Fenwick Street is a perfectly normal street. Well, almost. All the houses are quaint, with gardens and children playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. Except one. Fenwick street has a remarkable Summer breeze that wafts along the pavement. Until you arrive at the last navy blue house, where a chill is sent down your spine, chasing away the breeze.

It’s an old structure, built before any of the other houses on the street. Strangely, it doesn’t radiate in regal elegance, as other buildings of its time usually do. The house, which long ago fell into disrepair, is vacant; nobody lives there. At least, no one is supposed to be living there.

It used to be an asylum, but thirty years ago the government closed it down because they used illegal methods of treatment. No one bought the house and soon the real estate agents stopped trying to sell it. Even now, at night, you can still hear faint screaming and the screeching sound of nails on a blackboard. It’s not my imagination and tomorrow, I’ll prove it.