Chapter 1: The First Bell The sharp buzz of the school bell cut through the morning air like a blade.
Jeremy Gray flinched, his hand tightening around the strap of his backpack. The metal lockers lining the hall vibrated slightly from the force of it, an ugly sound that set his nerves on edge.
He stood still for a moment in the middle of the hallway, watching students swarm around him. The bright fluorescents overhead flickered faintly, casting a sickly pallor over the sea of faces. Laughter, footsteps, the clatter of books, shouts of greeting — the noise hit him like a wall. He shrank into himself, pulling his hoodie tighter around his body.
Today was the first day of high school.
And already, something felt wrong.
Not just the usual wrong — the nerves, the pit in his stomach, the sense of being a tiny fish tossed into an ocean of bigger, hungrier sharks.
No. This was deeper. A weight pressing down on his chest. An invisible hand squeezing the air from his lungs.
He forced himself to move. One foot in front of the other. Locker 312B, home room 104, seat 7. His schedule was etched into his mind after countless nights memorizing it, desperate not to stand out.
He was halfway to class when the intercom crackled to life overhead, the sudden noise making him jump.
"Jeremy Gray to the principal's office. Jeremy Gray."
The voice echoed, tinny and mechanical.
The hallway seemed to still around him. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the laughter faded into uneasy silence.
A teacher — Mrs. McAllister, he thought — poked her head out from a nearby classroom. She caught his eye and gave a small, tight-lipped nod toward the main office.
Go.
Jeremy's legs moved, heavy and clumsy.
He walked past rows of staring students, feeling their eyes on him, their curiosity buzzing like flies.
The office door loomed ahead, solid and dark, the kind that didn't open unless you wanted it to. He pushed it open with a trembling hand.
Inside, the world seemed muffled. Smaller. The principal sat behind his massive oak desk, fingers steepled together, his face grave. Beside him stood two police officers, their uniforms crisp and black. A woman — the school counselor, Ms. Renfield — sat off to the side, her hands twisted together in her lap.
Jeremy's stomach dropped.
He knew. Somehow, he already knew.
The principal's voice was gentle, but every word drove a spike deeper into his chest.
"Jeremy... there's been an accident."
A single word splintered his world:
Accident.
He heard bits and pieces after that.
Car crash... your parents... immediate family... no survivors...
The words swam in and out of focus. Ms. Renfield's hand on his shoulder, the muffled sob in her throat. The principal signing something. The officers whispering.
Everything blurred.
The funeral was a gray, endless thing.
Clouds hung low in the sky, fat with rain that never quite fell. Rows of unfamiliar faces — coworkers, distant relatives, neighbors — huddled under umbrellas. They spoke in hushed tones, casting furtive glances at the boy in the ill-fitting suit who stood rigid beside the twin coffins.
Jeremy didn't cry.
He didn't speak.
He barely heard the priest's voice, the murmured prayers, the handfuls of dirt striking wood with hollow thuds.
Afterward, there was paperwork. Meetings. Foster care hearings. Words like "ward of the state" and "emergency placement" and "caseworker."
Jeremy sat through them all like a statue.
He was placed with Mrs. Halloway, an exhausted woman who smelled faintly of cat litter and menthol cigarettes. Her house was small and cluttered, the rooms crowded with broken furniture and peeling wallpaper. She didn't ask questions. She didn't offer hugs.
Jeremy didn't mind.
At least she left him alone.
Two days after the funeral, he returned to school.
The hallways seemed colder now. Larger. Echoing and empty even when filled with bodies.
At lunch, he sat alone at the farthest table, picking at the gray lump that passed for lasagna.
Nobody approached.
Nobody spoke.
But the whispers began.
"That's him, right? The kid whose parents—"
"—was at school when it happened. Imagine—"
"—didn't even cry. Just sat there."
"Freak."
The words slithered into his ears, poison seeping deep.
He tried to tune them out. Staring at the plastic tray in front of him, counting the cracks in the tabletop. Anything to anchor himself.
It didn't help.
By the end of the week, they had given him a name.
"The Lonely One."
It started as a joke. A whisper. A cruel little thing passed between classmates like a secret.
