You ever walk into a place, pitch black except the beam from your flashlight, and just feel... watched? It’s that kind of place—where the echoes in the halls sound way too much like a kid’s laugh, and every peeling bit of wallpaper feels like a warning.
Exploring Blackwood Orphanage felt like stepping into a memory that refuses to die. The storm outside rattled what was left of the windows, lightning flashing just long enough to sketch monsters on the walls. Our feet crunched on broken toys and dust thick as secrets, that music box somewhere in the dark singing to itself. Old carvings, “HELP US”—no thanks.
But the real trouble, it’s what creeps between the shadows. Something else, not just fear, crawled along those corridors. Doors slammed. Shapes moved—kids, maybe? Or just something that wanted to be. Every camera glitched out except one, showing us a hand pale as moonlight reaching straight for the lens. That last whisper, too soft and too final—“Stay with us... forever.”
They say Blackwood’s gone now, bulldozed. But sometimes, places like that don’t really let anyone leave—not explorers, not the children, not even you.
Who else is watching?





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