Feathers and The Unforgotten

Chicken woke to a sound that didn’t belong to morning-a knock, deliberate and impatient, echoing through her chateau like a thought she wasn’t ready to face.

The air was thick with sleep and ink. Her notebook still lay open on the bedside table, a half-finished line trembling in the draft. Outside, the first light of dawn spread weakly across the lavender fields, the kind of pale gold that hadn’t made up its mind to be day yet.

Another knock. Louder. Feathered with chaos.

She groaned and swung her legs from the bed, her egg-patterned socks the only thing protecting her from the cool oak floor. Her feathers stuck out at odd angles; her head felt filled with fog and honey.

When she opened the door, the wind carried in a gust of damp air and Walter.

He stood there like he’d never known sleep in his life, eyes wild with purpose, camera dangling from his neck as if it were a living thing. His feathers were askew, and his grin was the kind that meant trouble.

“Morning, Chicken! Or should I say… morbid morning.”

She blinked at him. “I’m still dreaming, aren’t I?”

“Not for long!” he said, brushing past her. “I’ve had a revelation. A vision. A filmic awakening!”

He set his camera on her table like it was an altar and spun to face her. “Tell me, how do you feel about ghosts?”

Chicken smiled faintly. “If they’re half as dramatic as you, we’ll never get any sleep.”

“Perfect,” he beamed. “We’re making a ghost documentary.”

Diane appeared in the doorway moments later, serene and frowning, holding her morning smoothie. “Walter, you can’t even handle the energy in my yoga studio when Mercury’s in retrograde. What makes you think you can handle a haunted asylum?”

Walter’s eyes gleamed. “Because this is art, Diane. The rawness, the ruin, the metaphysical torment, cinematic gold.”

Chicken rubbed her temples. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” he said. He absolutely did not look like someone who’d ever told a joke by accident.

Winnie peeked from behind Diane, her scarf bunched to her chin. “Do ghosts like pigs?” she whispered.

Walter pressed a wing to his heart. “Only the kind ones, my dear. Which is why you’re coming.”

Chicken sighed, leaning against the doorframe. She could already see it, the fog curling around the trees, Walter narrating into the camera like a prophet of poor decisions.

“Fine,” she said softly. “But if I die, I’m haunting you.”

Walter clapped his wings together. “Incredible! We’ll open with that line.”

Before Chicken could reply, another voice floated from the doorway.

  “Why is everyone awake? It’s not even light out.” Caroline stepped inside, sketchbook tucked under her arm, fur slightly ruffled, her green eyes half-open with suspicion.

Walter turned to her, delighted. “Ah! Caroline! Perfect timing. I need you to sketch the ghosts.”

Caroline blinked. “How the hell am I supposed to sketch something I can’t see?”

“Use your intuition!” Walter cried. “Capture the essence of the unseen!”

Caroline sighed. “I’ll capture the essence of going back to bed.”

Chicken looked around at the crowd now gathered in her living room, Walter, Diane, Winnie, and Caroline, all standing in varying degrees of disbelief.

“Great,” she said dryly. “You’ve called the whole gang over at the ass crack of dawn for this.”

Walter adjusted his camera strap, completely unfazed. “Exactly. Early light, authentic fatigue, emotional realism. It’s perfect.”

Chicken sighed, already regretting opening the door. “This better come with breakfast.”

Winnie raised her basket shyly. “I brought biscuits.”

“Well,” Chicken said, taking one, “I suppose if we’re going to chase ghosts, we might as well be well-fed.”

Chicken eyed Walter, who was now pacing like a director in the throes of genius. “I take it you forgot to call Rufus,” she said.

Walter froze. “Oh…well…he doesn’t exactly answer calls. He’s more of a… free spirit.”

Before Chicken could reply, a sudden thump rattled the half-cracked window. Everyone turned just in time to see a blur of white feathers, gangly wings, and muffled squawking hurtling straight toward them.

Rufus crashed through the window frame with all the grace of a falling chandelier. The curtain wrapped around his neck like a cape, and he hung there halfway through the glass, flapping wildly.

He wheezed. “Special air express!”

Walter clapped his wings together, delighted. “Brilliant entrance!”

Rufus kicked one leg free, landing in a heap beside the table. “You’re welcome for the stunt work,” he said, straightening his bent feathers with great dignity. “What are we filming this time? Please say a comedy.”

“Ghosts,” Chicken said.

“Ah. My second guess.” Rufus nodded solemnly, then glanced at the shattered window. “I’ll fix that later. Or never.”

Chicken sighed. “Walter, please tell me this haunted asylum has windows, because apparently we’ll need replacements.”

Walter ignored her, pacing again, his camera now humming with purpose. “Excellent, excellent, the gang’s all here! The brave, the curious, the beautiful, and Rufus!”

Rufus grinned. “You forgot the talented.”

Chicken looked around her once peaceful chateau, now filled with feathers, biscuit crumbs, and artistic delusion, and exhaled through her beak. “So this is how I die,” she said. “Surrounded by ghosts and film equipment.”

Caroline was already sketching Rufus tangled in the curtain. “At least you’ll have a memorable last frame.”

Walter slung the camera over his shoulder, eyes gleaming with triumph. “Come, my friends! Destiny awaits! We’re off to Hollow Hill.”

No one moved.

“Now,” he added.

Chicken grabbed another biscuit, muttering, “I should’ve pretended to be asleep.”

By the time they were ready to leave, Walter had unveiled his latest masterpiece:a giant, rickety film wagon that looked like it had been built out of spare camera parts, festival props, and sheer delusion.

It was enormous, an open-air contraption with uneven wheels, tangled cables, and a half-broken sign that read “WALTER PRODUCTIONS: NO REFUNDS.”

The back was piled high with tripods, microphones, reels, folding chairs, and an inexplicable number of empty coffee cups.

“This can’t possibly move,” Chicken said flatly.

“It moves on passion,” Walter declared, slapping the side proudly. The wagon creaked

ominously in response.

The others stared.

Winnie whispered, “It looks haunted already.”

Rufus squinted at the mess of wires. “Which part is the seat?”

“Anywhere you like,” Walter said. “It’s immersive cinema.”

