DWC Short Story: Haunting of Brinecliff Asylum

Evelyn and Tom Merrick had always dreamt of escaping the city for a quieter life. After years of searching, they stumbled upon Brinecliff, a sleepy, forgotten town perched on the edge of the English coast. The sea air was salty and crisp, and the rhythm of the waves was a balm to their overstressed lives. They were both in their early thirties, recently married, and looking to start a family. Brinecliff seemed perfect for their new beginning.

It was there that they found it: the old Brinecliff Asylum, a sprawling, ivy-clad Victorian building sitting atop a windswept hill. Abandoned for decades, the hospital loomed over the town like a watchful sentinel, its windows dark and gaping. The townsfolk spoke of its tragic past—a place where the mentally ill were locked away and forgotten. Many claimed it was cursed, but to Evelyn and Tom, it was an opportunity.

They bought the property at a shockingly low price, brushing off the warnings and whispers. Their vision was clear: they would renovate the asylum and turn it into a boutique hotel, catering to tourists looking for a unique seaside getaway. The place had history, charm, and character—everything they needed to make it a success.

As they began renovations, they felt a surge of excitement. Workers came and went, knocking down old walls, replacing rotting floors, and repairing the cracked façade. Soon, the place began to take on a new life. Fresh paint covered the dark wood, and modern amenities were installed where decayed remnants of the past once lingered. The entire process felt cathartic as if they were exorcising the old hospital of its dark memories.

But beneath the surface of their optimism, something else lingered.

The first strange occurrence happened a month into the renovations. Evelyn had been unpacking a set of antique lamps she had bought at a flea market when she noticed something odd: all of the mirrors in the building, every single one, seemed to have cracked overnight. It wasn’t the sort of shattering caused by a dropped mirror or an impact.

These cracks were delicate and spider-like, starting from a single point in each mirror, almost as if a hand had reached out from within and pressed against the glass.

Tom dismissed it as humidity or structural stress. The building was old, after all.

But Evelyn couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Whenever she walked down the long, freshly painted hallways, she felt eyes on her back, her skin prickling as if the very walls held secrets. 

At night, in the master suite they had fashioned out of the former head psychiatrist’s office, she would wake up gasping, as if someone had whispered her name in the dark. But every time she turned over to Tom’s side of the bed, she found him fast asleep, oblivious.

As the hotel’s opening day approached, they pushed these small, unsettling events aside. The building was almost complete. 

The grand foyer gleamed, the guest rooms were ready, and bookings were trickling in. Their dream was coming true.

Then their first guest arrived.

Her name was Margaret Fisher, a middle-aged woman with sharp features and an air of self-assuredness. She arrived unannounced, her pale blue eyes cold and piercing as she stood in the lobby, staring up at the grand chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Tom was surprised to see her; they hadn’t received any notification of her booking.

“I’m here for a stay,” she said in a voice that was both authoritative and distant, handing Tom an envelope with her reservation confirmation inside.

Evelyn couldn’t quite place it, but there was something off about Margaret. Her clothes were modern, yet her mannerisms, her speech, and even her perfume seemed dated as if she had stepped out of another era. Evelyn brushed it off as nerves. After all, this was their first guest, and the pressure of running a hotel was new to both of them.

They showed Margaret to Room 217, an elegant suite on the second floor. It had once been the women’s ward during the asylum’s operation, though they had worked hard to erase any trace of its former function

Margaret gave a curt nod as she entered, but before closing the door, she turned to Evelyn and said, “This place has a long memory. You should be careful about what you disturb.”

That night, the sounds began.

It started as a low murmur, barely audible beneath the crash of the waves outside. Tom didn’t hear it at first, but Evelyn couldn’t sleep. 

She lay awake, straining to catch the sound. It was as if a group of people were whispering all at once, their voices blending into a disorienting hum.

Evelyn got up, her heart thudding, and followed the noise down the hallway. The closer she got to Margaret’s room, the louder the whispers became. 

When she reached Room 217, they abruptly stopped. Evelyn stood frozen outside the door, listening. Then, slowly, the door creaked open, and Margaret stood there in her nightgown, staring at her with those cold blue eyes.

“I told you,” she whispered, her voice low and dangerous. “You shouldn’t disturb the past.”

Evelyn backed away, her throat tight with fear, and ran back to their room.

The next morning, Margaret was gone. No checkout, no trace. Her bed was made, and the envelope with her reservation confirmation had disappeared.

