I grew up somewhere that should have been forgotten

This is a story I never thought I’d write. For years, I’ve tried to forget that place, to bury the memories so deep that even I couldn’t reach them. But recently, while clearing out some old boxes, I found my childhood diary—the one I kept during my time at the orphanage. Holding it in my hands, flipping through its worn pages, everything came rushing back.

The pages smelled like dust and time, their edges brittle under my fingers. My handwriting was messy, rushed, like I had to get the words out before they slipped away. Some parts didn’t make sense; the sentences trailed off, or the ink smudged like I’d been crying while I wrote. But there was enough to remind me of what I’ve spent so long trying to forget.

I won’t tell you the name of the orphanage or where it was. You wouldn’t find it, even if you tried. Maybe that’s for the best.

The orphanage wasn’t as bad as people might think. It wasn’t one of those places you see in movies, with cruel caretakers and children dressed in rags. No, it was pretty nice. The building was three stories tall, made of solid red bricks, with big windows that let the sunlight pour in. The garden out front was always well-tended, with flowers blooming in neat rows and a bench where we could sit on warm days. If you passed by, you might even think it looked inviting.

Inside, the floors were tiled, always clean and polished to a shine. The hallways smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old wood, and the walls were painted in soft, cheerful colors. The caretakers were strict but fair, the type who insisted on chores but rewarded good behavior with treats. Miss Harper was my favorite—she had a soft voice and a kind smile, though her eyes always seemed sad, like she carried some unspoken burden. Mr. Lewis was the opposite: stern, loud, and always quick to scold, but deep down, I think he cared about us. Or at least, I thought he did.

I was six when I arrived, and it didn’t take long for me to settle in. The other kids were a mixed bunch—some loud and playful, others quiet and withdrawn. I made a few friends. It was just normal kid stuff, the kind of things you’d expect in a place like that.

At least, it seemed normal at the time.

I was fourteen when I wrote these entries. Back then, the orphanage was my whole world—a place I called home, though it never quite felt like one. For most of my childhood, it was normal. Quiet, structured, safe in its own way. But that year, everything changed.

As I flip through the pages, the words bring it all back. The silence, the shadows, the things I couldn’t understand then—and still can’t explain now. I don’t know why I’m doing this. Maybe it’s because I’ve started seeing the signs again.

Maybe I need to remember.

January 20th

Miss Harper handed out new winter coats today. Mine is dark blue and a little too big, but I’m not complaining. It’s warmer than my old one, and the pockets are deep enough to hide all kinds of treasures. Tommy’s already stuffed his with rocks he found by the garden path. He says they’re “lucky,” but they just look like regular rocks to me.

After lunch, most of the younger kids went outside to play, but it was too cold for me. I sat by the radiator in the library and read one of the old books on the shelf. The pages smelled like dust, and the spine cracked when I opened it, but it kept me entertained until dinner.

Tommy tried to steal my bread roll again tonight. I let him have it. He needs it more than I do.

It was a good day.

February 15th

Something felt a little strange today. Not bad—just different. The dining hall seemed dimmer than usual, even though all the lights were on. I thought it was just my imagination at first, but Sarah noticed it too. She asked Miss Harper if one of the bulbs had burned out, but Miss Harper just smiled and said everything was fine.

The air felt heavier somehow. Not enough to make it hard to breathe, just… noticeable. Like the kind of feeling you get before a thunderstorm. Even after the sun came out, the room stayed dull and muted.

Tommy didn’t notice, of course. He was too busy trying to see how much jam he could pile onto one piece of toast before it broke apart. Sarah said the dining hall felt “cozy,” but I don’t know if she really believed that.

Miss Harper seemed distracted, though. She kept looking at the windows, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her apron. I asked her if she was okay, and she just smiled and told me to eat before my food got cold.

February 20th

Something about the orphanage feels… wrong. The air isn’t just heavy anymore—it’s colder. Not freezing, but there’s a chill that doesn’t go away, no matter how close you sit to the radiators. It creeps into your skin, making you shiver even when you’re wearing two sweaters.