They all climbed in carefully, or as carefully as one could when surrounded by unpredictable metal objects. 

Caroline wedged herself between two camera cases. Winnie held the biscuit basket like a life raft.

Chicken shot upright. “Ow! What the—” She turned in circles like a hen chasing her own tail.

“Walter,” she hissed, “something sharp is invading my personal space.”

Walter dove forward, yanking out the boom mic with the flair of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. “Ah! Found it! Sorry, it picks up everything.”

“Even trauma, apparently,” Chicken muttered, patting her feathers back into place.

Diane took one look at the overstuffed wagon and sighed. “I’ll walk.”

“Suit yourself!” Walter chirped. He strapped himself to the front harness, grunting dramatically. “The visionary pulls his own production!”

Caroline leaned over the side, unimpressed. “You’re pulling it? With what upper body strength?”

“Filmmaking is ninety percent spirit,” Walter said through his teeth, already dragging the wagon an inch forward. “And ten percent delusion.”

“Then you’re perfectly balanced,” Chicken said.

Rufus took flight overhead, his wings flapping unevenly. “Don’t wait for me! I’ll provide aerial commentary!”

“Oh God,” Caroline groans.

The wagon lurched, groaned, and somehow began rolling down the dirt road, Walter heaving at the front like an overcaffeinated draft horse.

Diane strolled beside them at a dignified pace, breathing through her nose. “You all look ridiculous,” she said.

“Good!” Walter puffed. “Ridiculous sells.”

Chicken clung to the side railing as the wagon creaked and rattled behind him. “If this thing collapses,” she said, “let my gravestone read ‘perished for the sake of art.’”

Rufus swooped overhead. “You got it! I’ll make sure it’s italicized!”

Winnie leaned toward Chicken, whispering, “I think the wagon’s possessed.”

“It’s just Walter,” Caroline said. “He’s haunted enough for all of us.”

By the time they reached the top of the hill, everyone looked half-dead and fully regretting their life choices.

Walter’s feathers clung to his face with sweat and determination. His camera swung from his neck, smacking him in the chest with every lurch forward.

The film wagon, now caked in mud and pine needles, groaned like an old creature begging for retirement.

Rufus fluttered overhead, wheezing. “How… much… further?”

Walter gasped. “Almost there! Uphill momentum builds narrative tension!”

Caroline was hanging off the side, fanning herself with her sketchbook. “My narrative tension is heatstroke.”

Diane walked calmly beside them. “I told you all to pace your breath,” she said, sipping from her water bottle.

Chicken glared at her. “If I pace any slower, I’ll be going backward.”

The woods thickened around them, dark trunks, twisted branches, air that felt like it hadn’t moved in years. Even the fog had grown heavier, pressing close to the ground.

The wagon’s wheels caught on roots and rocks. Walter groaned, heaved, and dramatically whispered, “Art… is… suffering.”

From the back, Winnie whispered, “Then you must be very talented.”

They finally crested the hill, and there it was.

The gates.

Two towering iron structures stood crooked in the earth, rusted through and strangled by ivy. The once-grand archway above them still bore faint lettering: HOLLOW HILL ASYLUM.

The rest of the words were gone, swallowed by rust and time.

One gate hung on a single hinge, swaying gently in the wind that had followed them up the hill. The other had fallen entirely, half-buried in the weeds.

No sound but the soft creak of metal and the slow rattle of Walter’s camera as he lifted it to his eye.

“It’s perfect,” he breathed. “Look at it! Decay, history, psychological tension. The architecture of despair!”

Rufus landed awkwardly beside Chicken, his wings drooping. “Yeah, real fixer-upper.”

Winnie pressed closer to Diane. “I don’t like it. The air feels… wrong.”

Diane closed her eyes briefly. “It’s heavy with memory,” she said. “You can feel it clinging to the trees.”

Caroline leaned on her sketchbook, catching her breath. “If the ghosts don’t kill us, tetanus will.”

Walter turned to the group, eyes wild with creative glee. “This is it, everyone. The opening shot. The moment of arrival!”

Chicken, covered in dust and bits of leaf, stared up at the gates. “Wonderful,” she said flatly. “Can we have the moment of leaving now?”

The wind rustled through the ivy.

A single, low groan echoed from somewhere beyond the fence, like a door shifting open, or something waking up.

Winnie froze. “Did anyone else hear that?”

Walter’s grin widened. “Even better! Sound design!”

He pushed the broken gate further open, metal shrieking like a scream. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, stepping forward, “welcome to Hollow Hill.”

Chicken took one reluctant step after him, feathers prickling. The fog spilled in behind them like a closing curtain.

They stepped through the broken gates, and the air changed.

It was colder inside the grounds, as if the hill itself exhaled. The path sloped downward, lined with weeds that brushed against their ankles. The fog thickened until it looked like it had roots, curling around the wagon’s wheels and the bases of the trees.

And then, out of the white, the building appeared.

It was enormous.

A once-grand sanatorium of stone and iron, now half-eaten by ivy and time. Its many windows were black and hollow, reflecting nothing. Balconies sagged like broken ribs. The roof had collapsed in one corner, revealing the skeletal remains of an upper ward.

The grounds stretched wide and uneven, what must have once been gardens now overtaken by wilderness.

Stone benches sat cracked and sunken into the earth.

A toppled statue of an angel lay in the weeds, her face broken clean in half.

Wildflowers had forced their way through the cobblestones, thin and defiant.

To one side, rusted swings creaked in the wind, moving just enough to make you think someone had been sitting there not long ago.

The fog clung to everything, softening the edges but somehow making it all feel sharper, more aware. Even the air seemed to listen.

Rufus, beside the wagon, feathers ruffled. “A lovely place for a picnic,” he said. “If you hate yourself.”

Diane ignored him, eyes tracing the cracked pillars. “Places like this hold emotion,” she murmured. “You can feel it pressing against you.”

Caroline, already imagining her next painting. “The architecture’s incredible,” she said softly. “Like it’s collapsing in slow motion.”

Chicken’s feathers prickled. “It’s not collapsing fast enough.”

Walter stood at the front of the group, eyes wide with awe. “Look at it,” he breathed. “A monument to the forgotten mind. The perfect setting for artistic resurrection.”

