@Khadijah Khalid Thans so much. here is the draft for chapter1 The Archive Room The taxi left Maren at the gate and reversed down the lane without waiting. She didn't blame the driver. Harrowfield Asylum announced itself with the subtlety of a headstone, grey Cotswold limestone darkened by a century and a half of English weather, windows blanked with plywood on the ground floor, the upper stories staring down with the hollow patience of something that had learned to wait. She adjusted the strap of her document case and studied the building through the wrought-iron gate. The gate itself was a Victorian declaration, two pillars capped with eroded finials that might once have been urns or pinecones, the ironwork between them heavy and ornate, each bar terminating in a fleur-de-lis that had rusted to the colour of dried blood. A brass plate had been set into the left pillar at some point and removed at another, leaving a rectangle of cleaner stone with four screw holes like a face with its features taken out. Two wings spread from a central block, the proportions classical, almost elegant, the Victorians had believed in the therapeutic power of architecture. Order imposed from outside would produce order within. The east wing had been the last to close, according to the brief Julian Thorne had emailed her, and it showed. Ivy had colonized the upper floors, working its way into the mortar with the quiet persistence of something reclaiming territory. The gate was unlocked. Of course it was. Nobody locked things to keep people out of places like this. They locked them to keep people in. The gravel drive was perhaps a hundred yards long, curving gently through what had been formal grounds, she could see the ghosts of symmetrical plantings in the overgrown beds, a circular depression that had been a fountain, the stumps of ornamental trees cut down and never replaced. The gravel itself was thin in patches, mud showing through like bone beneath worn skin. Maren walked it with her suitcase wheels catching on the stones, the sound absurdly loud in the stillness. No birds. She noticed that. No birdsong, no movement in the ivy, just the grinding of her suitcase wheels and the soft percussion of her own footsteps on stone.

@Khadijah Khalid Creepy is a good sign haha. That is the intent of this Gothic Horror. Let me know if you would like to continue reading it...

Well my writing is enriched with my knowledge of coding actually and would love to hear what others think of it. First, I would to confirm it is ok to share here?