Some of you know that I work overnight security at a shady hotel.

It's over on the west end,

on the same block as the abandoned hospital. Anyway, my hotel, it was built in the 1940s,
before the hospital and it wasn't originally a hotel. It was actually the Inglewood Asylum.

*cue spooky music*

So, the hotel doesn't get much business, mostly just drug deals and $10 hookers, and even
though the building has 5 stories, they only refurbished the first 2. Apparently the guy that
bought it back in the 70s had plans to open up more floors if the need ever arose, but it
never did, so they just use the 3rd floor for storage and shit, and as for the top 2 floors, well,
the owner just locked them up and never did anything to them since. Then he died, the hotel
changed hands a bunch of times, and somewhere along the way, the keys to the top floors
got lost. But those floors weren't making or losing any money, so no one cared.

I have a lot of time on my hands at work, so one day, I finally decided to check out the top
floors. The door to the 4th floor was bolted pretty tight, so I moved on to the top floor. The
bolt was fairly loose, and it didnt take much to pop the door open.

Holy shit.

As I shined my flashlight through the doorway, I felt like I was looking through a portal into
the 1970s. There was a thick layer of dust on every surface, but otherwise, the place
appeared to be untouched, and it looked like someone could come around the corner at any
moment. I was looking into a small foyer with drab, olive-colored walls, and a speckled tan
and green linoleum floor. A largedesk with a thick, glass barrier filled one corner, and a
couple of old chairs with ugly, vinyl padding were lined up against the opposite wall. Beyond
the chairs, against the same wall, there were about a half-dozen wheelchairs, mostly the old
style with wooden chairs. Above the wheelchairs, there was a line of hooks, 3 of which were
occupied by stained, grungy straitjackets. A crooked sign hanging beside the the desk read
Inglewood Asylum, Treatment Ward C - Lobotomies and Electroshock Therapy - Please see
Head Nurse for Intake Instructions. The wall on the far side of the foyer was dominated by a
set of double doors, with a sign that read Authorized Personnel Only. It was creepy as hell.
Obviously I was going to check it out.

I swung open the door, propped it open, and stepped into the intake area of Treatment Ward
C. The air was unexpectedly cool and preternaturally still. I cant explain it, its not like there
should be a draft a sealed area, but it was more than that. As I walked, I noticed that my
heavy boots kicked up almost no dust. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up
straight, but something compelled me to keep going. I stopped at the front desk and peered
through the thick glass, glancing over haphazard piles of paperwork and rows of pill bottles.
A folder bearing the label Hartley, Mary B., 10/23/1958 sat next to a paper titled New
Treatments for the Clinically Insane: Chemical Sedation Using Thorazine. Moving on, I
walked past the row of wheelchairs and the hanging straitjackets, shuddering at the thick
leather straps and metal buckles, and headed towards the double doors.
The doors were metal, painted the same soulless color as the walls, with large panels of
reinforced glass. When I shone my light through the windows, I was unsurprised to see that,
like on the other floors Id seen, the doors led to a long hallway, with rooms on either side.
There was a small stack of boxes piled near one of the doors, and further down, a couple
more wheelchairs sat outside one of the rooms. Other than that, the hallway was empty. I
pushed through the doors, letting them swing shut behind me, took a few steps into the
hallway, and nearly shat my pants. A young girl appeared to be standing in the hall, about 30
feet away, where nothing had been just a moment ago. She was about 12 or so, wearing a
white gown and slippers. Her long, straggly hair and uneven bangs nearly hid the thick, red
wound just above her temple. I couldnt do anything but stare, my mind racing to rationalize
what my eyes insisted was real. I stared at the girl, the girl stared back, and then she took a
few tentative steps towards me, and I screamed.

The old me would have dismissed it out of hand. The old me didnt believe in ghosts or
spirits or any other supernatural bullshit. The old me didnt believe in werewolves either
though, but here I am, howling at the fucking moon, and as I watched that creepy child
slowly moving towards me, I realized that I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was in the
presence of a ghost. Holy fuck. Ive never been more fucking terrified in my life. I dont know
what I thought was going to happen, but Ive seen enough movies to know I should get the
fuck out of there, so, with my heart pounding, I turned back towards the doors. The glass
that had previously been clean now bore the words Tell them! written in something thick,
lumpy and grey. I didnt stop to analyze the writing, I just grabbed the door handle and
yanked it open. As I touched the metal, my flashlight went out, plunging me into pitch
blackness.

FUCK! I shouted. Fuckity-FUCK!

I wanted to race across the foyer, but I forced myself to walk carefully, not knowing what I
would encounter in the darkness. At last my hand touched the cool metal of the door leading
to the stairs. I half expected to find my make-shift doorstop gone and the door locked, but to
my relief, it swung open with an oddly-comforting creak. I stepped through into the stairwell,
pulled the door shut with a heavy thud, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. I still couldnt see
a thing, so I wiggled the switch of my unreliable flashlight, and it came on immediately. I
pointed the light down the stairs. The thought of some living company suddenly seemed
incredibly appealing, if it was just nodding at the hookers as they passed through the lobby,
or even mere presence of our night auditor, Robert, who staunchly refused to acknowledge
my existence. Then I turned the beam of light back to the door Id just come out of, and did
the stupidest thing of my life. I opened the door and went back into the foyer of Treatment
Ward C.

I dont know why I did it. I didnt want to go back in with the fucked up ghost and whatever
else was up there. I dont know what I planned to do in there, Im no Ghostbuster, I dont
have a fucking proton pack, only a temperamental flashlight. But I knew, deep down in my
heart, that I had to go back, and if I had a do-over, Id go back in again.
Trembling with trepidation, I opened the door and let myself back into the foyer of Treatment
Ward C. The small room was just as Id left it a few moments ago. I slowly stepped across
the foyer, stopping when I reached the double doors. I shined my light through the reinforced
glass -- once again free from spectral messages -- and peered into the hallway. It was
empty, except for the boxes and wheelchairs, so I took a deep breath and pushed my way
in. As with before, when I got a few steps down the hall, the same ghostly child appeared in
front of me. I took a deep breath and waited to see if anything would happen. The girl didnt
move this time, she just stared at me, with big, dark, sad eyes. Finally, I started to move
again. I slowly walked towards the ghost, watching her with every step. The closer I got, the
less corporeal she appeared to be, until I got within arms reach, and the girl completely
faded into nothing. I looked at the door shed standing in front of -- the sign on the door read
Room 54 - Elizabeth Plante. I cracked open the door and took a peek into the room. It was
very utilitarian, just a metal bed frame bolted to the floor, with a thin mattress on top, a
wooden desk, also bolted to the floor, and a wooden chair pushed into one corner. A couple
of thin books were sitting on the desk, and the blankets on the bed were rumpled. As I
looked more closely, I saw a small doll lying on the floor under the chair, and a soft-looking
teddy-bear peeking out from under the blanket on the bed.

Elizabeth Plante? I said out loud. Is that you? Are you Elizabeth? Is this your room? I
didnt expect an answer, and none was forthcoming. Uncertain what to do next, I returned to
the foyer, and walked behind the front desk. There was a low filing cabinet under the desk,
and I opened the drawer that was conveniently labelled Ward C Patient Records. Flipping
through the old, green files, I found the one labelled Plante, Elizabeth N., 04/10/1960,
pulled it out of the drawer, and made my way to the stairwell door.

The things they did to this girl were totally fucked up...