Halloween at the Asylum
On Halloween night in Philadelphia in 1995, three friends set out to explore the abandoned ruins of Byberry Mental Institution, unaware that some places never truly close their doors.
Billy, Mike, and George had grown up hearing the stories. Byberry loomed on the edge of their neighborhood, a monstrous institution packed with the insane, the forgotten, and the cruelly mistreated. Even as kids, they had listened to neighbors whisper about the screams echoing at night, the patients wandering the grounds, and the guards who seemed more like predators than caretakers. By 1995, the hospital had been closed for five years, but its shadow still stretched across the Northeast part of the city. On Halloween night, they sat in Sunrise bar, beers in hand, swapping tales of Byberry. George leaned in, eyes glinting. “Let’s go tonight. See the place for ourselves.” Mike hesitated. Billy just laughed, almost too loud. “What the fuck, let’s go.
As they drove up the Boulevard, Byberry rose ahead of them, jagged and skeletal, windows like dead eyes staring into the fog. The iron gates hung crooked, rust flaking with every gust of wind. The courtyard was littered with broken wheelchairs and benches, weeds crawling over cracked pavement. Shadows twisted and danced under their flashlights, making the building seem alive. George moved forward with confidence, drawn by some unspoken force. Mike’s stomach knotted with unease. Billy, heart hammering, followed, masking terror with bravado.
Inside, the air thickened, heavy with rot and mildew. Old patient files lay scattered across the floor, yellowed and brittle, some scrawled with frantic, desperate handwriting. Every step echoed in the long-abandoned halls, where screams of the past seemed to ripple through the walls. A shuffle came from a side corridor, soft at first, then nearer, accompanied by a chorus of whispers, calling names none of them knew. “Raccoon,” Billy muttered, his voice cracking. But the sound didn’t move like an animal. It moved with intent.
They pressed deeper, drawn toward the treatment wing. Rusted restraints hung from walls, streaks of unknown origin marking floors and ceilings. Then, at the end of a hallway, a figure emerged: gaunt, hunched, eyes white and unblinking. It let out a shriek that pierced their chests, a sound that was not entirely human. Shadows stretched unnaturally, whispering secrets that clawed at their sanity. Billy dropped his flashlight. Mike bolted toward the exit. George tried to call after him, but even his voice sounded swallowed by the building. The halls seemed endless, alive with memories that refused to die.
By the time they stumbled back to the parking lot, the fog had thickened, swallowing the building behind them. Their hearts pounded, lungs burning from running, and every instinct screamed that they had been watched, followed, and marked. They didn’t speak as they drove away, the headlights cutting through the darkness of Byberry’s ruins, but the memory lingered. On every Halloween after, they would hear whispers in the wind, see shadows moving at the edges of their vision, and wonder if the hospital had released something that night—or if they had carried a piece of it back with them.