Creative Writing: All Quiet On The Western Front

“Twenty years,” the old man named Peter mumbled silently with his navy-blue jacket on and an oak cane in hand. He hadn’t looked at the monstrosity in years. He stood for minutes at the cold entryway. As he walked through the iron gates, he glanced at the graves of his acquaintances.
He went to the barracks, where the inmates had slept. He opened the doors of the barracks and took his first step into the inner regions. Suddenly, a chill went down his spine. He could see three ghostlike figures: two guards, each holding a rifle, dragging a young boy. The old man only watched. With his last breath, the boy whispered, “Bye,” as he was dragged away. The man stumbled after them, but the boy and the guards had vanished.
He made his way onwards past the gas chambers. Then, from behind him, he heard a voice, “Victor . . . Karajan.”
Peter then started walking towards the kitchen. Peter opened the door quickly. When he opened the door, he could see hundreds of ghostly figures all looking at him. That instant, Peter started to run. Their cries echoed his name behind him, their icy hands reaching towards him.
Then, he saw a door marked with letters spelling “To Hell” across the camp. Peter quickly opened and slammed the steel door behind him. The ghostly voices outside stopped, but from the depths of the chamber, he could hear soft moans. Peter knew he couldn’t stop now. Slowly, step after step, still listening to the sounds of the moans, he made his way down the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs, he saw an unlit lamp lying on the ground. Peter quickly lit it, illuminating the room. The words “Nazi Medizinische Experimente” were still legibly painted on the