again, deeper than before. Dust’s fingers hovered near the flashlight, still dead. The sobbing had faded into a kind of background hum, almost like it was in the walls now, breathing with the building.
Killer took a step back from the hallway and motioned to the opposite direction.
“We need to split. Not far, just not here. These halls feel wrong. Like this part’s awake.”
Dust looked reluctant. “Split up? Seriously?”
“Just for now,” Killer said. “We’ll cover more ground, and if something’s messing with us, we don’t give it the satisfaction of cornering us like scared kids.”
He turned slightly, gesturing down the hallway behind them. “Check the east wing, the old chapel’s supposed to be through there. Might be clearer, might not be. I’ll double back toward the admin offices and loop around.”
Dust opened his mouth to argue, but paused. The crying behind them had stopped, too suddenly.
He swallowed hard. “Fine,” he muttered, “Ten minutes, if you don’t come back, I’m finding you.”
Killer gave him a wry smile. “Same.”
They both turned, parting like shadows in the low light.
As Dust disappeared into the east wing, Killer glanced back at the shut door, the one that had slammed shut on its own. Something shifted just behind it, too subtle to see, but enough to make him step away.
Dust’s footsteps echoed softly as he moved deeper into the east wing. The halls narrowed here, the ceiling dipping lower, the decay more pronounced. Fungal blooms spread like bruises across the plaster walls, and the smell of rot was stronger, sharp, wet, old. His flashlight flickered once, then steadied again, casting long shadows that dragged behind every twisted remnant of furniture.
A rusted sign hung crookedly above a pair of wooden doors, the paint faded but just legible.
CHAPEL
Dust swallowed, his breath now visible again in pale little wisps. The hallway had grown colder, not just chilly, but bone-deep cold, unnatural and sudden, like stepping into the heart of winter. His teeth began to chatter lightly, and he rubbed his arms through the sleeves of his hoodie, trying to generate warmth.
The doors creaked open with a strained groan as he pushed them inward.
The chapel was a ruin of forgotten faith. Long pews lay shattered and warped across the warped tile floor. An altar stood at the far end, draped in something that looked like a once-white cloth, now yellowed and brittle with age. Stained-glass windows lined the far wall, their colors muted by grime, but still casting faint patterns across the floor when his flashlight passed them.
Dust walked slowly between the remnants of pews, his breath fogging in the air. There were strange marks etched into the floor, circles, symbols, some partially scrubbed away, others deep enough to remain permanent.
His voice was low as he spoke into the mic. “Looks like… some kind of ritual markings, not from the original chapel design, these were carved later.”
He knelt by one of them, running his gloved fingers across it. “This one’s fresh, or at least more recent than the others.”
Suddenly, a shiver ran down his spine, not the nervous kind, not fear, cold, real cold, piercing.
He stood quickly, hugging his arms to his chest. “Okay, the temperature’s dropping fast. My hands are- stars, they’re numb.”
He fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a heat pack. He cracked it, shook it, and stuffed it between his gloves and sleeves. It pulsed with warmth at first, and he sighed in relief, but the sensation faded almost instantly.
“What the hell?”
The cold didn’t stop. It pushed through his clothes, his gloves, the heat pack. It wasn’t just cold, it ignored warmth, like it wasn’t affected by natural laws. The kind of cold that made your bones ache and your breath hitch.
Dust’s teeth clenched as a new realization settled over him, this wasn’t temperature, this was something else. He backed away from the altar, from the etched symbols, his flashlight beam jerking unsteadily as he turned.
“I’m leaving,” he said, voice tight, edged with panic. “I don’t care if it’s proof or not, this cold isn’t normal."
He turned and ran, his boots slamming the tile as he bolted back into the hallway, away from the chapel, away from the pressing cold that wasn’t weather but presence.
Behind him, the sobbing started again.
But now it sounded like it was screaming.
Killer moved with casual confidence through the west wing, the corridor leading toward the old administration office. Dust’s parting words still echoed faintly in his ears, but he shook them off. Alone again, the thrill began to rise in his chest, nerves and adrenaline dancing together.
He passed rusted filing cabinets slumped against the walls like dead soldiers, their drawers gaping, paper skeletons spilling across the floor. The air here was stale but not freezing like Dust’s route. Instead, it felt heavy, like it was waiting.
Killer clicked his camera on, switching to video. “Admin wing,” he whispered into the mic, “looks more intact than the rest, most of the windows are boarded up, so the decay’s slower here.”
He panned slowly across a wall lined with yellowed employee photos, some faces scratched out, others smeared as if with dirty fingers. One picture had been torn completely in half, leaving just the outline of a shoulder and a sliver of a name tag.
He took a few close-up shots, snap, snap, then continued, stepping over collapsed ceiling tiles and mold-blackened folders.
Reaching the door marked RECORDS, Killer turned the knob. It gave way with a dry crack, swinging open into darkness.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Creepy even for a place like this.”
