Adventure At Waverly Hills Sanatorium

They parked at the bottom of the hill and shut the engine off at the same time, the sudden quiet making the cicadas sound louder than they had any right to be. Waverly Hills Sanatorium loomed above them, its long brick body stretched across the crest like a sleeping animal that might wake if disturbed too loudly.

“Still can’t believe this place was a tuberculosis hospital,” Cedric said, craning his neck to look up. “You’d think sunshine and fresh air, not… this.”

“That’s why it’s up here,” Kurt replied. He was the oldest, or at least he carried himself like it—clipboard under his arm, flashlight already clipped to his belt, calm voice tuned permanently to “we’re fine.” “Isolation. Airflow. And because nobody wanted TB patients in town.”

Ned—who everyone called Land, a nickname that had stuck since childhood and never fully explained—slammed the car door shut harder than necessary. “And because it looks creepy as hell. Let’s not pretend that’s not part of it.”

Elroy lingered by the trunk, carefully adjusting the straps on his backpack. Thermal camera, voice recorder, EMF meter, SLS camera, two phones loaded with GhostTube apps, spare batteries, snacks he hoped he wouldn’t need. He glanced up at the building and then quickly away again.

“Nothing too scary,” he muttered, repeating what they’d agreed on. “Just data. Stories. Vibes.”

Land snorted. “You say that like vibes aren’t terrifying.”

They walked up the cracked road together, flashlights bobbing, the beam of Kurt’s light steady and purposeful. The building grew larger with each step, windows like dark eye sockets staring out over the trees. Somewhere inside, a door creaked—not loud, not dramatic, just the sound of wood shifting in the night.

Cedric stopped. “You heard that, right?”

Kurt nodded. “Wind. Temperature change.”

“Or,” Land said, “a ghost.”

“No monsters,” Cedric reminded him. “That was the rule.”

They entered through a side door already ajar, the metal handle cold beneath Kurt’s hand. The air inside was immediately different—thicker, somehow, as if sound itself had weight here. Their footsteps echoed down a long corridor, peeling paint flaking from the walls, faded green tiles cracked and uneven underfoot.

Elroy turned on the thermal camera. The screen bloomed with colors—cool blues and greens, occasional warmer patches where their bodies reflected back at them.

“Baseline first,” Kurt said. “Everyone quiet for a minute.”

They stood there, four brothers in a line, listening to the building breathe. Somewhere far off, water dripped. The thermal image showed the hallway stretching ahead, uniform in temperature except for one faint blue patch near the far end.

Cedric frowned. “That wasn’t there a second ago.”

Kurt leaned closer to the screen. “Cold air pocket. Ventilation shaft maybe.”

“Ventilation from where?” Land asked. “The 1920s?”

Nobody answered.

They started slow, methodical. Room by room. Notes taken. EMF readings mostly normal, occasional spikes that Kurt dutifully wrote down with possible explanations—old wiring, interference from their own equipment.

In one patient room, Cedric snapped photos while Land scanned with the EMF meter. Elroy ran an EVP session, voice recorder held steady.

“If there’s anyone here,” Elroy said softly, “you can speak into this device.”

They waited. Ten seconds. Twenty.

From somewhere down the hall, a sharp crack echoed, like a footstep.

Land jumped. “That was not settling.”

Kurt raised a finger. “Hold.”

They listened. Nothing else followed.

Later, reviewing the EVP, they would hear something faint between Elroy’s words and Kurt clearing his throat—a sound like a breath, or maybe a whispered syllable that none of them could agree on.

They moved deeper into the building, floors creaking under their weight. On the third floor, the radio Kurt carried for communication with security began to hiss.

“That’s weird,” Kurt said, tapping it. “We’ve got full signal.”

The hiss sharpened into a burst of static, then—very briefly—a voice.

“…here…”

Cedric’s head snapped up. “Did you hear that?”

The radio went quiet.

Kurt adjusted the dial. “Cross-channel interference.”

“With who?” Land asked. “The dead?”

Kurt didn’t answer immediately. He just wrote it down.

They tried an Estes session in what had once been a nurse’s station. Cedric volunteered to wear the blindfold and noise-canceling headphones, radio scanning between stations in rapid bursts of static. Elroy sat across from him with a notebook, Land hovered nearby, and Kurt monitored the EMF.

“Cedric can’t hear us,” Kurt said. “No cues. Ask clear questions.”

Land crossed his arms. “Is anyone here with us?”

Cedric tilted his head. “Cold.”

Elroy’s pen paused. “Cold?”

“Yeah,” Cedric said. “Cold.”

The thermal camera beeped softly. Elroy looked down. A blue shape had formed behind Cedric’s chair, vaguely humanoid but indistinct.

“Guys,” Elroy said quietly.

Kurt leaned over his shoulder. “That’s… interesting.”

Land swallowed. “Ask another.”

“Who are we talking to?” Kurt asked.

Cedric frowned beneath the blindfold. “Land.”

Land stiffened. “That’s my name.”

“Could be coincidence,” Kurt said quickly.

Cedric continued, voice slower now. “Don’t… go.”

The radio static surged, then dropped away. Cedric ripped off the headphones, blinking.

“Why did you say my name?” Land demanded.

Cedric shook his head. “I don’t know. It just… popped in.”

The thermal shape faded as they watched.

They didn’t leave. They agreed later that this was strange, but not proof. Patterns can form where none exist. The brain is excellent at connecting dots.

On the fourth floor, Land felt something brush his arm.

“Did you—?” he started, turning.

Nobody was near him.

“Probably a cobweb,” Kurt said.

Land rolled up his sleeve. Three faint red lines crossed his forearm, shallow but visible.

Cedric stared. “Those weren’t there before.”

“Could’ve happened earlier,” Kurt said, though his voice was less certain now.

Elroy photographed the marks. Later, zooming in, they would argue about whether the lines were straight or slightly curved.

They reached the body chute near midnight, the long concrete tunnel sloping down into darkness. Cold air poured out of it, enough that the thermal camera painted the entrance deep blue.

“Nope,” Land said. “I draw the line at the death slide.”

“Just measurements,” Kurt said. “We don’t have to go down.”

The EMF meter spiked sharply.

At the same moment, all four of their phones buzzed.

GhostTube flashed words across Elroy’s screen: LEAVE.

Cedric’s phone showed: NOW.

Land’s: HILL.

Kurt’s app lagged, then displayed: WHY.

They stared at one another, the building suddenly very quiet.

“That’s… a lot,” Cedric said.

Kurt exhaled slowly. “Environmental factors. High EMF can cause phone glitches.”

“All at once?” Land asked.

No one answered that either.

They packed up not long after, descending the hill in silence. The cicadas were still singing. The car started without trouble. Waverly Hills receded into the darkness behind them, unchanged.

Weeks later, they would review the footage again and again. Orbs drifting through frames that could be dust. Shadowy figures in the SLS that flickered and vanished. Voices in static that sounded like words if you wanted them to.

They would never fully agree on what they experienced.

And the hill would keep its secrets.