Winnie clutched her scarf tighter. “I don’t like it,” she whispered. “It feels like it’s… watching us.”

“It’s tragic,” Walter said, already raising his camera. “The perfect blend of despair and composition.” The asylum loomed above them, a cathedral of decay. Its broken windows gaped like missing teeth, its shadow stretching long across the overgrown courtyard.

Chicken could feel it in her bones, the stillness that wasn’t still at all.

The group stood at the base of the crumbling steps.

The asylum loomed above them, vast and unmoving, its open doors breathing fog into the courtyard. The air smelled of rust, rain, and something faintly sweet, like old perfume and forgotten medicine.

No one spoke for a moment. The silence felt too big.

Walter broke it first, camera raised. “All right,” he said, his voice too loud in the stillness. “Scene one, The Descent Into the Unknown.”

“Or,” Chicken said, “Scene one, The Terrible Idea.”

The doors groaned as Walter pushed them open further. A long hallway yawned ahead: wallpaper peeled like skin, the floor littered with paper and broken glass. A rusted wheelchair sat overturned in the distance.

Diane took a bundle of sage from her fanny pack and lit it. The flame flickered once, then went out. She frowned. “That’s not encouraging.”

Caroline held up her sketchbook. “Do we have a plan, or are we just walking directly into trauma?”

Walter smiled. “Art requires risk.”

“Art also requires therapy,” Chicken said, stepping cautiously toward the doorway.

But before she crossed the threshold, a small voice piped up behind them.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll stay out here,” Winnie said.

Everyone turned. She stood at the bottom of the steps, clutching her scarf so tightly it looked like it might unravel. Her eyes darted toward the dark interior, then back to the wagon.

“I’ll cover for us!” she blurted.

Rufus tilted his head. “Cover us from what?”

“I, I DON’T FUCKING KNOW BUT I’M NOT GOING IN THERE!”

The words echoed through the courtyard, bouncing off the stone walls and straight into everyone’s stunned faces.

Silence.

Caroline’s jaw dropped. Diane blinked. Rufus froze mid-flap. Even Walter lowered his camera.

Chicken stared at her, wide-eyed. “Did… did Winnie just…”

“Swear?” Rufus finished. “Our Winnie?”

Winnie’s face flushed scarlet. “Don’t look at me like that! I’m brave in other ways!”

Walter whispered, awestruck, “We’re keeping that in the final cut.”

Chicken smiled faintly. “You’ll be okay, Winnie. If a ghost escapes, just… negotiate.”

“Got it,” Winnie said, retreating toward the wagon. “If you all die, I’ll tell your stories.”

“Make sure mine sounds heroic,” Rufus called after her.

And with that, Winnie sat firmly on the wagon’s edge, glaring at the asylum doors as if daring them to move.

The rest of them turned back toward the entrance.

The fog coiled around their feet.

Walter took the first step inside.

Chicken followed, heart pounding, feathers tight against her chest.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the air changed, dense, sour, and stale, as though the building had been holding its breath for years.

Walter stepped forward, camera raised. The beam of his flashlight wobbled over cracked tiles and peeling paint. 

A wide hallway stretched ahead, lined with doors that leaned on their hinges like they’d grown tired of standing.

At its center rose a grand staircase, its banister carved with curling vines, now dulled by dust. The steps sagged in the middle from decades of weight, footsteps, wheelchairs, maybe things that never left. The light from Walter’s camera skimmed over the railing, catching on a single cobweb that shimmered like a strand of silver thread in the dark.

Out of the glimmering web, a spider squinted into the light like a director mid-take.

“Cut the spotlight, Spielberg!” it hissed.

Walter nearly dropped the camera. “Sorry!”

“Yeah,” the spider said, turning back to its web, “you better be. This place doesn’t like tourists.”

The spider went back to work on his web.

Chicken was right behind him, Caroline and Diane close together, and Rufus waddled in last, wings tucked, head low.

Their footsteps echoed unevenly, sharp against the silence.

And then, SLAM.

The heavy front doors swung shut behind them with such force the sound cracked through the hall. Dust fell from the ceiling in lazy spirals.

They all froze.

Caroline shrieked first, a sharp, startled sound.

Diane screamed right after her, grabbing Chicken’s wing.

Rufus let out a strangled “HONK!” that reverberated through the corridor.

And Chicken, her heart kicked hard in her chest, jumped, eyes locked on the now-sealed doors.

Walter spun around with his camera still rolling, eyes wild with glee. “Yes! Raw! Authentic! Don’t stop feeling, this is golden!”

“We’re doomed.” Chicken noted plainly.

“Exactly!” he said, thrilled. “That’s the energy I need!”

The red light on his camera blinked. He zoomed in on her face, grinning like a lunatic.

Caroline straightened instantly, trying to recover her composure. “I didn’t scream,” she said, too quickly.

“You absolutely did,” Rufus said, chest puffed out. “It was an impressive soprano, actually.”

“You honked,” Caroline shot back.

Rufus fluffed his feathers. “That was a battle cry.”

Diane sighed. “Your auras are exhausting.”

Walter whispered reverently, “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

Caroline stormed up to the lens, feathers puffed, voice low and razor sharp. “You want authenticity, Walter? Try filming yourself when I strangle you with your own boom mic.”

Rufus leaned toward Diane. “Is this still part of the movie?”

“She means it,” Diane said.

Walter only grinned wider.

Chicken brushed dust from her feathers and turned toward the dark hallway ahead. “Can we please focus on not dying? You can film my trauma later. I’ve already got enough emotional baggage, I don’t need ghosts sitting on it, unpacking their own issues.”

Somewhere deeper in the asylum, a sound answered her, faint, metallic, a dragging noise.

The group fell silent.

Walter lifted his camera again, whispering, “Scene two.”

They climbed the staircase carefully, the old wood groaning beneath them. The beam of Walter’s flashlight wobbled across the walls, catching faint glints of peeling paint and warped picture frames.

At the top, the air felt colder, sharper somehow. The hallway stretched ahead, wide and heavy with silence.

And sitting there, perfectly centered beneath the weak light of a cracked skylight, was an old wheelchair.

Its leather was torn, its wheels rusted, its armrests dotted with flakes of dried paint, or maybe something worse.