But it stuck.
The football team loved it the most. Big, swaggering boys who roamed the halls like they owned them. They'd knock his books out of his hands. Shove him against lockers. Laugh as he scrambled to pick up his papers.
"What's the matter, Lonely One? Need a hug?"
"Aw, look at him. Poor little ghost."
Jeremy endured it all in silence.
He would not cry.
He would not beg.
He would not give them the satisfaction.
Some nights he sat on the edge of his narrow bed in the dark, staring at the cracked ceiling, fists clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palms.
He told himself it didn't matter.
That if he just kept moving — one foot in front of the other — eventually the pain would dull.
Eventually.
The football team especially loved Jeremy. Or rather, they loved tormenting him.
Brant, the starting quarterback, was the worst. All golden hair and wolfish grins, the kind of kid teachers fawned over and girls trailed after.
"Hey, Lonely One!" Brant called in the locker room one afternoon, loud enough to echo. "You still talking to your dead mommy?"
Laughter exploded. Jeremy didn't respond.
He had learned that silence was his only defense. Words only gave them more ammunition.
"Maybe he's cursed," another boy said. "Anyone ever see him smile?"
"Maybe he killed his parents," Brant added with a smirk. "Would explain why he's always alone."
That earned a round of mocking gasps and fake fear.
Jeremy gripped his locker until his knuckles turned white.
He would not cry.
Not here.
Not for them.
The VisitOne afternoon, the school counselor called him in again.
Her name was Ms. Valen. She wore floral scarves and soft sweaters and had the kind of voice people used when talking to scared animals.
"Jeremy," she said gently, "I know things have been hard. I just want you to know... you're not alone."
He nodded.
She waited, hoping for something — anything.
He stared at the floor.
"I also heard there's been... some bullying. If something's happening, you can talk to me."
Still, silence.
She sighed. "You're not in trouble. But isolating yourself can sometimes make things harder. There are support groups, if you're open to that. Or we could work on a journaling exercise—"
Jeremy stood. "Can I go?"
She blinked. "Jeremy—"
"Please."
She let him.
He didn't return to class. Instead, he walked until the school was a fading shadow behind him, until the trees swallowed the path and the town's noise gave way to birdsong.
He walked to the lake. Without knowing it he came to spend more time going to the lake than school.
He found the lake by accident. A time that now felt like a lifetime ago.
It lay at the edge of the forest, a forgotten place where the trees grew thick and tangled, and the air smelled of wet earth and moss. A rickety wooden dock jutted out into the water, half-rotted and sagging.
But it was quiet.
Safe.
His place.
Jeremy spent long hours there, sitting on the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the water, watching dragonflies dance and ripple across the surface. He brought books sometimes. Other times he just lay back and watched the clouds drift by.
The water was dark. Deep. It scared him a little, the way it seemed to stretch down into forever.
But it also comforted him.
Here, he wasn't The Lonely One.
He was just Jeremy.
And that was enough.
The lake had always been different.
Jeremy couldn't remember the first time he found it. It was just there one day — nestled at the edge of the woods behind the northern ridge, hidden from the town like a secret whispered by the earth itself. There were no signs pointing to it, no paths marked on the map. It was wild, untouched. Forgotten.
Which made it perfect.
In a world that demanded he keep moving, keep surviving, the lake was the one place where he could stop.
Where he could breathe.
Even before the accident, before the funeral and the whispers and the cold silence of the foster home, Jeremy had come here. When his parents fought — and they did, often — when he failed a test, when a teacher made him read aloud and his voice cracked in front of the class... he would come here.
He never told anyone about it. Not even his mother. Not even his dad.
It was his.
The water didn't judge. It didn't expect. It simply existed — deep, dark, still.
The dock creaked under his weight as he sat, knees hugged to his chest. The sun was beginning to set, bleeding orange and pink into the surface of the lake, turning the water into molten glass. A breeze rustled the trees behind him. The sound of the world, distant and soft.
He stared out at the water, jaw clenched.
His throat burned.
"I hate this," he muttered under his breath. "I hate this so much."
