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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 was falling 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 you or 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.

But I remind myself why I’m here in the first place. It’s not just about my dad, although that was a trigger point. I’ve always been interested in the complexities of the human mind—how mental health weaves itself through our experiences, shaping them into something uniquely ours. What fascinates me most is that hidden corner we all have, that secret place in our mind no one else could ever reach or truly understand. It belongs to us alone, and that’s okay.

Still, I guess it’s strange that I’ve chosen a career where I’m supposed to gently coax people back toward society’s carefully constructed version of normality. The irony isn’t lost on me.

But what’s normality?

In my eyes, we all have the right to live uniquely, but there’s a fine line between being different and having darker instincts that make you want to hurt others, whether that’s physically or mentally. It’s a point where someone’s mind isn’t just of imagination or fantasy, but of real-life hatred, revenge, or even violence and that’s where I feel I’d like to help.

Society tends to silence those who don’t comply, forcing everyone into the same perfect bubble, where people who are different are suppressed, or have to pretend to be something they’re not. We’ve created a system that orders obedience and strict rules. And if anyone doesn’t toe the line? They’re labelled crazy or worse.

I have empathy for those who are struggling. There’s always a reason behind someone’s actions, a cause behind their pain, no matter how long they’ve been lost in their nightmare. I don’t believe anyone is born malicious; I believe something inside them was broken or consumed along the way.

After telling the woman on the other side of the intercom my name and reasons of being here, the gates finally creak open. I drive through slowly, my tires cracking over the rocky gravel beneath it as I make my way up a long driveway.

When I pull up and cut the engine, I reach over, grabbing the handle of my briefcase and then step out of the car. Closing the door behind me, the wind sweeps through my long, red hair, carrying chilling whispers in my ears. I take a glance around, noticing the few armed officers on the property, standing in the corners. I draw a deep breath, readying myself, then take slow steps toward the towering oak door entrance of the asylum.

As I approach, the door squeaks open unexpectedly, revealing an older gentleman with grey hair and stubble, dressed in a white shirt with black pants. His warm, friendly smile feels out of place against the backdrop of the eerie building. I come to a halt in front of him, and he extends his hand, which I accept.

“You must be Raven Tate,” he says, his eyes briefly scrutinizing me before softening.

“That's right,” I respond. “And you are?”

“Dr Moss. We spoke on the phone,” he replies with a nod. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Welcome to Sacred Heights Asylum.”

His tone is welcoming, but there’s an underlying heaviness to his words, a subtle reminder of the seriousness of the place I’m about to enter. He steps aside, gesturing with a sweep of his arm for me to go first and I brush past him.

As the door shuts behind us with an echoing thud, I take in the surroundings. The interior is far simpler than I expected, almost clinical, but with a haunting charm. The high-vaulted ceilings loom overhead. Dark, ancient wood panels line the white walls, their edges worn and weathered by time.

The air smells heavy of disinfectant, but underneath that lies another scent—faint, yet unmistakable. A metallic hint, like old blood, or maybe rusted metal.

Ahead of me stretches a long, narrow hallway and along the walls, antique paintings hang in neat rows, each one showing grim-faced individuals, possibly old patients, their eyes fixed on me, tracking my every move.

Dr Moss watches me take it all in, his unchanging smile the complete opposite to the gloom of this place.

“Quite the place, isn’t it?” he murmurs softly, as if he can sense the discomfort stirring inside me. “It can be quite overwhelming at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

I glance up at him, knowing this is only my first day and despite the unease, he’s right.

“So, you’re from Boston, and you came all this way?” Dr Moss questions as we slowly continue down the hall.

I smile and give a slight nod. “That’s right. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I’ve heard great things about SHA and how well the patients are treated here.”

He returns my smile, though something flickers in his dark eyes—pride, perhaps, or maybe something deeper, more guarded. As we enter what I assume is his office, he gently swings the door shut behind us.

“Please, take a seat, Ms Tate,” he says, gesturing to a chair in front of his massive oak desk.

