The Forgotten Ones
Rishi had always been drawn to abandoned places. There was something thrilling about walking through ruins of the past, imagining the lives that once filled them. When he heard about Blackwood Orphanage, he knew he had to visit.
The orphanage had been closed for over forty years after a fire killed most of the children inside. People in the nearby town refused to go near it, saying they could still hear laughter at night—or worse, whispers calling their names.
Rishi didn’t believe in ghosts. He arrived at the orphanage just before sunset, armed with his flashlight and camera. The building was crumbling, its windows shattered, vines crawling over the stone walls like nature trying to reclaim what was left.
As he stepped inside, the air turned heavy, damp with the scent of old wood and something rotten. The large entrance hall was littered with broken furniture and faded paintings of long-forgotten children.
Then, he heard it.
A soft giggle.
It echoed through the empty halls.
He froze, gripping his flashlight. Just the wind, he told himself. But deep down, he knew better.
Still, he pressed on.
The Children Who Never Left
As he explored deeper, he found a long hallway lined with doors. Most were locked, but one stood slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he found a classroom. Desks were still arranged neatly, covered in thick dust. An old chalkboard stood at the front with faint writing still visible:
“Never forget us.”
His skin prickled. He snapped a picture, but as the flash went off—
The desks moved.
Not all at once. Just a small shift, almost imperceptible.
Then, another giggle. Closer this time.
His heart pounded. He turned around, aiming his flashlight down the hall. The light flickered.
And then—he saw them.
Small figures standing in the shadows.
Their faces were pale, their eyes too dark. They stared at him without blinking.
Rishi took a step back. His breath came fast and shallow. “Who’s there?” he called out.
A moment of silence. Then, in a chorus of whispering voices—
“You found us.”
The air turned ice cold. The shadows moved. The children weren’t standing still anymore.
They were coming closer.
Run.
Rishi turned and ran, his footsteps echoing through the abandoned halls. His flashlight flickered wildly, the beam cutting through the darkness in frantic bursts.
As he reached the main entrance, he skidded to a stop.
The door was gone.
Not locked. Gone.
Only a solid, crumbling wall stood where the exit had been.
A small hand grabbed his wrist.
He spun around, expecting to see one of the children.
Instead, there was nothing.
His flashlight died completely.
Total darkness swallowed him.
And then, the voices returned.
"Stay with us."
The Next Day
When locals passed by Blackwood Orphanage the next morning, they noticed something strange.
The entrance door, which had been sealed shut for decades, was wide open.
No one dared step inside.
But if they had, they might have noticed something new in the dust-covered classroom.
A single, fresh message written on the chalkboard:
"Never forget me."
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