He stepped inside, camera rolling.
Rows of filing cabinets formed crooked aisles, like gravestones in a forgotten cemetery. His flashlight scanned the nameplates, Patient Log: 1967, Incident Reports, Visitor Records.
He snapped a few photos for his archive. Snap. Snap.
Then he heard it.
A soft rustling, paper? No, plastic.
Killer froze, ears straining.
Something hit the floor behind him with a clatter. He spun around, flashlight beam slicing through the shadows.
A phone, one of those old rotary models, lay on the ground, its cord snapped. It hadn't been there seconds ago.
“The fuck?”
Before he could move, a second item fell, a typewriter, crashing from the edge of a desk. Then another, a stack of binders tipping violently, slamming to the ground one by one.
KLAK.
THUMP.
CRASH.
Now the whole room seemed to be waking up. Objects were falling in a chain reaction, like a tantrum was sweeping across the building itself.
Killer backed toward the hallway, his breath catching.
“Nope, nope, we are not doing this.”
He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes fixed on something in the back of the room.
Floating.
It was a patient’s clipboard, suspended perfectly still about four feet above the floor. It hovered without swaying, weightless, unnatural. His hands moved on instinct.
Snap.
The camera clicked, capturing the moment, then the clipboard tilted toward him. Killer turned and bolted, boots slamming the tiles as he darted down the hallway, cursing under his breath.
“Okay, okay. Time to regroup, time to go, no more flirting with cursed office furniture-!”
Behind him, a shrill, metallic sound rang out, SCREEEEEEEEEEE- like a hundred filing cabinets screaming at once. Killer didn’t look back, not even once.
Killer burst into the main hall, chest heaving, the camera swinging wildly on its strap across his chest. Dust was already there, pacing tight circles near the rusted entranceway. The beam from his flashlight jittered against the cracked tiles like a nervous heartbeat.
“Tell me you didn’t just have stuff floating too,” Killer gasped, bending over with his hands on his knees.
Dust looked up sharply, eyes wide. “You too?”
“Bro, office started throwing everything at me. Like the building was mad or something, thought a damn typewriter was gonna kill me.”
Dust exhaled hard. “The chapel… it got cold, I tried a heat pack, didn’t matter. Felt like it was going under my skin.”
Killer straightened, running a hand through his hair. “Stars, you ever hear a hallway cry before tonight? Because I’m never getting that out of my head.”
Dust was about to respond when a scream tore through the building, not human, not natural.
It started high, sharp, like a woman shrieking in terror, and then dragged into a guttural, bone-scraping pitch that rattled the broken glass in the windows. The whole asylum seemed to shake with it.
Dust flinched hard, covering his ear with one hand that he used to help flashlight with. Nearly dropping his phone, he glanced down at his screen.
1:17 AM.
His breath caught.
“Oh stars... it’s the time,” he whispered, eyes wide. “It always happens at 1:17.”
Killer blinked. “What- what do you mean ‘always’? What happens?”
But Dust didn’t answer right away. He was staring past Killer now, “We can’t stay here,” Dust said, voice firm. “It’s drawing attention, this hall is too open, too loud.”
Killer nodded once, tightly. “Right, we need to go somewhere quieter.”
They ran, flashlights bouncing, boots slamming on the stone, hearts thundering. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
The stairs groaned under their weight as Killer and Dust ascended, each step creaking like bones bending under pressure. The air was drier here, still cold, still wrong, but quieter. The scream had dulled into silence, muffled and distant, as if the thing making it couldn't reach the upper floor, couldn’t yet.
They stopped just outside one the patients' rooms, a long hallway of heavy doors, each with a tiny, rectangular window. Most were rusted shut. A few were open just enough to hint at darkness inside. Peeling numbers hung above the doorframes like forgotten warnings.
“This is risky,” Killer muttered, scanning the corridor.
“But it’s quiet,” Dust replied. “The scream doesn’t come up here.”
They leaned against the walls, slumping down. Killer wiped sweat from his brow. Dust finally let out a long, shaky breath. For the first time in an hour, he almost felt like he could breathe.
Until he didn’t.
His neck prickled. A crawling sensation, like static, ran up his spine. He looked up, slowly, toward a window frame with no glass from the opposite side, just a hollow square cut into the wall that once separated observation from confinement.
Something was in it.
A figure stood inches from the opening, staring at him.
Dust’s breath caught. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink.
The figure wore a patient gown, gray, stained, and torn at the edges. Its skin was stretched too tightly over its bones, and its eyes were impossibly wide, like a predator’s, unblinking, glistening with a hunger no human had ever felt. Its mouth was open, jaw stretching too far, tendons snapping and creaking as it extended, grotesquely wide, as if it was trying to scream but had no voice left to give.
It leaned forward.
Getting closer.