I settle opposite him, the rich leather creaking softly beneath me. His office is big, with shelves crammed with medical texts, journals, and file cabinets. Dr Moss takes his seat on the other side, resting his elbows on the desk.

“That must have been quite the journey,” he continues. “Are you staying in Morbid Crypt?”

I nod as I place my briefcase down on the floor beside me. “Yes, I found a place to rent for the next month. Do you live nearby?”

He shakes his head, chuckling softly. “No, I live about an hour away. I travel here each day and have done for many years.”

I offer a polite smile, and he clears his throat before continuing to probe me, “So, you’re a student therapist?” he asks. “I’ve reviewed your documents, and I must say, you’re doing an excellent job for someone your age. Things can only get better from here.”

My eyes soften. “Thank you very much, Dr Moss. That means a lot to me.”

He leans back, folding his hands on the desk in front of him, the faintest hint of pride in his eyes. “Alright. Have you researched the institute’s history as requested? And do you understand the types of patients we care for here?”

I nod confidently before answering. “Yes, I’m well aware. I’ve done extensive research into Sacred Heights’ history.”

“Good,” he replies, nodding sharply. “I believe it’s only fair that you start on the ground floor and work your way up in due time.”

I furrow my brows slightly, uncertainty crossing my mind at the mention of ‘working my way up.’ He notices and leans forward, his voice taking on a gentler, reassuring tone.

“Please, forgive me. You’re unfamiliar with our internal method here.”

He gestures toward the ceiling, then downwards, as if mapping out the entire facility in the air. “There are floors here. The patients on the lowest floor are those soon to be released. They’ve made incredible progress and are preparing to re-enter society.”

I nod slowly, listening intently as he carries on. “Those in the middle,” he says, his expression darkening just a touch, “are showing growth, but they’re not quite there yet. They need more time. More therapy. More medication.”

His gaze sharpens as he explains the top level. “And, of course, the highest floor is where our most severely mentally ill patients reside. They’re the ones who require the most attention, the most care. The more progress they make, the lower we bring them down. It’s a step-by-step process until they’re ready to face the world as reformed individuals.”

A small smile forms on my lips as I process what he’s saying. “I think you have a fantastic system here, Dr Moss. It shows patience... the lower they descend from their darkness, the closer they get to walking through the door into the light.”

Dr Moss’s face brightens with a large smile, clearly pleased with my understanding and he points at me. “That’s exactly right, Raven. You’ve got it.”

His approval fills me with a sense of satisfaction, but also a deeper realization of the gravity of the work I’m about to take on here. I watch Dr Moss’s every move as he stands and walks toward a tall, metal file cabinet in the corner of the room. His demeanor shifts slightly, becoming more focused and professional.

“I have a patient I’d like you to work with today,” he suggests, pulling out a manila folder from one of the drawers. “His name is Ty, and he’s convicted of double-homicide.”

His words settle between us as he turns back around, the file clasped firmly in his hands as he sits down opposite me again. I adjust in my seat, putting on my serious face as I prepare to dive into whatever this file has hidden inside.

“He’s been here for many years,” Dr Moss continues, his words steady, “and he’s set to be released in just a few days.”

He reaches over the desk, offering me the file and I lean forward, accepting it with a nod before settling back into my chair, my fingers hesitating on the folder’s edges.

“Take a look,” he encourages, watching me intently. “Tell me what you think.”

I briefly meet his eyes before lowering my gaze to the file. Slowly, I open it, the papers inside slightly worn from years of handling.

The first page reveals the basics. “Ty Easton,” I murmur faintly to myself, “twenty-eight years old.”

Ty was only thirteen years old when he committed the heartless act that would outline the course of his entire life—murdering both of his parents in cold blood with an axe. The brutality of the crime shocked not only his community but the entire region. Given his age and the horrific nature of the incident, there were countless questions surrounding his mental state.

