Prologue
Ty
Aged Thirteen
I creep slowly down the dim hallway of our family mansion, stretching long and silent around me. My bare feet make no sound on the marble floors as I move closer to my parents’ bedroom. I feel how heavy the axe is in carrying in both hands. It’s my dad’s. But tonight, it’s something else.
She’s dead.The thought loops in my mind, like it has every night, driving me crazy.They’ve got to die before they kill me—or anyone else.
The double doors to their bedroom are wide open, showing the size of their room. The massive bed is in the centre, and I can hear my father’s snores from the doorway—deep and rumbling. My fingers squeeze around the axe handle, my knuckles whitening as I step inside, the fur rug brushing between my toes.
I edge closer to my father’s side of the bed. His face is slack, peaceful, almost unrecognizable from the man I’ve seen for all my life—angry, nasty, cruel. A tightness builds in my body, and it aches as I stare down at him. His chest rises and falls steadily, completely unaware of what I’m about to do to him.
The axe feels too heavy in my hands as I struggle to lift it, raising it high above my head. My breath shakes as I suck in air, readying myself. I shift my grip, inhaling quickly, zoning in on his throat, the vulnerable line of skin that will silence this monster forever
Chapter One
Raven
Sacred Heights Asylum.The name itself carries an unsettling feeling. Established in 1712, it’s stood for centuries in a small town named Morbid Crypt. This isn’t just any asylum—it’s an institute that houses the criminally insane, the kind of place where the darkest minds go to fester, and now, for the next month, it’s where I’ll be working.
As a student therapist, I jumped at the opportunity to intern there. Having Sacred Heights on my résumé is basically a golden ticket to a career in mental health once I complete my training next year. Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. The thought of walking into a place with centuries of history absorbed by madness… it does something to you. But either way, I’m determined.
Four hours away from the city, I’ve rented a small house for the time being, not too far from the asylum. This place is isolated, surrounded by woodland and scattered homes, but I don’t mind. There’s no one waiting for me back home anyway, not since Dad died three years ago. I’ve been alone ever since. Except for my kitten, Midnight, who has been with me for the last three months and she’s with me on this journey.
We stayed there for the first time last night, and to say it’s an absolute dump would be an understatement; the place wasfalling apart from the inside out. The landlord did me dirty; it was nothing like what he’d advertised. I was so close to leaving as soon as I walked in there, but unfortunately, because this town doesn’t have much to offer, it was the only option without traveling in and out of the city. When I woke up this morning and left, I noticed something I hadn’t last night because it was dark by the time I arrived; a graveyard, right opposite the house, which just set the entire eerie mood of this small town, but me and Midnight bared it. We’ll have to get through it.
Dad always used to say, “Raven, if you want the finer things in life, you’ve got to work your ass off for them. You just have to just get on with it.”
Back then, we had no idea that I’d end up moving across state for a month, staying in some weird ass town and diving headfirst into a system that tries to sway the minds of the insane. I often wonder what he would have thought of my choices. He’d probably either tell me I’m out of my own damn mind for doing it, talking me out of it or that I’m a badass for stepping up to such a challenge. Knowing him, it could have gone either way.
When my dad died, everything inside me shattered, but it wasn’t just death—it was the way it happened. My dad took his own life. One minute he was here, my entire world, and the next, he was gone, swallowed by a darkness I hadn’t even known he carried. I remember the shock of it, the way it slammed into me like a tidal wave, dragging me under.
I kept asking myself why—why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I notice his pain? Why didn’t I do something? Why didn’t he tell me? Did I do something wrong? Didn’t he feel he could confine in me?
The blow of it made me isolate myself; I didn’t eat; I didn’t sleep; I didn’t socialize. My mind was consumed by guilt and grief, replaying every conversation, every missed sign. I thought,for a long time, about following him. About ending it all and being done with the pain. Feeling that alone, like no one could possibly understand or pull me out of it, was terrifying. The world felt like an empty, hollow shell, and I didn’t think I’d ever climb out of the darkness.
But somehow, I did.
Not all at once, and I’m not perfect, I never will be, but I’m better. Grief doesn’t go away, but it changes. It became something I carried, a shadow that walked with me, but one I learned to live beside. And in that learning, I realized something. If I could survive the depths of my own darkness, maybe I could help someone else survive theirs. Maybe I could be the person who saw the hidden pain that others, like my dad, tried so hard to hide.
Maybe I could be the voice that said,I see youor even be a light for one person. If I could give them a reason to keep going when they thought they couldn’t, then maybe all of it—my grief, my struggles, my guilt—meant something. Becoming a therapist wasn’t just a career choice really; it was a calling born from my own suffering. I knew what it felt like to fall into that void, to feel like no one could possibly understand.
So here I am. Ready to take on the darkest of the dark and hopefully understand the gloomiest depths of madness.
After a restless night of sleep, I dragged myself out of bed extra early, hoping to regain some energy by downing two cups of bitter black coffee before my first day. My stomach growled in protest; I haven’t eaten, but I made a mental note to stop for groceries on my way home—assuming I survive today.
I cleaned the living room the best I could with such little time, closing the doors so Midnight couldn’t escape, leaving her in a room where she’ll be safe for the day.
As I continue driving, the road becomes more remote, winding through thick forests and up into the hills. Then, through my fuzzy vision, I catch a glimpse of something looming ahead and the moment I make sense of it, my breath hitches.
There it is:Sacred Heights Asylum.
It’s not sleek or modern—no, this is like something out of a horror movie. Its stone facade is dark and striking, with narrow, barred windows. The building itself is enormous, sprawling out with wings on either side. The architecture is gothic, crumbling in some places, with distorted gargoyles leering from the corners of the roof. Twisting ivy climbs up the sides, suffocating the exterior, and the entire structure is shrouded in shadow, even in the pale morning light.
The iron gates in front of me are just as sinister, tall, and crowned with barbed wire that spirals menacingly above. I pull up to the gate and lower my window to press the intercom button. As I wait for a response, I can’t shake the growing dread settling in my gut.
Sacred Heights feels less like a standard asylum and more like a maximum-security prison. And here I am, about to walk straight into it.
