The air hung thick and heavy, like a damp shroud, as I stood before the rusted gates. Blackwood Asylum. Even the name tasted like ash in my mouth. Mewtwo had warned me, his psychic voice echoing in my head even now: "Ash, do not venture there. It is a place of suffering, a wound in the land. Nothing good awaits you."
But when had I ever listened? Curiosity, that stubborn little Nidoran, always wriggled its way to the forefront of my mind. I had heard whispers in the nearby town of Slateport – whispers of shadows, of screams that still echoed in the dead of night, of something…malevolent. My blood, always eager for a challenge, thrummed in my ears.
Mewtwo was back at the Pokémon Center, meditating, honing his powers. I couldn't tell him. He'd just try to stop me. This was something I had to face alone.
Taking a deep breath, I heaved the gate open, the screech of rusted metal a mournful wail that sent shivers down my spine. Pikachu, perched on my shoulder, whimpered and nuzzled against my cheek.
"It's okay, buddy," I muttered, even though my own courage felt paper-thin. "We'll be careful. Just a quick look around."
Liar. I knew I wouldn't just take a quick look. I had to know the truth.
The asylum was a gothic monstrosity, its darkened windows like vacant eyes staring into my soul. Ivy, thick as pythons, choked the walls, and the air was thick with the stench of decay and something else… something acrid and metallic that made my stomach churn.
I pushed open the heavy oak doors, the wood groaning in protest. Dust motes danced in the faint light filtering through the grime-streaked windows, creating an eerie, swirling ballet. The silence within was suffocating, broken only by the frantic thump-thump-thumping of my own heart.
"Hello?" I called out, my voice sounding weak and insignificant in the vast emptiness. Only silence answered.
The main hall was a cavernous space, the once-grand architecture now crumbling and stained with disrepair. Peeling wallpaper hung in tattered strips, revealing cryptic symbols etched into the plaster beneath. Restraints, cold and unforgiving, were bolted to the walls. The very air seemed to vibrate with the echoes of pain and despair.
Pikachu trembled on my shoulder, his fur bristling. "Pika… Pika…" he whimpered, pleading with me to leave.
I ignored him, my gaze drawn to a long corridor stretching into the darkness. Each doorway was a black abyss, promising untold horrors.
Hesitantly, I started down the corridor, my footsteps echoing eerily in the silence. Each room was a chamber of horrors – rusty medical instruments scattered across stained tables, blood-splattered walls, and beds with shredded sheets and broken springs. In one room, I found a child's rocking horse, its painted eyes staring blankly ahead, its mane matted with what looked like dried blood.
A cold dread began to creep into my bones, a feeling more profound and terrifying than anything I had ever experienced. This place wasn't just abandoned; it was haunted.
As I reached the end of the corridor, I noticed a faint flickering light emanating from a room at the very end. Curiosity, and a morbid fascination, pulled me forward. I reached the door and peered inside.
The room was larger than the others, and in the center sat a single wheelchair, bathed in the flickering glow of a dying lantern. On the wall behind it, scrawled in what looked like dried blood, were the words: "GET OUT."
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The air in the room felt colder, heavier, as if something was watching me. Then, I heard it. A soft scraping sound, coming from the shadows in the corner of the room.
My hand instinctively reached for a Poké Ball. "Who's there?" I demanded, my voice barely a whisper.
The scraping sound grew louder, closer. And then, a figure emerged from the darkness.
He was tall and gaunt, his form draped in tattered rags. But it was his face, or rather, the lack of it, that truly chilled me to the bone. He wore a burlap sack over his head, crudely stitched together with thick thread. One eye-hole had been torn open, revealing a single, bloodshot eye that burned with malevolent glee. In his hand, he held a rusty axe, its blade stained a sickening crimson.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence exuded a suffocating aura of madness and violence.
Pikachu screamed, a high-pitched shriek of terror, and launched himself from my shoulder, unleashing a Thunderbolt that momentarily illuminated the room. The figure recoiled, but the axe remained raised.
This was no ghost. This was something far more terrifying. This was a living nightmare.
I fumbled for my Poké Balls, my hands shaking so violently that I could barely grip them. But before I could summon a Pokémon, he lunged.
The axe flashed in the dim light, a silver arc of death aimed directly at my head. I ducked, the blade whistling past my ear, close enough that I felt the rush of air. He swung again, and again, each blow a frantic, desperate attempt to end my life.
I scrambled backwards, desperately trying to create distance between us. The room was small, and there was nowhere to run. With each swing of the axe, the figure moved closer, his single eye burning into mine with an unholy intensity.
I knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was the end. I had ignored Mewtwo's warning, succumbed to my own foolish curiosity, and now I was going to pay the ultimate price.
Just as the axe was about to fall, a psychic wave slammed into the room, throwing the figure against the wall. The burlap sack slipped, revealing a glimpse of a face beneath - a face contorted in agony, etched with years of torment and madness.
Mewtwo! He had sensed my danger, defied my wishes, and come to my rescue. But even his presence couldn't dispel the horror of the moment.
The figure, dazed but undeterred, struggled to his feet, his grip tightening on the axe. He was insane, beyond reason, beyond redemption.
Mewtwo unleashed another psychic blast, this one more powerful than the last. The figure screamed, a primal, animalistic roar of pain and rage, and then collapsed to the floor, his body twitching uncontrollably.
I stared at the fallen figure, my heart pounding in my chest, my body trembling with fear. I had never been so close to death before.
Mewtwo floated down to my side, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief and disappointment. "You are reckless, Ash," he said, his voice laced with a quiet anger. "This place is not meant to be explored. It is a prison for the tormented, a haven for the damned."
He gazed at the twitching figure on the floor. "And some things, Ash, are best left undisturbed."
He levitated the figure, his psychic power emanating like an aura of judgment. "He will trouble no one again."
We left Blackwood Asylum in silence, the oppressive atmosphere lifting slightly as we stepped back into the world of sunlight and fresh air. I didn't speak, ashamed of my recklessness, humbled by my near-death experience.
As we walked away, I couldn't shake the image of that single, bloodshot eye burning into my soul. Blackwood Asylum was a place of nightmares, a place where sanity went to die. And I had almost become one of its victims. Some doors are best left unopened, some secrets are best left buried. And some places… some places are simply too evil to ever be explored. I knew now, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that Blackwood Asylum was one of those places. And I would never, ever, go back.