No one spoke.

Even Walter lowered his camera for a second.

Then the sound came: A slow creak... followed by a soft whirr.

The wheelchair began to move.

It rolled an inch. Then another. 

Caroline grabbed Diane’s arm. “Did…did that just…”

Before she could finish, the chair jerked suddenly forward, rolling straight toward the stairs. The squeal of its wheels echoed down the corridor.

They all froze, wide-eyed, as it reached the top step and tipped.

The crash was deafening.

Metal clanged against wood as it tumbled downward, rattling violently until it hit the floor below with a final, hollow thud.

Rufus swallowed hard. “Well… that’s one way to make an exit.”

Walter’s breathing was quick and uneven, his camera trembling in his claws. “Brilliant,” he whispered. “That was brilliant. So real. So raw.”

Chicken slowly turned toward him, feathers ruffled, eyes narrowing. “Still want to make this film, Walter?” she said. “Or should we start the sequel: Walter’s Last Documentary?”

Caroline exhaled shakily. “I hate this place.”

“Same,” Diane murmured. “It hums wrong.”

Walter, recovering slightly, lowered his camera. “Fear is temporary. Art is forever.”

Chicken crossed her wings. “So is death, Walter.”

The crash of the wheelchair still echoed faintly from below, a metallic heartbeat fading into the silence.

Walter steadied his camera against his chest and turned down the left corridor. “All right,” he said, his voice just a little too loud, “Rufus, you’re with me. Two artists, two pioneers of truth.”

Rufus blinked. “And no survival instinct. Perfect combo.”

Chicken crossed her wings. “Fine. We’ll take the right. Try not to get possessed before lunch.”

“Possession,” Walter said, already walking, “is just collaboration with higher energy.”

“Uh-huh,” Chicken muttered. “Let me know when your collaborator starts throwing furniture.”

The hallway forked: one branch stretching into shadow to the left, lined with half-open doorways; the other to the right, where wallpaper curled from the damp plaster like shedding skin.

Walter and Rufus disappeared into the left wing, the red light of the camera flickering as they went. Walter’s voice carried faintly after them: “Let me know if you see anything good!”

Chicken, Diane, and Caroline exchanged a look.

“Define good,” Caroline whispered.

Diane held her sage like a weapon. “Let’s keep it calm. Enter each space with intention.”

“Sure,” Chicken said as she carried one of Walter’s flashlights. “My intention is to get out alive.”

The farther they walked, the worse the air became.

The smell of mildew gave way to something sharper, metal and rot, the ghosts of chemicals that hadn’t been used in decades.

Chicken led the way, her flashlight trembling slightly in her grip. They passed more bedrooms, some with rusted bedframes still bolted to the floor. Straps hung from the sides like the remains of snakes, cracked and stiff with age.

Each room felt the same, claustrophobic, heavy with memory, until they reached one with a door slightly ajar. The faded paint still bore a sign, the words barely legible beneath a layer of dust and time: LOBOTOMY IN PROCESS.

Caroline froze. “Oh…”

Chicken stopped in the doorway. Her flashlight beam sliced across the room, a metal table, scattered instruments dulled with rust, and a cracked glass cabinet full of clouded jars.

The air was so still it almost hummed.

She stared at the table, her breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat.

Something about it,  the straps, the cold precision, made her feathers prickle.

Her stomach turned. She felt it like a memory that wasn’t hers: that old idea that pain could be fixed by force, that the mind could be tamed with a blade.

Her flashlight wavered. She blinked hard, once, twice, but the tears came anyway. Quiet, uninvited, and unstoppable.

Caroline saw it before Chicken could turn away. She stepped closer and gently reached out, resting a paw against her wing. “Hey,” she said softly, “you don’t have to look at it.”

Chicken didn’t answer at first. She just stared at the door, the faded sign above it. “They thought this was healing,” she said finally, her voice small. “They thought they were helping.”

“I know,” Caroline said. “But we know better now. And that’s what matters.”

Diane stood a few feet behind them, watching silently, her eyes softer than usual. “There’s still pain in the walls,” she murmured. “But not yours, Chicken.”

Chicken swiped the back of her wing quickly across her face, trying to laugh it off, but the sound cracked in her throat. “Guess I’m just… empathetic.”

Caroline stepped closer, her voice soft but steady. “Let’s go, Chicken.”

But Chicken didn’t move. She stood rooted in the doorway, her reflection fractured across the cracked mirror above the operating table, three versions of herself, all still, all watching.

Caroline hesitated, then gently rested a paw on her shoulder. “We’ll check the next room. Take a breath. Let us know if you need anything, okay?”

Diane lingered a moment longer, eyes kind but unreadable. “You’re safe here,” she said quietly, then followed Caroline out into the hallway.

Their footsteps faded. The silence returned.

Chicken’s gaze drifted across the room. There was a small table beside the operating chair, half hidden beneath a layer of dust. Something lay open on it,  a book, or maybe a folder, its pages curled and yellowed with age.

She walked toward it slowly. Each step made the floor creak, loud in the still air.

It wasn’t a book. It was a ledger. Rows of names. Diagnoses. Notes scrawled in fading ink.

Chicken leaned closer, tracing the lines with a trembling claw.

Subject 37: manic tendencies.

Subject 41: obsessive fear states.

Subject 56: bipolar affective disorder.

Her breath caught. Her name wasn’t there, but it didn’t need to be. This was way before her time.

She turned another page. The handwriting grew more desperate, slanted, uneven. The last entry read: Subject 59 species: Rabbit. Diagnosis: bipolar affective disorder. Lobotomy procedure scheduled. Notes: persistent highs and lows. Still hopeful.

That word, hopeful, felt like a hand closing around her chest.

Chicken’s throat tightened. Her feathers prickled. She wanted to look away but couldn’t. 

That’s when she heard it:

A quiet, almost curious voice. “Hi.”

She froze. Slowly, she turned toward the operating table.

A bunny sat there. Small, gray, with wide amber eyes that shimmered faintly in the dark. A thin scar curved above its left temple.

Chicken’s breath hitched. “You’re…”

The bunny smiled gently. “Still here.”

