A heavy clanking sound echoed through the valley, sharp and metallic.

The massive iron gates began to swing inward, scraping slowly against the ice and accumulated snow on the driveway.

The guard stepped out of the booth and waved us through with his flashlight, his face obscured by the falling whiteout.

Charles shifted the truck back into drive and pressed the gas.

We rolled slowly past the guardhouse and began the final, steep ascent up the winding road.

The pine trees grew thicker here, their branches heavy with ice, leaning over the road like frozen, jagged arches.

At the top of the hill, the main building of the private asylum finally came into view.

It was a brutalist block of grey concrete, four stories high, with narrow, vertical windows that looked like dark slits in a fortress wall.

A few dim yellow lights flickered in the upper floors, but the rest of the massive structure was completely dark.

Charles parked the truck in a small, empty visitor’s lot near the front entrance, turning off the headlights.

The wind screamed across the open concrete pad, shaking the heavy frame of the truck.