The Abandoned Orphanage's Terror: Orphanage

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The Abandoned Orphanage's Terror: Orphanage

Everyone in Millfield knew better than to go near the Hollow Creek Orphanage. The tall, crumbling structure loomed like a dark secret at the edge of the woods, abandoned for decades and swallowed by ivy and silence. But for seventeen-year-old Jamie and her friends, urban legends were just stories—until they weren't.

"Come on, Jamie. You said you weren’t scared," said Mark, nudging her arm as they approached the rusted front gates. A gust of wind creaked the old hinges, almost like a warning whisper.

"I'm not," Jamie replied, trying to steady her voice. "We go in, take a few pictures for the dare, and we're out."

Haley, the most skeptical among them, checked her phone flashlight. "Ten minutes. Then we leave. I don’t care if we find a hundred ghosts in there, I’m not getting locked in overnight."

They pushed through the gates and walked up the stone path littered with broken glass and dead leaves. The double doors to the orphanage groaned open with a heavy push. Inside, darkness stretched like a living thing.

"This place is disgusting," said Kyle, covering his nose. "Smells like mold and regret."

"What do you expect? It's been empty since the fire in 1982," Haley said, her light sweeping over peeling wallpaper and scorched portraits. "They say the headmistress locked the kids in the basement before she burned the place down."

"That's just a story," Jamie muttered, although her stomach tightened.

They split up to explore. Jamie and Mark headed upstairs while Haley and Kyle stayed on the first floor. The wooden steps creaked under every footfall. Upstairs, dorm rooms stood in eerie disarray—beds made with dusty sheets, toys scattered as if the children had vanished mid-play.

"Creepy," Mark whispered, staring at a ragged teddy bear sitting upright on a pillow. "Why would anyone leave all this behind?"

"They left in a hurry... or they never got to leave," Jamie replied, walking toward the hallway. A cold chill brushed her arm. She froze. "Did you feel that?"

"Yeah," Mark said, voice low. "It’s freezing in here."

A child's laugh echoed faintly. Both teens whipped around. "Tell me that was you," Mark said.

"Why would I laugh like a six-year-old girl?" Jamie snapped.

Suddenly, a door at the end of the hall slammed shut. They both screamed.

"Okay, this isn't funny anymore!" Jamie shouted, backing away. The laughter came again, louder this time—and closer.

Downstairs, Haley and Kyle heard the commotion. "Did they scream?" Kyle asked, gripping his flashlight tighter.

"They're just messing around," Haley replied, though her steps quickened.

They turned a corner and found a staircase leading to the basement. A heavy chain dangled from the doorknob. "This must be where the fire started," Kyle whispered.

Haley hesitated. "We shouldn't—"

But the door creaked open by itself.

"Nope," Kyle said, already turning back.

"Wait. We need to find Jamie and Mark. What if they’re down there?" Haley asked.

Against their better judgment, they stepped into the basement. The air turned thick with smoke and ash, though there was no fire. On the walls, childlike drawings were scrawled in black charcoal: crying faces, flames, and stick figures inside cages.

"This isn’t right," Haley said. "It’s like the kids were trapped here."

Back upstairs, Jamie and Mark ran into an old office, barricading the door behind them. "What is happening?" Jamie gasped, heart racing.

"I don't know. Something's seriously wrong," Mark said, trying to calm himself. His flashlight flickered. "Battery’s dying."

The room lit up for a moment as lightning flashed through a cracked window. In that moment, they saw a figure in the corner—a small girl with charred skin and glowing eyes.

"GET OUT!" she screamed, and the light went out completely.

They didn’t wait. The door flew open on its own, and they bolted into the hallway, yelling for Haley and Kyle.

In the basement, Haley heard her name. "That’s Jamie!" she said. But before they could react, the basement door slammed shut. The lights went out.

"Kyle?" she whispered.

"I’m here," he said, but his voice sounded far away.

Then came the sobbing. Dozens of children crying, whispering.

"Help us."

"She locked us in."

"We can't leave."

Flickers of light revealed shadowy shapes—small hands reaching through the darkness.

"We have to get out," Haley cried, banging on the door.

Upstairs, Jamie and Mark finally reached the front hall, now glowing faintly with the pale light of dawn. "We have to find them!" Jamie said.

"No. We have to go. Now," Mark said, grabbing her arm. "We’ll get help!"

They burst out of the front doors, collapsing on the lawn. Behind them, the orphanage groaned—like it was breathing. Then, silence.

Jamie turned to look back. The building stood still, dark and lifeless.

They returned later with police and firefighters. But when they searched, there was no basement. Just a solid foundation of stone and earth where the staircase had been.

No sign of Haley or Kyle.

Jamie still dreams of the orphanage. Of small hands clawing at the walls. Of laughter that echoes long after she wakes.

Some say the children of Hollow Creek never left. That they wait for someone to play with. That the headmistress’s evil lingers in the ashes.

And that every now and then, the doors open again—just wide enough to welcome someone new inside.

Weeks passed. Jamie refused to return to school, haunted by memories and guilt. Every night she sat by her window, staring into the distant forest. She began sketching the faces of children she’d never met—faces that appeared in her dreams, always crying, always trapped.

One night, Jamie found an old news article tucked in her mailbox. It had no stamp, no sender. The headline read: “Fire at Hollow Creek Orphanage: 23 Children Presumed Dead.” Below was a photograph of the staff. Her blood froze. The headmistress—Agnes Vell—looked identical to the woman she had seen screaming in the office.

The article mentioned strange symbols found on the walls and rumors of occult rituals. Jamie remembered the drawings in the basement, the strange murmurs, the oppressive cold.

She took the article to Mark. "Someone doesn’t want us to forget," she said. "This place… it feeds off memory."

Mark nodded grimly. "I did some digging. Agnes Vell wasn't just a headmistress. She was investigated for child abuse and suspected of being part of a secret cult. The fire was no accident."

"And those kids?" Jamie asked. "They’re trapped."

Mark’s expression hardened. "Then we need to set them free."

That weekend, they returned—not alone, but with a local historian, a priest, and equipment to document everything. The orphanage welcomed them like before—doors groaning, shadows twitching.

They descended into what should have been a nonexistent basement. But now, it was there again. As if waiting.

The priest began reading prayers, and the shadows screamed. The walls bled ash. Children’s faces appeared in mirrors, begging to be released.

"We’re not leaving without them," Jamie said, placing a candle on the ground. "You’re not forgotten."

The building trembled. A deafening wail echoed as the spirit of Agnes Vell appeared once more, trying to silence them. But the prayers continued, louder, steadier.

With a blinding flash, the screams stopped. Silence fell. Then came a soft giggle—joyful, innocent.

And just like that, the basement began to fade.

They escaped just as the building groaned its last breath. By morning, the orphanage had collapsed into rubble, as if the curse had finally lifted.

No trace of the children remained. But Jamie knew: they were finally at peace.

To this day, when the wind blows through Millfield, people say you can hear children's laughter echoing from the trees. Not out of fear—but freedom.