His voice sounded strange in the open air. Raw. Real.
He hesitated, then stood up on the edge of the dock, fists clenched at his sides. His body trembled.
He shouted.
"Why did you leave me?!"
The words echoed across the lake and vanished.
"Why?!"
His voice cracked. He screamed louder this time, his whole body shaking with the force of it. "What am I supposed to do now?! I'm just a kid! I don't know how to do this alone!"
He fell to his knees.
"I can't do this," he whispered. "I can't... I can't..."
Tears poured down his cheeks, hot and fast, and he let them. He didn't wipe them away. He didn't hold them back.
Only here.
Only ever here.
This place was his one refuge, the only place where he dared to let the walls crumble, where he wasn't "The Lonely One," or the "freak," or the "poor kid whose parents died."
Here, he was just Jeremy.
A boy who missed his mom's voice humming in the kitchen. Who missed the way his dad used to tap the steering wheel in time with classic rock songs. Who missed the warmth of home — the real one, not the peeling, musty walls of Mrs. Halloway's sad little house.
He let himself cry until his ribs hurt.
He whispered into the dusk, "Please... if you can hear me... I just want to know what I'm supposed to do."
A hush fell over the lake. Even the breeze stopped.
He waited.
Of course, there was no answer.
But somehow, speaking the words — screaming them — made the weight inside him shift. Not vanish. Not even lighten. But move.
And maybe that was enough for now.
Jeremy sat there until the stars blinked into existence above him and the air turned cool. Then he wiped his face with his sleeve, pulled his hood up, and made his slow way back through the forest.
Tomorrow, he would return.
He always did.
The next day the moment he stepped through the tree line and saw the water glittering in the late sun, something loosened inside him.
He kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag, and walked barefoot to the dock. The planks were cool beneath his feet. He sat, legs dangling, stone warm against his chest.
"Mom," he whispered. "Dad."
The wind stirred the leaves.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
He squeezed his eyes shut. "You left me. You just... left."
Tears came again, silent this time. But he didn't wipe them away.
The lake rippled.
The air shifted.
For a moment, the lake felt different — deeper somehow. Older. As if it remembered him.
He let himself sob, shoulders shaking. Here, at the lake, no one could see. No one could laugh.
It was the only place he ever let himself be small.
Real.
He didn't know how long he stayed. Long enough for the stars to appear, long enough for the mosquitoes to give up.
And when he finally stood, the lake seemed to flicker a golden light in his eyes, briefly, like a promise. Then he turned away to leave.
Something was coming.
The Subtle ShiftThat night, Jeremy dreamed of a forest that wasn't a forest — trees twisted with silver leaves, air thick with violet mist. And at the center, a stone platform hovering above a pool of starlight.
A voice, clear and strong, echoed in his mind:
"The seed is planted."
He woke gasping, heart pounding, his shirt drenched in sweat with a terrible headache.
He didn't know what it meant.
But the lake wasn't done with him.
Not yet.
Soon spring bled into summer.
The last bell of the year rang hollow and empty for Jeremy.
No celebration. No parties. Just another day to survive.
The town emptied during the summer months. Kids scattered to vacations, camps, family trips. Jeremy had none of those things. He wandered the streets sometimes, hands in his pockets, head down, invisible.
What Jermery did have was the lake and today was the first day of summer so of course he would go and talk to his parents, giving them a recap of his first year of highschool was his plan.
The summer air was thick with heat and the scent of pine. Most days, Jeremy avoided people and only went to the lake when he was sure he wouldn't be spotted by people out and about enjoying the nice weather. But today, he needed the lake. Needed its stillness. The water always made things easier to bear. The first of many milestones they would miss Jermey thought bitterly has he pedaled faster, desperate to reach his destination.
He biked through the edge of the forest, the trail dappled in sunlight, the stone around his neck warm against his chest as always. He pedaled harder, not because he was late, but because he didn't want to feel the ache building inside his chest — the loneliness, the helplessness, the grief that never truly left.