Chicken’s flashlight trembled in her grip. “I found your page,” she whispered.

“I know.” The bunny’s voice was soft, kind, the way someone might speak to a frightened child. “No one’s opened it in a long time.”

Chicken swallowed. “They… they hurt you.”

“They tried to fix me,” the bunny said. “That’s what they called it then.” It looked toward the dusty instruments. “They thought silence was peace.”

Chicken felt tears rising again, hot and unrelenting. “I know what that feels like,” she said. “Wanting to be normal so badly you’d do anything for it.”

The bunny tilted its head. “You have it too, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Chicken whispered. “Bipolar. I try to tell people it’s just… another way my brain sings. But sometimes it screams instead.”

The bunny’s eyes softened. “And when it screams?”

“I write,” Chicken said. “I make things. I try to turn the noise into something that matters.”

The bunny smiled, faint but real. “Then you’re doing what I never got to do.”

Chicken blinked through her tears. “You could’ve made something beautiful.”

“I did,” the bunny said, looking around the room. “I made this. A reminder. That we existed. That they were wrong.”

The air felt thick, shimmering slightly with something more than dust.

Chicken wiped her cheek with the back of her wing. “I wish I could take you with me.”

“You already have,” the bunny said gently. “Every time you tell the truth about yourself, you carry the rest of us.”

The words hit her like light.

For a moment, everything was still, no creaks, no hum, no sound but her breath and the faint, almost holy quiet of understanding.

Then the bunny looked at her one last time. “Keep writing,” it said softly.

And just like that, it was gone.

The table was empty again. The air was still, except for the flutter of a page turning itself in the ledger.

Chicken stood frozen, a tear sliding down her beak, landing on the open page where Subject 59 was written.

She whispered, “I will.”

Down the left hallway, Walter and Rufus had found what looked like an old patient room, though “room” might’ve been generous.

It was small, dim, and thick with dust. The wallpaper had rotted off the walls in curling strips, and a single light fixture hung by its wire, swaying faintly as they entered.

Walter panned his camera across the room, whispering dramatically into the lens. “Dear spirits,” he intoned, “if you’re here, please reveal yourself to the humble artists seeking your truth…”

“...or at least your good lighting,” Rufus muttered, brushing cobwebs off his head.

Walter shushed him. “Shh! You’ll scare them away.”

Rufus looked around. “If they’re not already scared off by you, they’re probably fine.”

Walter ignored him and began narrating again. “We are standing in a chamber of history, suffering, silence, and sedation…”

Rufus cut in. “Speaking of sedation…what’s this?”

He’d wandered toward the side table by the bed, where an old bottle of pills sat half-buried in dust. The label had peeled away, but a few faded letters remained: Lith... something.

Rufus squinted at it, holding it up to the light. “You think this is still good?”

“RUFUS!” Walter hissed. “Put that down!”

“What? I’m doing research!”

“That’s not research, that’s ingestion of the damned!”

Rufus looked genuinely puzzled. “Maybe they’re vitamins?”

“Those aren’t vitamins, they’re probably cursed!” Walter snatched the bottle and waved it dramatically at the camera. “Authentic artifacts from the asylum’s past! This is what I mean when I say the building gives!”

Rufus rolled his eyes. “You’re the only guy I know who gets possessed by ambition instead of ghosts.”

Walter ignored him, unscrewing the cap slightly to get a closer shot. A puff of gray dust drifted out, and both of them immediately stepped back, coughing.

Walter held the dusty bottle triumphantly to the camera. “Authentic!” he whispered. “An untouched relic of medical history. The ghosts must be so proud I found this.”

Rufus flapped his wings nervously. “Yeah, they’re probably thrilled. Real sentimental about their medication.”

Walter twisted the cap a little further for a close-up shot,  and the room shifted.

A sudden chill swept through, cold enough that the flashlight dimmed. The air thickened, and for the first time that day, Walter went completely still.

Then a voice, deep and angry, echoed from the dark corner.

“HEY! THAT’S MINE! PUT IT DOWN!”

Walter dropped the bottle. Rufus screamed first, a sharp HONK! that rattled the ceiling.

The bottle shot off the floor as if yanked by invisible hands and flew straight back to the nightstand with a metallic clink.

Both of them froze.

“Walter…” Rufus whispered, eyes huge. “Tell me that was gravity.”

Walter swallowed hard. “That was… engagement. We made contact.”

“CONTACT?!” Rufus shrieked. “We just robbed a ghost’s medicine cabinet!”

The voice boomed again, closer this time, right behind them.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!”

Walter and Rufus screamed in perfect harmony.

“WE’RE SORRY! WE’RE SO SORRY!” Rufus cried, wings flapping wildly.

“RESPECT AND RELEASE!” Walter yelled, bowing at the air. “RESPECT AND RELEASE!”

The bottle rattled once on the table, then went still.

They bolted.

Walter grabbed his camera, Rufus tripped over his own feet, and both of them barreled out of the room, screaming down the hallway.

From behind them came one final echo, half growl, half sigh:  “AND DON’T COME BACK!”

Walter slammed the door shut, panting. “Okay,” he gasped, “note to self: don’t steal from the dead.”

They looked at each other for a long beat, feathers and fur askew, then both started laughing hysterically, half relief, half shock.

Walter wiped his eyes. “Let’s never tell Chicken about this.”

Rufus nodded quickly. “Agreed. Scene three… cut.”

…

The Rec Room was enormous, a long, echoing space that must once have been filled with laughter, music, and the small noises of everyday life.

Now it was a graveyard of those sounds.

Dust-coated chairs were scattered across the floor in uneven rows. A rusted piano leaned against the far wall, half its keys missing, its open lid stuffed with cobwebs. A few broken board games sat on a warped table, pieces scattered, one card still visible beneath the dust: Get out of jail free.

Caroline, Diane, and Chicken stood near the center of the room, the fog seeping in through the broken windows like it couldn’t resist listening. The light from their flashlights pooled weakly on the floorboards.

That’s when the sound of frantic footsteps echoed from the hall.

Rufus came bursting through the door first, feathers flying, followed by Walter, wild-eyed, panting, and clutching his camera like a life raft. Both looked like they’d just been chased by a tornado.