Tommy and I went outside after lunch to toss a ball around, but we didn’t stay out long. The wind was biting, and it felt like the trees were closer than usual, their branches bending toward us. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s the only way I can describe it.

When we came back inside, I noticed something weird about the walls in the hallway. The paint near the baseboards looked darker, almost like it was wet. I reached out to touch it, but Mr. Lewis yelled at me to leave it alone. He didn’t explain why, and when I asked, he just told me to go to the library and read.

February 26th

Miss Harper looks tired. She’s always been the kind of person who tries to hide her emotions, but today, she seemed… frazzled. Her hair was messy, and she kept rubbing her temples like she had a headache. I asked if she was okay, and she just said she didn’t sleep well.

I didn’t sleep well, either. There was this noise outside my window last night, like scratching. It wasn’t loud, but it went on for what felt like hours. I got up to check, but when I looked outside, there was nothing there—just the empty yard and the faint outline of the trees in the moonlight.

Tommy said he heard it too, but he shrugged it off, saying it was probably just a raccoon or something. I don’t know. It didn’t sound like an animal.

March 1st

Something is definitely wrong. This morning, when I went to get my coat from the closet near the front door, I noticed a strange smell—damp and earthy, like the forest after it rains. Except the closet is nowhere near the garden. I mentioned it to Mr. Lewis, but he just frowned and muttered something under his breath before walking away.

The smell is stronger now. It lingers in the hallways and sometimes even in the bedrooms. At first, I thought it was coming from the heating vents, but the air from them feels dry and warm, not damp like the smell.

Miss Harper didn’t join us for breakfast. Mr. Lewis said she wasn’t feeling well and that we shouldn’t bother her, but it’s odd. She never misses meals with us.

Sarah is even quieter now. She barely touched her food at dinner, and when Tommy tried to tease her about it, she didn’t even react.

I don’t know what’s happening, but it feels like the orphanage is changing.

March 8th

The lights in the dining hall flickered again during dinner. It’s starting to happen more often, not just here but in other parts of the house too. The bulbs buzz faintly just before they dim, and it makes my skin crawl every time. I’ve started eating faster so I can leave the table sooner.

This afternoon, I went to the library to escape the weird atmosphere in the dining hall, but it didn’t help. The smell was there too, stronger than ever, and the shelves seemed closer together again. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s like the room is shrinking.

I asked Sarah if she noticed, and she just nodded. She didn’t say anything else, though. I don’t think she wants to talk about it.

March 10th

Something happened today. I was in the hallway outside the storage room when I noticed a wet patch on the wall. It was faint, almost like a shadow, but when I touched it, my fingers came away damp. The air around it was colder too, and I swear I heard something faint—like a soft tapping—coming from behind the wall.

I told Mr. Lewis, but he brushed it off, saying it was probably a leaky pipe. He didn’t even check. When I insisted, he snapped at me and told me to stop making a fuss. That’s not like him. He’s usually gruff, but this was different—like he was angry and scared at the same time.

March 13th

Tommy is acting strange. He’s always been the loudest, the most energetic of us, but lately, he’s been quieter. Today, during lunch, he barely said a word and just pushed his food around his plate. When I asked if he was okay, he shrugged and said he didn’t feel like talking.

Later, I saw him staring at the corner of the dining hall, where the light flickers the most. His face was pale, and his hands were clenched into fists. When I asked what he was looking at, he just shook his head and walked away.

I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it.

March 15th

Miss Harper finally came out of her room today, but she didn’t look any better. Her eyes were red, like she hadn’t slept in days, and her voice was shaky when she spoke. She tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

She told us everything was fine, that the lights and the smell were just “quirks of an old house,” but I don’t believe her. None of us do.

This place feels different now. It’s not just the smell or the lights—it’s the whole atmosphere. It’s heavier, darker, like the walls are closing in.

I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m scared.

March 16th

Today was different—a moment that feels lodged in my memory now. Sarah was playing near the stairwell when she tripped and fell. It wasn’t a big fall—just a few steps—but when I helped her up, she looked shaken.

“The floor moved,” she whispered, her eyes wide and unblinking, her voice trembling.

