Merritt Cole

Deep within the ruins of Blackvale Asylum, behind rusted bars and crumbling walls, lies the padded cell where Merritt Cole once screamed himself hoarse. He was a patient long before the asylum burned, locked away for claiming to see the dead walking its corridors. They said he raved about a nurse cradling invisible children, a librarian who whispered from shadows, and a stationmaster calling trains that never came. The doctors called it madness, but Merritt swore they spoke to him at night, telling him secrets no living soul should hear. When the fire consumed the asylum, his body was never found. Now his voice lingers, echoing softly from the darkness, a low and trembling plea. Some say if you listen closely, you can still hear his laughter dissolve into sobs, and feel the cold press of the padded wall where he waits, curled in a corner, whispering for someone, anyone, to make it stop.