When he broke through the trees and the lake came into view, he felt himself exhale. Like every part of him had been holding its breath since the funeral when he wasn't at the lake. The glassy surface rippled with dragonflies and drifting pollen. The dock creaked under his steps as he walked out to the edge, kicked off his shoes, and sat down with his legs dangling above the water.
The lake was the only place he ever let himself feel.
He clutched his end of year report that he brought to read to his parents and stared out at the water.
Then, like thunder splitting the silence, he shouted:
"WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?!"
The echo rolled across the lake, bouncing off the trees.
"I'm still here!" His voice cracked. "I'm still here, and I don't know what to do without you."
His chest heaved. "I hate it here. I hate everything. I don't want to be here without you."
Tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and relentless. His throat burned from shouting, from holding it in too long.
"This is the only place I feel like I can breathe," he whispered. "The only place that feels like home."
The wind stirred gently, brushing the surface of the lake.
He lay back on the dock, eyes to the sky, arms outstretched like a broken angel. "Please. Just... tell me what I'm supposed to do."
There was no answer.
There never was.
He didn't know how long he stayed at the lake. It was long enough for the sun to start its slow descent. Long enough for the ache in his chest to dull.
But then he heard it.
Music.
Voices.
Laughter.
Jeremy sat up.
From the far edge of the woods, a group emerged. Teenagers. Loud. Rowdy. Carrying coolers and speakers. Brant was at the front, shirt slung over his shoulder, a red Solo cup already in hand.
Jeremy's heart sank.
Brant spotted him and grinned.
"Well, well. If it isn't the lake ghost," he called out. "Didn't expect you here, Lonely One."
Jeremy said nothing. He stood, grabbed his shoes, and started walking back down the dock.
"Hey!" Brant called. "I was talking to you."
Jeremy didn't stop.
Behind him, feet thudded on the planks. Laughter followed.
"You really don't get it, do you?" Brant said, stepping in front of him. "This is our spot now. Party starts in an hour. You're not invited."
"I was here first," Jeremy muttered.
Brant smirked. "Aw, look at that. The ghost talks."
He shoved Jeremy backward — not hard, but enough to unbalance him.
Jeremy's foot slipped between the planks and he fell, scraping his shin. He winced but didn't cry out.
"Get up, freak," one of Brant's friends said, kicking water toward him. "Go haunt somewhere else."
Jeremy stood slowly. "I'm not leaving."
Silence. The air tightened.
Brant stepped close. "You say something?"Jeremy met his eyes. "I'm not leaving."
There was a moment — a heartbeat — where something almost like respect flickered in Brant's eyes.
Then it was gone.
He shoved Jeremy hard.
Jeremy stumbled, caught himself.
"You think you're better than us?" Brant growled. "You think your little sad story makes you special?"
Another push.
"You're just a broken kid with dead parents and no friends."
Jeremy's fists clenched.
"Let's see if the Lonely One can swim."
Hands grabbed him. Yanked his shirt up. Someone pulled off his shoes. Another stripped him to his boxers. Laughter exploded.
"Hold him!"
"No — don't!"
Jeremy thrashed, panic rising. His feet skidded against the dock.
"Stop!" he shouted. "I can't swim!"
Brant laughed. "Then this'll be a short lesson."
They picked him up and threw him into the lake.
The DrowningThe water was cold.
Colder than he expected.
It closed over his head like a vice, and suddenly there was no laughter, no trees, no sky — just pressure and blackness.
He kicked, flailed, but his clothes dragged him down. His lungs screamed.
Up. Which way was up?
His arms moved without aim, his mouth open in a silent cry.
Then something brushed his fingers.
Smooth. Warm.
A stone.
But it didn't seem like a regular stone it was glowing.
For reasons he couldn't explain he reached out and touched the stone that now seemed to be giving off a stronger heat force.
His hand closed around it.
A pulse.
The water vibrated around him. The cold vanished. The panic stilled.
And the world broke open.
Colors burst behind his eyes — not colors he knew, but ones he could feel. His body lifted, suspended between the lake and something else — something ancient.
He heard voices. Not from above. From within.
"The door opens. Will you walk through it?"
His mind screamed yes.
Anything. Anywhere.
Just not here.
Light.
Heat.
Silence.