After Margaret’s departure, things escalated. Doors slammed on their own. Lights flickered erratically. Objects moved when no one was in the room. The whispers became louder, more distinct, and Evelyn swore she could hear voices calling her name in the dead of night.

One evening, Tom was down in the basement, checking the boiler system, when he found something odd. An entire section of the old asylum had been walled off, the bricks weathered but still sturdy. He called Evelyn down, and together they broke through the fragile brickwork.

Behind the wall, they discovered a hidden wing of the asylum, untouched since it had been sealed off decades ago. Rusted gurneys lined the narrow corridors, and yellowed patient records littered the floor.

But what struck them most was the cold. It was a biting, unnatural chill that seemed to seep into their bones. The air was thick with the scent of decay, and a strange darkness clung to every corner.

As they explored the hidden wing, they found an old examination room. Inside, on the walls, were crude drawings scratched into the plaster by patients long forgotten—dark, swirling figures with eyes that followed them wherever they moved.

Evelyn could feel the weight of the asylum’s past pressing down on her. This place had seen pain, torment, and suffering beyond imagination. But it wasn’t just the past. It was still here. The spirits of Brinecliff were restless, and they wanted something.

The next day, the hotel's official opening loomed closer, but Evelyn was unravelling. She could no longer ignore the strange occurrences. The whispers had turned into screams, and now, she saw figures—shadowy, indistinct figures—gliding through the halls.

At first, they were fleeting, just out of the corner of her eye, but then they became more solid, more present.

Tom was beginning to believe her. Late one night, he woke to the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. But when he stepped outside their room, he saw no one. 

The footsteps continued, slow and deliberate as if someone—or something—was pacing the length of the corridor.

The final guest came the night before their grand opening. She arrived just after sunset, an older woman with a severe expression and a thin smile. She said her name was Dr. Evelyn Blackwood, a name that struck a chilling chord with Evelyn.

It was the name of the asylum’s last head psychiatrist, a woman who had disappeared without a trace when the asylum was shut down in the 1950s.

As Dr. Blackwood settled into her room, the temperature in the hotel plummeted. The air grew thick with an oppressive sense of dread, and the shadows seemed to lengthen, twisting into unnatural shapes.

Evelyn could no longer deny it—the asylum was alive, and it wanted her. Desperation clawed at her mind as she realized the truth. Margaret, Dr. Blackwood, even the whispers—they weren’t warning her to leave. 

They were calling her back. Brinecliff had chosen her.

The grand opening was a disaster. The few guests who arrived were greeted by flickering lights, cold drafts, and the oppressive feeling of being watched. Some left immediately, unnerved by the building’s strange atmosphere. 

Those who stayed reported hearing voices in their rooms, seeing faces in the mirrors, and feeling invisible hands brush against their skin.

By the end of the night, the hotel was empty, save for Evelyn and Tom.

As they stood in the grand foyer, staring up at the chandelier, Evelyn felt a presence behind her. She turned, but no one was there. Yet the sensation persisted, a cold breath on the back of her neck.

“We have to leave,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “This place… it’s not ours.”

But before they could make their escape, the front doors slammed shut. The shadows deepened, swallowing the light, and the whispers returned—louder, more insistent.

And then she saw them. The spirits of the asylum patients, their hollow eyes gleaming in the darkness, their twisted forms gliding silently through the air. They surrounded Evelyn and Tom, their voices a cacophony of pain and anger.

“We can’t leave,” Evelyn realized, tears streaming down her face. “We disturbed them. They won’t let us go.”

Tom grabbed her hand, his face pale with fear. “We’ll find a way.”

But as the spirits closed in, their cold, ghostly hands reaching for them, Evelyn knew there was no escape. Brinecliff Asylum had claimed them, just as it had claimed so many before.

The last thing Evelyn heard before the darkness swallowed them whole was the sound of the sea crashing against the cliffs and the distant, echoing laughter of the asylum’s long-dead patients.

Brinecliff had won.

Years later, the hotel stands abandoned once more, its windows dark and broken, its halls silent. The townsfolk speak of the Merricks in hushed tones, another tragic tale in Brinecliff’s haunted history.

But those brave enough to venture near the old asylum claim to hear strange sounds coming from within—whispers, footsteps, and sometimes, the faint, sorrowful wail of a woman, calling out for someone to save her from the darkness.