Zane Faulkner and the Whispering Ward
London – 11:03 AM
Zane Faulkner lay on the couch, one leg dangling, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling fan.
Eli sat nearby, flipping through a crossword puzzle book with the enthusiasm of a man trying not to yawn himself into a coma.
"I'm starting to think crime took a vacation," Zane muttered.
Eli grunted. "I wouldn't mind a break. Last case nearly got us both electrocuted."
A sudden knock interrupted the boredom.
Zane sat up. The door opened — and in walked Dr. Lyra Vance.
Soaked from the light drizzle outside, she had her usual trench coat, but her sharp eyes seemed… unsettled.
"Let me guess," Zane said with a faint smile, "you missed me."
Lyra rolled her eyes. "I came here because you’re the only man who can’t sit still when a story stinks."
She pulled out a folded newspaper and dropped it on the coffee table.
"Young journalist. Amelia Ward. Disappeared three days ago. Last seen investigating a derelict asylum outside London — Wexley Institute. Officially abandoned in 1993."
Zane leaned forward. “Wexley?”
Lyra nodded. “Locals call it The Whispering Ward.”
Eli frowned. “Creepy name. Why?”
“They say… at night, the walls talk. Whisper things no one wants to hear.”
Zane looked up, the gleam in his eyes returning.
“I do love chatty architecture.”
Wexley Institute – Two Days Later
The asylum stood like a corpse under clouded skies — stone walls cracked, windows shattered, rusted gates groaning in the wind.
Zane and Eli stood before it, both in silence.
“I hate places that look like they want to eat you,” Eli whispered.
“Don’t worry,” Zane said cheerfully, pushing the gate. “We’re just appetizers.”
They stepped inside.
The interior was a skeletal mess of collapsed ceilings, moldy walls, and old wheelchairs that seemed to move an inch when you weren’t looking.
The silence was… wrong. It felt like something was listening.
Zane turned on his flashlight. “We stick together. No exploring solo.”
Eli nodded tightly. “Fine by me.”
They followed faded signs toward the old psychiatric wing.
Room 9B
Half the doors had rotted away, but Room 9B stood oddly intact — metal-plated, locked with a broken biometric scanner.
“This room wasn’t for patients,” Zane whispered. “This was for someone else.”
They forced the door open. Inside — chaos frozen in time.
Stacks of notes, glass tubes, broken restraints, and scratched walls.
A decayed photo lay on the floor — Amelia Ward with an elderly man in a lab coat.
Eli picked up a notebook. “It's a journal… in Latin and Romanian.”
Zane flipped through it. “These aren’t patient files. These are… experiments. Mind fragmentation. Induced psychosis. Chemical illusions.”
He stopped at a page:
“Subject 06: responds to whispered triggers. Shows signs of memory override. Confusion between illusion and truth successful.”
Eli took a step back. “This place isn’t haunted… it’s engineered to feel haunted.”
Suddenly, Zane froze.
From the hallway — a faint voice: “Zane... come closer...”
He turned. No one.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
Eli shook his head. “Hear what?”
Zane’s jaw tightened. “Nothing. Let’s move.”
The Descent
They descended into the sub-basement.
Here, walls were covered in mirrors — all cracked, angled, distorted. Some reflected their movement… before they moved.
In the distance — a humming sound. Electrical. Still active?
Zane found a sealed room — inside, Amelia sat, drugged but alive.
As he rushed to her, the door slammed shut.
Lights flickered. Footsteps echoed.
From the shadows… a man emerged.
Late 70s. Long grey coat. Eyes cold and unblinking.
“I was expecting her. But you? You're the one they call Faulkner.”
Zane stood between him and Amelia. “And you are?”
“I was Dr. Stovan. Lead neural researcher. Until they buried this place… and me with it.”
“You’ve been living here? All this time?”
“I perfected the mind whisper. I turned memories into weapons. But they shut me down.”
His hand twitched. A device sparked behind him.
“I trained her mind,” he said. “But you… I want to see what happens to your mind when the past screams.”
He hit the switch.
The Illusion
Zane fell to his knees.
Flashes — his mother’s funeral. A case gone wrong. Eli bleeding. Lyra walking away.
The whispers rose.
“You failed them.”
“You're nothing without your mask.”
“You never saved anyone — you just arrived after.”
Eli pounded on the glass from outside. “Zane! Snap out of it!”
Inside, Zane gritted his teeth — focused.
He pulled a penlight from his coat, smashed the nearest mirror.
The illusion cracked.
“Your tricks are good, Doctor,” he gasped, standing. “But I’ve been haunted since I was twelve.”
He lunged forward and tackled Dr. Stovan to the floor.
Resolution
Police took Stovan away. Amelia was hospitalized but recovering.
Back at their apartment, Eli looked over his shoulder.
“That place… it stays with you, doesn’t it?”
Zane didn’t answer. He looked at a cracked shard of mirror he had kept.
Eli sighed. “That doctor… he said he whispered to the mind. What did he whisper to you?”
Zane smiled faintly. “He tried to whisper guilt.
I reminded him... I don’t listen to liars.”
There was a knock at the door.
Zane turned, his smile returning.
“Ready for the next case?”
“I came for the mystery... stayed for the madness.”
ReplyDeleteWhat starts as a missing journalist case spirals into a chilling descent through a place where science played god and whispers control the mind.
If you think haunted asylums are scary — wait till you meet the man who built the fear.
Zane Faulkner’s sharp wit meets psychological horror in this brilliantly twisted tale.
Dare to read with the lights off? Good luck getting the voices out of your head. 🕯️👁️