I told her it was just her imagination, but deep down, I wasn’t sure. I went back to the spot where Sarah tripped and fell, and the tiled floor felt strangely soft and slippery, as though it were alive, pulsing faintly underfoot with an unsettling, almost organic rhythm.

That shouldn’t be possible.

Something is changing, and I find myself avoiding that spot now.

It’s not just the floor—it’s everything.

March 20th

I finally know where the scraping from the window comes from. Yesterday, I couldn’t sleep again. The recent events haunted my thoughts, refusing to let me rest. I was staring at the ceiling when suddenly the scraping started again.

I finally mustered up the courage to get up and look for the source. I pulled back the curtains, and what I saw stopped my heart cold.

It was Miss Harper.

She was standing in front of the window, her smile stretched unnaturally wide, exuding a chilling, almost predatory air that still gives me chills. She looked like she was in a trance, her body unnaturally stiff and unmoving, as though she were a mannequin.

When we locked eyes, the smile stretched wider, pulling at her face in a way that felt disturbingly inhuman. Her eyes were unblinking and too wide. They held a vacant, piercing stare that burrowed into me, as if she could see every thought in my head.

My stomach churned, and a cold sweat prickled my skin. It felt intrusive, violating, like she was prying into parts of me even I didn’t understand.

I immediately ran back to my bed and hid under the covers. Every creak of the house sounded like a threat, and I pulled the blankets tighter, desperate for a sense of safety.

I tried to stay awake, but I somehow fell asleep.

That glance haunted my dreams. I saw her face, frozen in that unnatural smile, but it wasn’t just her. The walls seemed to close in, her eyes multiplying and watching me from every corner.

I woke up drenched in sweat, her vacant stare still burned into my mind.

It wasn’t just a nightmare.

It felt like she had followed me into my sleep.

March 21st

That was the worst night of my life, but nothing compared to what happened today. When I woke up, the smell was unbearable, much worse than before. It reeked of death, as if something had been rotting in the room for weeks. My stomach churned, and I had to cover my mouth to stop myself from gagging.

As I swung my legs off the bed, I felt a sharp sting in my foot. Looking down, I saw a small splinter lodged in my skin. The floor beneath me was no longer tiled but old, splintered wood. It creaked under my weight, groaning like it had been waiting centuries to collapse.

I scanned the room in confusion. Even though the weather outside was sunny and bright, the room felt dim, as if the light couldn’t penetrate the oppressive gloom hanging in the air. The ceiling above was much higher than I remembered, disappearing into a suffocating darkness that seemed to stretch endlessly.

Panic set in when I glanced at Tommy’s bed.

It was empty.

He had vanished without a trace. His belongings were still there, untouched, but there was no sign of him.

I stepped carefully out into the hallway. From further down the hall, I heard something—a sound that was human but unmistakably wrong.

It was a groan, wet and labored, like a voice straining against an unnatural weight.

The maze-like corridors stretched endlessly in all directions, disorienting and dim despite the morning sun outside. Every creak of the floorboards sent shivers down my spine, and that sound grew louder, closer.

Then, without warning, the groaning stopped.

The silence that followed wasn’t normal—it was wrong, an oppressive void that made the hairs on my neck stand on end. I stood there, every nerve on edge, afraid to breathe too loudly.

The silence stretched, suffocating, and just when I thought I couldn’t take it any longer, the groaning started again.

This time, it was behind me.

I turned slowly.

What I saw froze me in place.

Miss Harper.

She looked almost like she had in my dream, but worse. Much worse. She had grown in size, her towering frame now forced to crawl on all fours. Her neck was crooked, her head dangling unnaturally to one side. Her eyes were wide open, unblinking, as though she had no eyelids at all.

Her smile was the same as in my nightmare—unnaturally wide, stretching across her face in a way that seemed impossible. Her skin was pale and mottled, almost translucent in places, with veins bulging and pulsing faintly beneath the surface. As she crawled closer, her movements were jerky, each limb bending in ways that seemed physically wrong.

I couldn’t move. Her head tilted slowly, the smile never faltering, as if she were studying me, savoring my fear. My legs felt like lead, and my breath caught in my throat.