Caroline nearly dropped her flashlight. “What the hell happened to you two?”

Walter staggered to a stop, hands on his knees. “We... we made contact,” he gasped. 

Rufus flapped once, feathers askew. “A ghost yelled at us! Yelled! Said, ‘That’s mine!’ when I touched its medicine!”

Diane’s expression hardened immediately. “You disturbed its belongings?”

Walter darted his eyes to Rufus “I THOUGHT WE WEREN’T TELLING ANYONE RUFUS.” And then he looked towards Chicken, “It was research!” Walter insisted, holding up the camera. “We needed props for context!”

“Props?” Chicken echoed, crossing her wings. “You stole haunted pills, Walter. That’s not research, that’s a cry for help.”

Walter straightened, trying to salvage a shred of dignity. “I’ll have you know, I kept filming the entire time.”

Chicken gave him a long, tired stare. “Congratulations. You’ve officially made the first horror documentary where the ghost has better dialogue than the director.”

Rufus nodded quickly. “And scarier lighting!”

Walter ignored them and turned his lens toward the room, scanning slowly over the debris. “You can feel the energy in here,” he whispered. “The ghosts of games unfinished. Music unsung.”

Diane placed her sage on the piano’s broken lid and lit it, the smoke curling through the air like a memory. “This place was meant for healing,” she said softly. “You can tell. But healing built on cruelty never lasts.”

Chicken’s gaze drifted to the broken board game. The “Get out of jail free” card stared up at her, half-buried in dust.

She bent down and brushed it off gently. “I guess they never got to play that one.”

No one spoke for a long moment. Even Walter’s camera hung motionless at his side.

…

Outside, the fog had grown thicker, swallowing the trees until the world beyond the wagon barely existed.

Winnie sat on the step, her scarf pulled tight, watching her breath rise like smoke. It was too quiet. Even the insects had gone still.

She needed to move, to do something, anything, that didn’t involve thinking about ghosts or locked doors or creaking halls.

Then she saw it.

At the far edge of the grounds, half-hidden in the mist, stood an old swing set.

Its frame was rusted, the chains long and thin, the third swing missing entirely. But the other two still hung there, swaying gently in the breeze.

Winnie hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. Why not. A haunted playground is still a playground.”

She walked through the grass, the dew soaking her hooves, and sat down carefully on the swing.

The chain groaned beneath her weight, but it held. She pushed off lightly, letting herself sway back and forth.

The motion was soothing, the only sound, the soft creak of the chains and the whisper of fog brushing her cheeks.

For a moment, it almost felt peaceful.

She closed her eyes, exhaling. “See, Winnie? Totally fine. No ghosts, just cardio.”

Then she heard it.

A second sound. Another swing.

Creak. Creak.

Perfectly timed with hers.

Her eyes opened slowly.

The swing beside her, the one that had been still, was moving. Gently at first, then higher, its empty chain shimmering in the mist.

Winnie’s breath caught. “Oh no. Nope. Nope nope nope no—”

But before she could finish, the fog shifted, and the seat wasn’t empty anymore.

A small pig ghost sat beside her. Its form faint and pale, edges glowing faintly like moonlight through glass.

Its eyes were kind. Familiar, somehow.

It looked at her, smiled, and kept swinging.

Winnie froze. Her hooves stayed pressed to the dirt, keeping her motion steady, as if pretending everything was normal could make it true.

The ghost tilted its head, still smiling. Its swing squeaked in rhythm with hers.

Winnie swallowed hard. “Okay,” she whispered. “You do your swing, I’ll do mine. We’re… sharing the air. Mutual haunting. Totally fine.”

The ghost giggled softly, a sound like wind chimes, and the two of them swung together in silence, back and forth, fog curling around their feet.

After a while, Winnie risked a glance sideways. The swing beside her was empty again.

Only the breeze moved it now.

She sat there for a long moment, the chains creaking softly. Then she whispered into the mist, “Thanks for the company.”

From somewhere distant, faint as memory, came a soft reply, a childlike echo: “Anytime.”

The fog swallowed the sound, and Winnie kept swinging, slower now, quieter, until the creaking faded into the hum of the asylum beyond.

…

The group stood in uneasy silence. Dust drifted through the air, glittering faintly in the weak light from the broken windows.  The fog pressed against the glass from outside, blurring the world into pale gray shapes.

Caroline broke the quiet first. “Can we go home now?”

Walter glanced up from his camera. “We can’t leave yet. The story’s just starting.”

Rufus threw his wings up. “Walter, every horror story starts with someone saying that exact sentence!”

Chicken half-smiled, half-glared. “Yeah, and it usually ends with that person dying first.”

Diane was about to respond when a sudden click echoed through the room.

They all froze.

Another click. Then a low electric hum.

From the far corner of the room, an old television set, boxy, dust-caked, its screen spiderwebbed with cracks, flickered to life.

The light it cast was cold and blue, cutting through the dark.

The screen flashed static, then shifted.

For a second, just white noise. Then shadows. Shapes.

A faint image appeared, the Rec Room itself, but brighter, new, alive.

The same chairs, the same piano, but full of animals. Dozens of them, patients in white gowns, laughing, talking, moving in silent film-like motions.

Caroline stepped back, hand over her mouth. “What the hell…”

Walter’s camera was already rolling again. “Oh my god, it’s archival footage! The ghosts are replaying their stories!”

Chicken couldn’t look away. The animals on the screen were smiling, playing cards, and reading. Then, almost imperceptibly, their movements slowed. One by one, they turned toward the camera, toward them.

The static crackled louder.

Rufus whispered, “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”

Walter was grinning, trembling with adrenaline. “Do you realize what this means? We’re documenting proof of…”

The image on the screen snapped.

All the smiling faces were gone.

The room on the TV was empty again, except for one figure standing near the piano. A tall, dark outline.

It tilted its head slowly, as if listening.

Then it lifted one arm and pointed directly toward them.

The television exploded into static.

Everyone screamed at once.

Walter stumbled backward, camera clattering to the floor. Rufus honked so loudly it nearly cracked the windows.

Caroline dropped her flashlight. Diane yelled something that sounded suspiciously like a mantra.

