The Madhouse

Prologue

I never would have called myself insane.

Depressed, maybe. That's what the doctors labelled me as - bipolar depressive disorder specifically - and suicidal, definitely. But never insane.

But then I was admitted to Stanley House. Since then, I have been questioning my own sanity every single day. I can't tell what's real or not anymore; is that shadow in the corner reaching for me? Are they coming to get me?

There's a thin like between reality and your imagination. Sometimes you can't tell the difference, like when you're in a dream that feels too real. You forget about your previous reality and that's all it becomes, the great now - you are labelled as insane, but you don't see it that way. All you see is the struggle, your grip on reality slowly fading away, and people keeping you captive until it's completely gone. Then they throw you aside, like a used up battery, with no life left in you and completely drained.

Stanley House is no exception.

Except, it's much, much worse.

Because your demons in Stanley House aren't just in your head: they're all around you, slipping from imagination into reality. Or were they reality in the first place?

I can't tell the difference anymore.