Then, I smelled it—her breath. It was thick, rancid, and metallic, the scent of blood and decay. She was so close I could feel the chill radiating off her distorted form. Her outstretched hand, pale and clawed, reached for me.

But before she could touch me, the sound of fast, heavy, wet footsteps thundered down the hallway. It was accompanied by a guttural, wet growl that made my skin crawl.

Miss Harper stopped, her head jerking unnaturally toward the sound.

From the corner of my eye, I saw him—Mr. Lewis.

Or what used to be him.

Once a slender man who always dressed sharply, he was now a towering, bloated abomination. Nearly nine feet tall, his swollen body glistened as if it had been dragged from the depths of a lake. His skin was a sickly blue-gray, waterlogged and splitting in places. His mouth hung open, revealing rows of jagged teeth, one eye bulging grotesquely from its socket while the other dangled loosely.

A trail of brownish-red liquid followed him with every footstep, staining the splintered wood beneath.

With an ear-splitting roar, he lunged at Miss Harper. The force of his movement shook the ground beneath me, and I stumbled backward, my instincts finally overriding my paralysis. As they clashed, their inhuman screams filled the air. Miss Harper’s smile never wavered. Mr. Lewis retaliated with a powerful swing of his massive arm, sending her crashing into the wall with a sickening crunch.

Yet, she only laughed—a guttural, distorted sound that didn’t belong in this world.

I didn’t wait to see more.

While they tore into each other, I turned and ran, my bare feet slipping on the splintered wood. The groaning of the house mixed with their monstrous sounds as I threw myself into the nearest closet and slammed the door shut.

Inside, I wasn’t alone.

Sarah was there, curled up in the corner, her face pale and streaked with tears.

“What’s happening?” she whispered, her voice shaking.

I couldn’t answer. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath, but I couldn’t find the words. All I could do was shake my head.

We stayed huddled together in the dark, too afraid to move, too afraid to cry. Outside, the sounds of their battle raged on—flesh tearing, bones snapping, and those horrifying, guttural screams.

All we could do was hope they wouldn’t find us.

March 22nd

The fight didn’t end until around 5 a.m. Sarah and I stayed awake the entire time, too frightened to close our eyes. When the horrific sounds finally faded into silence, neither of us moved. We waited, our breaths shallow, before daring to step outside.

When we finally opened the closet door, the hallway was eerily still. It was as if the fight had never happened—no blood, no signs of destruction, just the same oppressive gloom. Sarah clutched my arm as we ventured forward, searching for a way out.

We stumbled upon a staircase leading downward, a path we’d never noticed before. As we descended, the smell hit us—putrid and overwhelming, a suffocating blend of decay and rot that grew worse with every step.

The cellar was a twisted maze, the walls uneven and pulsing faintly as if they were alive. We wandered through the narrow, dimly lit corridors until we found a room at the far end.

The source of the smell became horrifyingly clear.

Inside, piles of half-rotten body parts were heaped carelessly. Arms, legs, torsos, all in various stages of decay, lay in sickening tangles. Some were stripped to the bone, others looked freshly torn, their flesh glistening under the dim light. Sarah gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. My stomach lurched, and I had to fight the urge to vomit.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Tommy.

Was he among them?

I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t stop myself from imagining the worst.

At the far end of the room stood a large, rusted gate. It looked ancient, out of place, as if it had been dragged here from another world.

“That could be our way out,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by those same horrifying screams—Miss Harper and Mr. Lewis. Their inhuman cries reverberated through the darkness, and the sound of wet, heavy footsteps followed, growing louder and faster.

“Help me with this!” I shouted, grabbing at the gate. It wouldn’t budge. Sarah joined me, both of us pulling and pushing desperately.

“There’s a keyhole!” I said, spotting it near the center of the gate. “We need the key!”

Panic surged as we searched the room. Every shadow felt alive, and our movements grew frantic. Then Sarah spotted it—a severed hand gripping a rusted key tightly. She reached for it, but the fingers wouldn’t let go.

“Just pull it!” I hissed, my voice barely audible over the approaching chaos.

