Followed Home

People warned me about Waverly Hills before I even set foot in Kentucky. "Don’t go there alone," they said, "especially not at night." But I wasn’t planning to. I had joined a group of paranormal enthusiasts who were as fascinated by the sanatorium’s dark history as I was. Most of them were seasoned ghost hunters, armed with EMF detectors, spirit boxes, and an almost reckless excitement. I, on the other hand, was skeptical—a thrill-seeker looking for a story. I didn’t believe in ghosts, not really. But Waverly Hills, with its grim past of suffering and death, seemed like the perfect place to test my nerves.

We arrived on a cold autumn evening, the sun dipping below the horizon as the massive brick structure came into view. It loomed against the twilight, its windows like hollow, unblinking eyes. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves. Our guide—a wiry man with an encyclopedic knowledge of the sanatorium—gave the usual warnings: stay with the group, respect the space, and above all, don’t provoke whatever might be lingering within these walls.

The group was buzzing with anticipation as we stepped inside, our flashlights slicing through the darkness. The corridors stretched endlessly, their cracked walls whispering secrets of a time when the building was filled with the sick and dying. As we made our way through the lower levels, we stopped frequently to test for paranormal activity. Static crackled through the spirit box, and the EMF meters occasionally spiked, but nothing too convincing.

It wasn’t until we reached the infamous “Body Chute” that the energy shifted. The tunnel, once used to transport the dead discreetly out of the sanatorium, felt like a portal to another world. The group ventured inside cautiously, their footsteps echoing against the narrow walls. The temperature dropped noticeably as we descended. Halfway down, I felt it: a presence, heavy and watchful.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. But then I heard it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps, dragging unevenly behind us. I turned, shining my flashlight down the tunnel, but there was nothing there. The others seemed unfazed, caught up in their equipment readings, so I didn’t say anything. But my heart was pounding.

It was on the fifth floor, in Room 502, where things took a darker turn. According to legend, this room was cursed—haunted by the spirit of a nurse who had hanged herself there. As the group set up their equipment, I felt a growing unease. The air was thick, almost suffocating, and the shadows in the room seemed to move independently of our flashlights.

I stayed near the doorway, watching as the spirit box emitted bursts of static and distorted voices. The others were focused, asking questions, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it—a dark, hulking shadow in the far corner of the room. It wasn’t just a trick of the light; it pulsed and shifted, growing more defined.

“Do you see that?” I whispered to the person next to me, but they were engrossed in their EMF meter.

The shadow moved. It stepped forward, and for a brief moment, I saw two faint, glowing eyes staring back at me. My breath hitched, and the room felt impossibly cold. Then the growl started—a low, guttural sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The others heard it too, their heads snapping up, faces pale.

“Did you hear that?” someone asked, their voice trembling.

But before anyone could answer, the shadow surged forward, and the lights on our equipment went dead. In the chaos, we scrambled to leave, stumbling over each other in the dark. I didn’t stop running until I was outside, gasping for air, the cold night feeling like a reprieve from the suffocating presence inside.

The group was shaken but exhilarated, exchanging stories and theories as we piled into our cars. I didn’t say much during the drive home. My mind was racing, replaying every moment in that room.

When I finally got back to my house, the familiar warmth of my living room should have calmed me. I locked the door, leaned against it, and let out a long breath. Safe. Finally safe.

I dropped my bag on the couch and went to the kitchen, thinking a cup of tea might help steady my nerves. The kettle hissed as it boiled, filling the silence with its comforting sound. I sat down at the table, wrapping my hands around the mug, and allowed myself to relax.

Then, the air shifted.

The warmth drained from the room, replaced by an icy chill that seeped into my bones. My heart stopped as a familiar sensation crept over me—the same heavy, watchful presence from Waverly Hills. I froze, my eyes flicking to the darkened kitchen window. My reflection stared back at me, but it wasn’t alone.

Behind it, in the corner of the room, was the shadow.

It stood tall and still, its faint, glowing eyes fixed on me. My breath caught in my throat as the low growl began to rumble through the air, vibrating through the walls. The kettle whistled sharply, the lights flickered, and then everything went silent.

The shadow didn’t move. It just stood there, watching.

And that’s when I realized—whatever we had encountered at Waverly Hills hadn’t stayed behind. It had followed me home.