When his trial began, it became clear that this was not a case for a typical juvenile court. Ty was ruled legally insane, his mind fractured in ways that no one fully understood at the time. Rather than sending him to prison, the court ordered him to be transferred to Sacred Heights Asylum, where he would remain indefinitely until he was deemed sane enough to face the outside world again.

And now, after fifteen years inside these walls, Ty has been declared sane. There are pages and pages of psychiatric evaluations in front of me, detailing his progress, his therapy sessions, and the various medications he’s been on, also a bold diagnosis of psychopathy.

“He has a diagnosis of psychopathy?” I ask, lifting my eyes to meet Dr Moss’s gaze, trying to piece together the fragments of Ty’s past.

“Yes,” Dr Moss replies. “He was initially diagnosed with conduct disorder when he was fourteen, which later changed to psychopathy on a mid-scale when he was eighteen. The details are in the file, but long story short, in his younger years and still now, he exhibits a complete lack of remorse or empathy—toward anything living or even dead, amongst many other traits.”

I nod slightly. “And you normally house children?” I question, feeling a small unease at the thought of young kids spending their growing years here.

He shrugs his shoulders and slowly shakes his head. “There have been a few over the years,” he says, his tone calm, as if discussing a mere statistic, “but no more than ten, roughly.”

Returning my attention back to the file in front of me, it seems Ty's progress is impressive—almost too impressive, given his history. Thorough medication, relentless therapy sessions, and, apparently, an incredible commitment to follow the program have all contributed to his current state. Last month, the doctors from Sacred Heights even presented evidence of his sanity to the parole board, and the judge agreed to his release on conditions.

Still, something nags at me as I skim through the detailed reports. The assessments, the psychological breakthroughs—it’s all there, but there’s a gaping hole in the narrative.

Why did he do it?

“Was there ever a reason as to why he killed his parents?” I query, glancing up at Dr Moss again, hoping for some scrap of understanding.

He gives a small shake of his head, his expression unreadable. “No,” he replies. “He’s always said he doesn’t remember the incident. Claims it was a total blackout.”

I sigh and lean back in my chair, closing the file in front of me with a soft thud. A blackout. It seems too convenient, but then again, how much can we really know about the inner thoughts of a killer’s mind? Maybe I’m just skeptical as it’s my first day. Let’s see what I think when I meet him.

“Okay,” I say after a moment, trying to wrap my head around the next steps, “so he still needs therapy before being released?”

“That’s correct,” Dr Moss states, nodding faintly. “A few more sessions here before his release certainly won’t hurt.”

I nod in agreement. “I believe you’re right, Dr Moss, and I’m more than willing to work with Ty if that’s what you’d like.”

He stands, a soft smile gracing his aging features. “He’s definitely one of our calmer patients.”

I smile back, reassured by his words, though a small part of me remains suspicious. Years in a place like this can leave imprints on anyone, no matter how calm they might seem.

Dr Moss steps toward the door, his hand resting on the knob for a moment. “Let me take you to meet him,” he says.

I nod, gathering myself as we step out of his office and into the long hallway. Dr Moss escorts me through the lower-ground corridors, the air becoming cooler with each step until we reach what he mentions as the residential side of the building. It’s unsettlingly quiet, almost too quiet, and as we walk, I notice the rooms on either side, the doors heavily secured metal.

“Is this the place where the patients stay?” I ask as my eyes drift from door to door.

“That’s right, Ms Tate. The patients on this floor have their own closed rooms, which are much larger than those on the other floors. These individuals are more trusted, they have more freedom since they’re showing great progress and are being taught how to return to normalcy.”

I nod, taking in the information. The place feels sterile, controlled, as if everything here is designed to keep chaos at bay. I wonder what the top-level floor is like. It can’t be this quiet, surely. We continue walking until Dr Moss comes to a halt in front of an open door and I stop a few paces behind him, out of view.

He steps forward, poking his head through the doorway with a calm, almost fatherly tone. “How are you doing this morning, Ty?”

