(Unknown)

Genesis

The low idle of chatter was drowned by the spacious acoustics of the hallway. You walk slowly, keeping your voice low and your actions slow out of respect for the knowledge the walls possess. Your family walks a few steps in front of you, mindlessly chatting while observing the rampant graffiti adorning the dirty white walls. Your chest is tight, the muscles contracting as if controlled by some disembodied visitor long since dead. The scene is surreal, as the idea of a sanitarium where thousands lost their lives becomes a tangible object, with an identity. A memory. A personality. A soul.

These walls remember the blood that was shed, and they are more than willing to divulge their secrets. These walls have held the screams of the damned for decades, and they are more than ready to unleash the anguish. These walls have patiently awaited an innocent victim, on whom to indulge their thirst for blood.

Your friend walks beside you, close, yearning for the touch of something living. She whispers to you, her voice shaking, telling you with more than words how deeply she is frightened. You two pass a hallway and a flash catches your eyes. You stop but your family continues, engrossed in history. Your friend looks at you, wanting you to ask if she wants to investigate so she can half-heartedly resist. She doesn't want to seem crazy, but you remain silent. A quick flash erupts from the end of the hallway. An intense white light so blinding that the contents of the foreign hallway are obscured. Before your brain can protest, your feet are moving. You find yourself passing doors with numbers in them. Metal doors marred by rust and broken hinges. Another flash, and for a brief moment you can see your friends' name splattered on the wall at the end of the hall. She doesn't look at you before she quickens her pace. Her body slowly descends into darkness, masking first her head, then the ends of her hair, her torso,  her legs. The only proof that she hasn't been consumed by the darkness is the faint light her shoes reflect. You watch the shoes walk, then stop. You stop in accordance. There is silence. You dare not disturb the scene, it is not your right. Not your authority. There are greater, older powers present.

You begin to walk forward, already doubting your actions, wanting to turn back, wanting to go home, wanting to pretend that you hadn't agreed to go on this stupid tour. You keep your eyes on the pair of shoes. They are your anchor in this black ocean. They keep you tethered to reality; Secure from the obsidian hands reaching from the void that surrounds you. You come upon the shoes, slowly, then as disbelief spreads across your face, you feel tears jerk at the ends of your eyes. These are not tears of sadness or joy or even despair. No, these are tears of terror.

For the shoes are empty.