Dust screamed, the sound ripped from him raw, panicked, and animal. He slammmed himself into Killer’s chest who was next to him, fists gripping his shirt like a lifeline.
Killer didn’t ask, he turned immediately. The figure still hovered in the window frame, the damn thing was watching, smiling.
With a sharp breath, Killer reached for his belt and threw his knife, a clean, fast flick of the wrist.
The blade hit.
And passed through.
The figure didn’t flinch. The knife clattered to the floor behind it, untouched, as though it had pierced air.
“Hell no-” Killer muttered, backing up fast.
The figure began to slide out of the wall, slow and deliberate, its limbs bending like they were boneless, twitching unnaturally. The lights above them flickered wildly, buzzing like a swarm of insects.
Killer turned, grabbed Dust, and hoisted him over his back, carrying him like dead weight. “Hold on!”
Dust clung to him, sobbing, his voice muffled against Killer’s shoulder. “It looked at me- it looked at me, it’s still there-!” his voice was caught in his throat.
Killer ran.
Down the hallway.
Down the stairs.
Through the collapsing sounds of the asylum as things, many things, began to shift, to whisper, to chase.
The previously closed door burst open with a kick, the night air a burning relief against their skin. Killer didn’t stop, he sprinted across the overgrown lot to the rusted gate where his motorcycle was chained. He dropped Dust gently into the passenger seat, then mounted up.
The engine roared to life with a growl, the front wheel kicked up dirt as they peeled out, flying down the cracked road away from the asylum, away from whatever the hell Black Hollow truly was.
Behind them, the building screamed.
A long, furious, deafening cry of something ancient and enraged, echoing into the trees.
But they didn’t stop.
They didn’t speak.
And they never looked back.
…
The roar of Killer's motorcycle rumbled softly in the predawn stillness as he pulled up in front of Dust’s house. Morning mist clung low to the ground, and the world had that cold-dark tint just a few hours before sunrise. Dust slid off the bike, legs still a little shaky, his body sore and heavy with exhaustion.
He turned to Killer, voice hoarse. “Thanks… for bringing me back.”
Killer gave a small nod, not quite meeting his eyes. “It’s not a problem.”
But Dust caught it anyway, the bitterness in his voice, the tension in his jaw. Like something was gnawing at him from the inside.
Then, Killer pulled his helmet back down and revved the engine. “Take care of yourself,” he said quickly, and without waiting for a response, he sped off into the misty street, swallowed by the early morning light.
Dust stood there a moment longer, watching the red tail light disappear into the fog, before heading inside.
When he got to his room, he checked the time: 2:47 AM.
“Stars…” he muttered, collapsing onto his bed, The sheets were cold and safe and nothing like the rotting walls of Black Hollow.
And despite everything, despite the tightness in his chest and the images burned into his brain, he finally slept.
The next thing he knew, someone was gently shaking his shoulder.
“Daehyun? Hey, sweetie, are you okay?” it was his mom, voice soft but concerned.
Dust stirred with a groan, his body was hot and aching. His forehead throbbed. “Huh?”
“You’ve got a fever,” she said, placing a hand on his forehead. “I’m letting you skip school today, alright? Just rest.”
He gave a faint nod, grateful for her presence, and rolled onto his side. His mom quietly closed the door, and he heard her footsteps retreating down the stairs.
Dust stared at the ceiling, the events of the night before played through his mind like a broken film reel, bits and flashes of screams, shadows, that thing behind the glassless window. Killer’s panic. The cold that seeped through even the heat pack.
It felt impossible.
Too real to be fake, but too terrifying to be real.
A soft ping from his phone broke the silence. He blinked, then slowly rolled over and grabbed it off the nightstand. The message was from an unsaved number.
Yo.
You might need to look at this.
It was followed by a link, Dust hesitated for a second, a knot forming in his stomach. But curiosity took over.
He tapped the link.
It opened a video stream, his livestream from last night. The title had been changed to something clickbaity: “REAL GHOST CAUGHT ON CAMERA?! Abandoned Asylum Livestream”
And at the bottom, the view count ticked up like a heartbeat.
7,022,874 views
97K Likes
12K Comments
#Trending #1 in Horror
Dust’s mouth fell slightly open.
The chat was filled with people saying things like:
“That window part at 1:18:22??? WTH was that!?”
“He was totally possessed at 41:16”
“This can’t be fake, that scream was too real.”
“Anyone notice the figure in the window at the end???”
“Someone call BuzzFeed Unsolved ASAP.”
Dust stared, pulse rising.
Last night, it felt like death. Like fear incarnate. Today, to the rest of the world, it was entertainment. He sunk deeper into the covers. The heat of the fever had nothing on the chill that crept down his spine now.
This wasn’t over. Not with views like that. Not with whatever that thing was still out there.
...
Daehyun 'Dust' Shirogane's reference sheet:
