My friend and I were wandering around an asylum to take photos.

I had a feeling like something was watching me. While I took pictures, my friend rushed in and said, “Let’s go.” He didn’t explain, just ran away. I looked down and saw his camera bag was wide open—and something shiny was half-sticking out of it.

I was confused but didn’t chase him right away. My first thought was that maybe he’d stepped on a nail or something—he limped a little when he ran. But then I noticed what was glinting from the bag: an old, rusted nameplate with the word “WARDEN” engraved across the middle. Looked like it had been yanked off a door.

Now here’s the thing. We’d both agreed not to take anything from the site. This asylum—Greystone Hills—wasn’t technically abandoned, just decommissioned. Still owned by the state, still patrolled once in a while. We knew the rules: photos only.

I shoved the nameplate deeper into the bag, zipped it, and ran after him.

Outside, the sky had gone from light gray to deep charcoal. Summer storm. I spotted him across the gravel lot, pacing beside the car, staring at his camera screen. He looked shaken.

“Zafir,” I called. “Hey—what happened?”

He didn’t look up. “We need to go. Now. I think I screwed up.”

We drove in near silence back to town, just the slap of the windshield wipers filling the car. Every time I glanced over, Zafir looked more pale, more… distant. Like someone who was trying hard not to panic.

That night, he didn’t text me. The next morning, still nothing.

So I went to his place.

His older sister Noura answered. She looked surprised to see me. “He said you went hiking.”

“Sort of,” I said. “We were out by Greystone Hills.”

Her face shifted slightly. “That’s where he was yesterday? He came home soaking wet, like he’d fallen in a creek. Didn’t say a word. He’s been in his room since last night.”

I hesitated. “Mind if I talk to him?”

She nodded toward the hallway.

Zafir’s room smelled like wet dirt and metal. His camera gear was scattered across the bed, and the nameplate was there—sitting in the middle like some cursed centerpiece.

I picked it up. Cold, even in the warm room.

“What are you doing with this?” I asked.

Zafir didn’t turn around. “I don’t know why I took it,” he said quietly. “I saw it lying near the stairs. Thought it’d look cool in a photo. But ever since…” He trailed off.

He rubbed his arm. That’s when I saw the red scratches. Thin, like from wire.

“Did you get hurt?”

He shook his head. “It started after I got home.”

I’m not the superstitious type. I don’t believe in ghosts or haunted items or whatever. But Zafir wasn’t the kind of guy to mess around for attention.

“You want to put it back?” I asked.

His eyes met mine. “I don’t think it wants to go back.”

I laughed. I actually laughed, just out of sheer discomfort. “Man, you okay?”

“I tried driving there last night,” he said, more urgently now. “Got halfway and my car died. My phone froze. It’s like it doesn’t want me to get rid of it. And I’ve been having dreams.”

I sat down. “Okay. So let’s both go. In daylight this time. We return it, no games.”

He looked relieved. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” I said. “We’re the ones who trespassed. Let’s at least undo one wrong.”

We left after lunch. Sky was clearer now, but the wind had that dry, electric edge. On the way there, Zafir told me about the dream.

“There’s this hallway. Same one from the west wing. But all the doors are open, and I’m walking past them, hearing whispers. Then I get to the end—and there’s this door that says WARDEN. And someone’s behind it, knocking.”

“Creepy,” I said.

“Yeah. Except last night, I opened the door.”

I didn’t ask what he saw.

At Greystone Hills, we parked farther this time and went around the back. The west wing had partially collapsed years ago, so it took some maneuvering. We found the hallway he mentioned.

I swear the air was colder in there.

We reached the door where he’d taken the plate. The screw holes were still visible.

“Put it back,” I whispered.

He stepped forward slowly, set the plate against the door, and pressed it in place like he could will it to stay.

Nothing happened. No flash, no gust of air, no voice from the beyond.

But Zafir exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for two days.

As we turned to leave, something caught my eye—a folded sheet of paper sticking out from behind a loose brick near the floor. I tugged it free.

It was a patient record. For someone named R. Elston. Dated 1987. Notes scribbled in shaky cursive: “Claims staff are keeping him here illegally. Says he was a janitor, not a patient.”

I tucked it in my jacket.

Back at the car, Zafir looked… normal again. Like a weight had lifted.

We didn’t really talk about it after that. He deleted all the photos from the asylum. We both agreed to stay far away from Greystone Hills.

But the weirdest part came later.

About a month afterward, I was helping my aunt move some boxes into storage at the county records office. She works there part-time, and I owed her a favor.

While stacking files, I found a folder labeled “Greystone Hills—Facility Closure Documents.”

Curiosity got the better of me.

Inside were newspaper clippings from the late ’80s. One headline caught my eye: “EMPLOYEE ACCIDENTALLY COMMITTED—JANITOR HELD FOR THREE WEEKS AT GREYSTONE.”

No photo, but the name was the same. R. Elston.

Apparently, during a chaotic summer staff change, he was mistaken for a wandering patient and admitted. No ID, no one verified his story.

By the time they figured it out, he’d already suffered a nervous breakdown. Died months later in a different institution.

I brought the file to Zafir.

We sat on his porch, passing it back and forth like some kind of cursed relic.

“So what if the nameplate wasn’t just a random souvenir?” I said. “What if it belonged to the person who ordered that mistake?”

Zafir looked out toward the trees. “Then maybe returning it wasn’t just undoing our mess—it was finishing someone else’s justice.”

The strangest part?

A week later, someone burned down part of Greystone Hills. Fire made the evening news. They said it was likely electrical.

But when I saw the footage, I recognized the hallway. The west wing. The WARDEN door. Gone.

Zafir and I don’t talk about it much now. He sold his camera gear, started doing freelance design. I stopped taking photos in abandoned places.

Still, that record? I kept it. Just one page, tucked inside a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird on my shelf.

Sometimes I take it out and think about the weight of names. How mistakes echo, even decades later.

We went into that place chasing shadows and stories—but what we brought out was real.

And sometimes, the best thing you can do… is give something back.

If you’ve ever had a moment where your gut said “don’t”—listen to it. And if you’ve wronged someone, even by accident? Make it right. You never know how far it’ll go.

Like and share if this hit home for you. Let me know in the comments if you’ve ever felt something was off—and turned out to be right.