I can’t yet see the man in the room, but I feel a strange tension, like the atmosphere is suddenly too thick to breathe. This is the moment I meet the young man who once committed an unspeakable crime—the boy who took the lives of his parents. A mixture of interest and anxiety warps itself around me, wondering if this meeting will be as relaxed as Dr Moss tells me—or if I’ll be staring into the eyes of something far darker than I’m prepared to handle.

I don’t hear a response, but given Dr Moss’s nod, I assume Ty answered him silently.

“I’d like you to meet a student therapist,” Dr Moss says. “She’ll be giving you a few sessions before your release.”

Ty says nothing, but Dr Moss doesn’t seem concerned. He glances back at me with a nod, inviting me to step inside. Taking a breath, I cautiously turn the corner, adjusting my glasses.

As soon as I lift my eyes, I see him. Ty is laid out on his narrow bed, leaning against the white wall, a book in hand with one leg hanging off the edge. His entire broad frame is draped in black, from tight jeans to a dark fitted hoodie that’s pulled up over his head, casting shadows across his face. He has an eerie stillness about him. His skin is warm, tanned, a harsh difference to the cold darkness that envelops him, and his longish, jet-black hair hangs just over his eyes, concealing them like a veil.

He isn’t what I expected at all.

He’s extremely attractive, but there’s something more—a presence that fills the room, a mystery that clings to him. His features are sharp, chiseled almost, carved perfectly, with full lips that seem too soft for someone with such a violent past.

His light brown eyes seem to draw me in, those intense spheres that seem to expand ever so slightly the moment they land on me. For just a split second, I see a flicker of something behind them—surprise, maybe interest—but then it’s gone, replaced by a distantness as he looks away, placing the book on top of his bedside cabinet with calm movements.

I stand in the centre of the room as he swings his long legs off the side of the bed, sitting upright, but he doesn’t say a word. The way he moves, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the calculated shift in his posture shows me he’s very aware of my presence, studying me, even though he refuses to make it obvious.

When Ty’s eyes finally return to mine, I clutch my notepad a little closer to my chest and my heart flutters as I extend a hand toward him.

“Hey, Ty, I’m Ms Tate,” I say, my words softer than I intended.

For a second, he just stares at my outstretched hand, as if considering whether or not to engage. Then, he reaches out and his hand—larger than I expected—envelops mine, the size between us clear. As his fingers close around it, a wave of sensations shoots up my arm, electric and unexpected causing my breath to stop entirely.

Ty’s brow lifts slightly at my subtle reaction, a faint glimmer of amusement dancing in his gaze as if he noticed. I quickly pull my hand back, trying to compose myself, but I can feel the heat rising in my neck.

I clear my throat, averting my eyes, inwardly disciplining myself. I’m not here to be affected by him, to crush on him—I’m here to be his fucking therapist.

I straighten my spine, my notepad now more of a shield than a tool and finally look at him again. “Shall we begin?” I ask.

“If you don’t mind, Ms. Tate, I’ll leave you two alone to get to know each other,” Dr Moss says from behind me.

I glance over my shoulder, offering a polite smile and a nod. “Thank you, Dr Moss,” I reply lightly.

The door remains open as I watch him stroll away, his footsteps gradually fading. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Ty watching me closely, his dark eyes dragging down my body, examining me with a force I’m not entirely used to. Maybe it’s been a long time since he’s seen a woman close to his age.

When I finally turn my full attention back to him, our gazes lock once more.

“May I take a seat?” I ask politely.

Ty tilts his head slightly toward the chair opposite him, a small gesture. I carefully take a seat, placing my notepad and pen on my lap, crossing my legs to get more comfortable.

“So, Dr Moss tells me you’re being released in a few days?” I say, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose.

He doesn’t blink as he dissects my every feature with a detached stare, as if I’m something less than human—something to be studied, rather than a therapist. It’s not surprising; I don’t look the part, and my lack of experience probably radiates off me like cheap perfume. But it’s not just suspicion I sense—there’s something darker. Something predatory.

