Briarwood Never Lets Go

They said the hospital was empty, that everyone had been transferred, that nothing was

left inside. That was a lie, because the moment I stepped through

the rusted doors, the building exhaled like it had been holding its breath for years,

waiting for someone new to enter. The lights flickered once, and the hallway

stretched longer than it should have. That was my first warning. The hospital was

called Briarwood State Psychiatric Facility. Closed suddenly, no farewell notices, no public records

explaining why. Just boarded windows and a locked gate someone had already cut open.

Inside, the air was thick with antiseptic and mold, a smell that