Chicken was the first to find her voice, feathers puffed and eyes wide. “Well,” she said, breathless, “guess we’re not getting the deposit back on this location.”

Walter, shaking, whispered, “Raw. Authentic. Genius.”

Rufus grabbed him by the shoulders. “Walter, I swear if you call this genius one more time, I’ll haunt you!”

The static faded. The room went still again, silent, except for the faint hum of the TV cooling down.

Caroline exhaled shakily. “That thing just pointed at us.”

Diane looked toward the screen, her voice low. “Or maybe it’s inviting us to the next act.”

Walter bent to pick up his camera, his hands still trembling. “Then let’s not keep our audience waiting.”

Chicken groaned. “Oh, for the love of art.”

Caroline leaned against the piano, trying to steady her pulse. “Maybe it was just... static coincidence?”

Diane shook her head slowly. “There’s no coincidence here. They’re trying to show us something.”

Chicken rubbed her temples. “Yeah, probably our imminent deaths.”

Walter raised the camera again, forcing his voice back into director mode. “Let’s capture a final shot before we regroup. Audience waiting.”

And then, the lights flickered.

A faint hum ran through the walls, followed by a single pop as one of the overhead bulbs blinked back to life.

Then another. Then all at once.

The entire Recreation Room was suddenly flooded in weak, flickering light, pale and trembling, like it hadn’t touched the world in years.

Caroline gasped. “Oh my god...”

They weren’t alone anymore.

The room was full.

Dozens of animals, translucent, colorless, but vivid enough to see, filled the space. Rabbits, cats, foxes, birds, deer.

Some sat at the broken tables playing cards. Others leaned against the piano, smiling faintly. A few swayed where they stood, as if remembering a dance.

Their mouths moved, but no sound came out. Only the faint hum of static filled the room.

Walter’s camera shook in his claws. “This... this is impossible.”

Diane’s eyes were wide but wet. “No. It’s history replaying itself. The moment they were alive.”

Chicken couldn’t move. She recognized some of them, not their faces, but the pain behind their expressions. The quiet yearning of people who’d been misunderstood, left behind, silenced.

Rufus whimpered, “They’re all staring at us.”

And they were.

Slowly, every ghost turned their gaze toward the group, not angry, not threatening, but curious. Their eyes shimmered with something like recognition.

Caroline’s voice broke the silence. “What do they want?”

Before anyone could answer, the lights flickered again, once, twice, and with the final blink, the room was empty.

The fog outside seemed to press harder against the windows, as if trying to see in.

No one spoke.

Walter finally lowered his camera, his voice trembling. “Did we... get that?”

The room fell silent again after the lights died.

Everyone stood frozen, waiting for something else to happen, another sound, another flicker, anything.

But there was only stillness.

Caroline swallowed hard. “Yeah,” she whispered. “But I don’t think they wanted to be filmed.”

Chicken blinked, heart hammering. “No kidding,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m about to film my own obituary.”

She turned quickly, her feathers puffed in complete panic mode. “I need a bathroom,” she blurted. “Like, immediately.”

Rufus blinked. “Now?”

“Yes, now, Rufus! Fear is very physiological! I’m going to shit my feathers!”

She started down the hall, flashlight shaking in her grip, her footsteps echoing unevenly on the old tile. She wasn’t even sure where she was going, just away. Away from the flickering, the stares, the static still buzzing faintly in her ears.

The halls were darker here, narrower. Her breath came fast, visible in the cold.

Somewhere far behind her, the others were calling her name, but the sound felt distant, muffled by walls too thick with memory.

As she passed one doorway, she slowed. The same lobotomy room she had entered just minutes before.

Something pulled her, that same pull she’d felt before.

The door was half-open, light spilling faintly through the crack. And there, in the center of the room, sitting quietly on the operating table, was the rabbit.

Its fur glowed faintly in the darkness, soft and silver, eyes bright but tired. It wasn’t frightening,  just unbearably sad.

Chicken stood in the doorway, trembling. “Hi again.” trying to ignore the pain in her stomach.

The rabbit looked up slowly. “You came back.”

She swallowed hard and took a cautious step inside. The floor groaned beneath her claws.

“How can I help you?” she whispered. “Are you... stuck here?”

The rabbit tilted its head, studying her. “Stuck,” it echoed softly, as if tasting the word. “Not by choice. We were told it would help. Quiet the noise. Fix the feeling.”

Chicken stepped closer, tears already burning behind her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “You didn’t deserve that.”

The rabbit smiled faintly. “None of us did. But you...” Its gaze softened. “You’re still here. You can speak. You can tell it right.”

Chicken blinked. “Tell what?”

“Our side,” the rabbit said simply. “What it felt like to be broken and still trying to love the world.”

Her heart ached. “I... I don’t know if I can.”

“You already are,” the rabbit said gently. “Every time you write, every time you feel too much and do it anyway, you undo what they did.”

The light in the room flickered faintly, brushing across the walls like passing wings.

The rabbit hopped lightly off the table, its paws silent against the tile. “Don’t be afraid of your mind,” it said softly. “It’s where the best ghosts live.”

Chicken wiped her eyes, trying to smile. “You sound like a poet.”

The rabbit tilted its head. “Maybe we all were.”

And with that, it faded, slowly this time, the light dimming like the end of a film reel.

Chicken stood alone again, the silence stretching around her. Her tears fell freely now, soft and warm against her feathers.

“I’ll tell it,” she whispered. “I promise.”

Chicken’s claws clicked softly against the tile as she walked back down the hallway.

The air had shifted, lighter somehow, but heavy with meaning.

She kept her wings wrapped close to her chest, the echo of the bunny’s voice still alive in her ears: You can tell it right.

…

The corridor opened into the Rec Room again, where the others were still huddled in a tight circle.

Walter was babbling about camera angles. Rufus was muttering prayers to every deity he could think of.

Caroline and Diane looked ready to commit manslaughter via tripod.

When they saw Chicken, they all turned at once.

“Where were you?” Caroline asked, her voice sharp but laced with worry.

Chicken stopped in the doorway. Her feathers were ruffled, eyes red but steady. “I was talking to one of them,” she said. “And I think I understand now.”

Rufus tilted his head. “Understand what? That ghosts hate film crews?”

