The chilling word scrawled in blood, welcome, echoed in Maya's mind long after they'd fled Cranbrook Asylum.
It was a brand, seared into their memories, a promise of something far more terrifying to come. Back under the old oak, the setting sun cast long, distorted shadows that mimicked the shapes of the entity they had glimpsed. Chloe, her mind buzzing with fragmented information and unsettling images from Thorne's journal, knew she had to find answers.
The next morning, armed with a photocopy of the journal and a heart heavy with dread, Chloe ventured into the Havenwood Historical Society. The building, a relic itself, smelled of dust and aged paper, a comforting aroma that usually calmed her.
Today, however, it felt oppressive, as if the very walls held their own secrets. She navigated the narrow aisles, her fingers tracing the spines of forgotten books, her eyes scanning old newspaper clippings and town records.
Cranbrook Asylum's history was a tapestry woven with threads of tragedy and whispers of the macabre. Patient disappearances were a recurring theme, their fates shrouded in mystery.
Unexplained deaths within the asylum walls were often attributed to "complications" or "illness," but Chloe sensed a darker truth.
Rumors of unethical experiments, of twisted rituals performed under the cloak of darkness, clung to the asylum like a persistent fog. And then there was the "Sleeping God," mentioned in hushed tones in local folklore, a being of immense power said to be bound to the land itself.
As Chloe's research deepened, one name kept surfacing: Mr. Davies. A local historian, he was often quoted in articles about Cranbrook, his words hinting at a deeper understanding of the asylum's secrets. He was described as eccentric, a recluse, but also as a man with an encyclopedic knowledge of Havenwood's past. Chloe knew she had to talk to him.
Mr. Davies's antique shop was a labyrinth of forgotten treasures and eerie curiosities. The air was thick with the scent of incense and old wood, and the sound of ticking clocks filled the silence. Mr. Davies himself, a small, wiry man with a shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes, emerged from the back room, his gaze both welcoming and unsettling.
Chloe, her hands trembling slightly, showed him the copy of Thorne's journal and recounted their terrifying experience in the asylum. As she spoke, Mr. Davies's expression grew increasingly grave. The twinkle in his eyes vanished, replaced by a look of profound concern.
"You've stumbled upon something dangerous, young lady," he said, his voice low and raspy. "Something that should have remained buried." He confirmed the existence of the "Sleeping God," his words sending a chill down Chloe's spine. "It's not just a legend," he warned. "It's real. And it's powerful. And the Cranbrooks... they knew its power."
He spoke of a tragedy that had befallen the Cranbrook family, a dark secret that had been passed down through generations. "They weren't what they seemed," he said cryptically, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance. "They dabbled in things they didn't understand, and they paid a terrible price.
A price that Havenwood may soon have to pay."
Mr. Davies urged Chloe to abandon her quest, to forget what she had learned. "Leave it alone, child," he pleaded. "For your own safety, for the safety of your friends, walk away." But Chloe, her curiosity now intertwined with a sense of responsibility, knew she couldn't. The whispers had begun.
The entity was stirring. And she had a feeling that Mr. Davies, despite his warnings, knew more than he was letting on. His reluctance to speak, the fear in his eyes... it hinted at a deeper connection to the asylum, a secret he was desperately trying to protect. And Chloe was determined to uncover it, no matter the cost.