Together, we pried the fingers apart.

At that moment, Miss Harper and Mr. Lewis appeared at the other end of the room. Their bodies were grotesquely damaged from their fight. Miss Harper’s head hung lower, her neck twisted at an even more impossible angle, and one of her arms dangled uselessly. Mr. Lewis dragged himself forward, his bloated form oozing brownish-red liquid with every step.

We finally freed the key and scrambled to the gate. My hands shook as I fumbled with the lock, the growls and footsteps almost upon us. The gate creaked open just as they reached us. Sarah and I pushed through and slammed it shut behind us, the force of their bodies crashing into the gate reverberating through the air.

We found ourselves in the backyard of the orphanage, the dawn light barely cutting through the oppressive gloom. Behind us, the abominations screamed and clawed at the gate, but as we turned to look again, the gate vanished, as if it had never been there.

To our shock, the orphanage looked just as it had in the past—calm, pristine, and untouched by the horrors we had just endured. The building stood in the early light, its windows reflecting the sun as if nothing had changed. The garden was neat and well-tended, with flowers blooming in perfect rows, their vibrant colors sharply contrasting with the nightmare we had just escaped.

Sarah and I hugged each other tightly, tears streaming down our faces. The sheer relief of being alive and the belief, however fleeting, that the nightmare might be over overwhelmed us.

We held on to each other, crying, not because everything was fine, but because, for now, it was quiet.

Present:

Sarah and I were homeless for a week after escaping the orphanage. We stuck together, sleeping in alleys and stealing scraps of food when no one was looking. Every creak of a door or distant footstep made us jump, the memories of what we had seen refusing to let us rest.

On the seventh day, the police found us.

We thought we were saved—until they said they were taking us back to the orphanage.

We screamed, we cried, we pleaded. We told them everything, but they didn’t believe us. How could they? Two terrified kids babbling about monsters and death in a pristine, well-respected orphanage? They drove us back in silence, our desperation growing with every kilometer.

From the backseat of the police car, we watched as the officer approached the front door. It opened before he could knock, and there she was—Miss Harper.

But it wasn’t her.

It was the abomination she had become, her crooked smile stretched impossibly wide. Her broken, twisted form waved at us with her mangled hand, as if mocking our fear. The officer didn’t react. He spoke to her as if she were normal, nodding politely before stepping inside.

Sarah and I clung to each other, paralyzed. Minutes passed before the officer emerged, unscathed, smiling as if nothing were wrong. Miss Harper stood in the doorway, waving again, her grin more menacing than ever.

I couldn’t take it.

My mind broke, and so did Sarah’s.

We both fainted.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. Sarah was still unconscious, and the doctors told me she had fallen into a coma. They asked me questions I couldn’t answer, and then the police came in.

They told me Miss Harper claimed she had never seen us before, that we weren’t residents of the orphanage.

I tried to explain, to tell them what had really happened, but they didn’t believe me. They thought I was delusional.

I spent months in a psychiatric ward, my mind unraveling as I replayed those events over and over. When I turned twenty, I was released. I tried to start a new life, but I never forgot Sarah.

She remained in a coma, trapped in that nightmare. I visited her as often as I could, sitting by her bedside, hoping one day she would wake up.

Now, I’m in my forties. I have a wife, two beautiful children—a ten-year-old son and a seven-year-old daughter—a dog, a cat, and a home in a quiet town far from where it all began.

My life should feel perfect, but the past lingers.

I still dream of the orphanage, of Miss Harper’s smile, of Tommy, of Sarah.

Sarah still lies in that hospital bed, her body growing older while her mind remains trapped somewhere I can’t reach. My children ask why I go to the hospital every month, and I tell them it’s to visit an old friend. They don’t know the truth.

They don’t know what I’ve seen.

I write this now to cope with the memories that have resurfaced, to find some semblance of peace in sharing what I’ve kept buried for decades. But as I sit here, pen trembling in my hand, a familiar scent begins to creep into the room.

It’s faint at first, but unmistakable—that awful, rancid smell of decay.

I freeze, my heart pounding, as the air grows heavier, the stench stronger.

It’s happening again.