“That they’re not here to scare us,” Chicken said. “They’re here because no one ever listened. Because people like us…” she glanced at Walter “...keep turning their pain into content.”

Walter blinked, confused. “Content? Chicken, this isn’t content—it’s cinema!”

Her voice rose, trembling with emotion and fury.  “No, Walter. It’s disrespectful!”

The word echoed off the cracked walls like a clap of thunder.

For a moment, everything went still.

Then, one by one, every ghost in the room, the translucent animals, the fading echoes of their past selves, stood up.

Their faces were no longer soft or sorrowful. They looked aware.

Alive in their anger.

Walter stumbled backward, clutching his camera. “Uh-oh.”

Diane whispered, “Oh no, you woke them up.”

Caroline stepped closer to Chicken. “What do we do?”

Rufus swallowed hard. “I vote... running?”

The ghosts began to move, slowly at first, then all at once, a flood of spectral shapes sweeping across the room. Chairs toppled, papers swirled through the air, and the piano slammed shut with a bang that shook the floorboards.

“Okay! NOW we run!” Rufus shouted.

They bolted for the hall. Walter tripped over a cable, yelling something about capturing “authentic chaos.”

Caroline grabbed his wing and dragged him up as the group tore through the corridor, the ghosts chasing like a storm of white light.

The air crackled, lights flickered, doors slammed as they ran. Diane’s sage flew out of her hoof somewhere along the way.

“Move faster!” Chicken shouted.

“I’m flying as fast as I can!” Rufus cried and then promptly fell down the stairs.

He hit every step on the way down with a honk that echoed like a tragic trombone.

“Go on without me!” he yelled dramatically from the floor. “Tell my story!”

Caroline grabbed him by the wing. “Get up, you idiot!”

They burst through the front doors in a blur of feathers, fur, and terror, stumbling into the foggy courtyard, gasping for air.

From behind them, the spider echoed, "Told you assholes!"

The doors slammed shut behind them with a final, echoing thud.

Silence. Only their ragged breathing and the soft hiss of the wind through the weeds.

Walter bent over, panting. “That... was... incredible footage.”

Chicken turned on him, eyes blazing. “Say that again, and I’ll personally haunt you.”

He shut up immediately.

For a long moment, no one moved. The fog began to thin, the faint blush of dawn touching the horizon.

Out in the field, near the rusted swing set, Winnie had been watching the building from a distance, still sitting on her creaking swing. Her scarf fluttered weakly in the early morning air.

She squinted through the mist and saw them, her friends, staggering out of the asylum, covered in dust and terror, looking like survivors of a very bad group decision.

Winnie blinked once. “Well,” she said to the empty swing beside her, her voice trembling, “looks like that’s my cue to go. Nice... swinging with you.”

The swing beside her gave one faint creak in response,  just enough to make her squeak and leap to her hooves.

“Okay, bye!” she blurted, and bolted toward the others, scarf streaming behind her like a flag of surrender.

Chicken spotted her running through the thinning fog and laughed breathlessly. “There’s our lookout.”

Rufus groaned from the grass. “Told you she had the right idea staying outside.”

Winnie reached them, panting, eyes wide. “Did you all see them? Were there...were there...”

“Yes,” Chicken said softly. “All of them.”

Walter opened his mouth to say something about “cinema,” but one look from Chicken shut him down immediately.

They all turned back toward the asylum. The fog still clung to its edges, but the first streaks of sunrise had begun to light the windows.

And in one of those windows, just faintly, the rabbit waved goodbye.

Chicken smiled through her exhaustion. “Guess we all made it out,” she said.

Winnie nodded quickly, clutching her scarf. “Let’s never make a documentary again.”

Rufus wheezed. “Seconded.”

Diane raised an eyebrow. “Agreed.”

Walter sighed, staring up at the building. “Fine,” he said. “But admit it,  it was unforgettable.”

Chicken exhaled. “Let’s all go home.”

They started down the dirt path together, tired and trembling, the adrenaline slowly draining from their bodies.

Caroline walked quietly beside Chicken, her paw brushing her wing every so often, a silent check that she was okay.

When they reached the edge of the road, they paused, unsure what to say.

Rufus ruffled his feathers, exhausted. “Well,” he said, voice hoarse, “I need a drink.”

And with that, he took off into the air, wobbling slightly, calling out over his shoulder, “If anyone needs me, I’ll be haunting the bar!”

Walter groaned. “There goes our postmortem interview.”

Diane sighed. “I’m lighting incense and not leaving my bathtub for three hours.”

Caroline smiled faintly. “Send smoke signals if you start floating.”

One by one, they peeled off toward their homes until only Chicken was left standing on the lane.

She looked back at the hill, the asylum a gray silhouette against the morning light. Her heart felt heavy but still, like it was holding something delicate and complete.

Then she turned toward town, her small chateau waiting for her in the lavender fields below.

…

Inside, the world was warm again. Her writing room smelled of ink and mint tea. The curtains moved gently with the breeze.

Chicken sat down at her desk, the one cluttered with notebooks and half-written drafts.

Her claws hovered over the page for a long moment before the words began to come, slow, certain, like they’d been waiting for her.

She wrote about the asylum. About silence, pain, and memory. About how even ghosts only wanted to be seen.

And about the rabbit, the one who reminded her that survival wasn’t a shameful thing, but a kind of rebellion.

When she finished, she read it aloud softly to the empty room. Then she stood, took the page in her wing, and walked outside.

The morning was clearer now, sunlight spilling across the lavender fields.

She pinned the poem with clothes pins on the clothesline surrounding her house, where she always hung her poems for the neighbors to read.

The wind lifted it gently, rustling the corners.

Chicken smiled, whispering, “For them.”

And as she went back inside, she glanced once more through the window and thought, just for a moment, that she saw soft shapes in the field below including the rabbit, standing still, reading and smiling.

Light in the Quiet

To the ones who stayed behind,

you who wandered the corridors of your own mind,

looking for a door that opened inward.

They mistook your fire for fever,

your light for madness,

your dreaming for disease.

But the heart is not a machine to be repaired.

It is a lantern.

And even in your quiet,

you kept it burning.

You were never the madness,

you were the spark that outlived it.

CHK