I try to remain still, refusing to prod him with forced conversation since this needs to be at his pace and trust, but the silence seems to stretch between us.

When he finally moves, it’s calm—his hands sliding down to his thighs before pushing himself upright, as if he has all the time in the world. My gaze follows his relaxed rise, and as I tilt my head back to meet his eyes, a cold shiver trickles down my spine. He takes a step toward me. Then another, and stops directly in front of me, looming like a storm on the verge of shattering.

He slowly crouches down, bringing himself to my eye level. My pulse races, the thud of my heartbeat extremely loud in my ears and my fingers tense around my notepad, the edges biting into my skin.

His gaze sweeps over every inch of my face before his head tilts, like a hunter analysing its prey and for the briefest second, I see something flash behind his eyes. Hunger? Whatever it is, it’s dangerous.

“Your glasses hide your beauty,” he finally says, his voice deep and smooth. He leans in closer, and I fight the instinct to recoil. “Show me what you look without them,” he demands.

It’s a command wrapped in velvet, seductive yet terrifying. The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls closing in as I think carefully. This isn’t part of my job, of course, and I should know better, but sometimes, you have to play the game—just enough to make them think they hold the upper hand. One little compromise, I tell myself, just to see where his mind is. To understand him before he slips back into whatever shadows he calls home.

I swallow again, harder this time, forcing my gaze away from his and toward the door. I feel a new kind of dread—the thought of someone walking in, seeing us like this, witnessing me unravel right in front of him.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “I won’t tell them you were a good girl for me.”

The way he just said that hits me like a jolt, my eyes snapping back to his with a sharpness that almost hurts. His lips curl into the faintest grin, and there it is—small dimples that shouldn’t be panty wetting but somehow are. It disarms me, and I feel the tension in my body shift into something dangerously close to surrender. For a second, I could melt into this damn chair.

Shit. Get it together, Raven. This is a psychopath, of course he’s going to be unbelievably charming. It’s just a shame he’s extremely beautiful to look at as well.

I raise my hand, slipping my glasses from my face and rest them on my lap. When I meet his gaze again, his eyes are already sweeping over my face. First my blue eyes, then my lightly freckled nose and cheeks, until they finally settle on my lips, lingering there.

“You’re like a little kitten,” he remarks, his tone disturbingly even, his pupils dilating as they devour the sight of me. His face remains expressionless as his gaze starts to move down the front of my body, shameless, and unapologetic.

A shiver runs through me everywhere they reach, and before I can stop myself, I speak—anything to distract him from the way he’s undressing me with his eyes. “I have a kitten, now you mention it,” I say softly. “Midnight. That’s her name.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, his eyes dart up to mine, and something shifts in the depths of them.. Midnight . I can almost feel him toying with the name in his mind, as if it feeds his fascination.

“Let me guess,” he responds as he arches a perfect thick brow. “She’s black.”

His eyes sharpen, narrowing as if he already knows more about me than he should and I just went ahead and handed him something personal, something he could use. But he isn’t wrong, she’s black with big orange eyes.

“Maybe one day, I could meet her,” he suggests, the words rolling off his tongue with a coldness that feels anything but innocent.

My reaction is instant, and I feel my eyes expand, betraying the shock that twists inside me. To hide it, I quickly drop my head, sliding my glasses back on and shift in my seat, clearing my throat.

“Maybe,” I manage to say, forcing the word out, now desperate to end this conversation.

From the corner of my eye, I can feel him observing me, watching every twitch, every nervous fidget. He knows. He sees it. He knows he’s gotten to me, and worse—I’ve given him the satisfaction.

“How many psychopaths have you met, Kitten?” He asks. “Are you afraid of me?”

My brows knit together as I shake my head once. “No, of course not. People don’t scare me. I’m here to help. I’m here to help you.”

For a moment, he just watches me, as if dismembering my every word .

“How many psychopaths have you met, Kitten?” he repeats, slower this time.

Fuck.