I wake up to the buzz of my alarm—an insistent, rattling frog croak that reminds me why I hate mornings. My eyes flutter open; the sunlight sneaks through the curtains like a curious cat, daring me to slumber on. I groan, slap at the nightstand, and finally silence the harbinger of Responsibility.
I sit up, feet finding the floor, and stretch. Mom's voice drifts up from the kitchen, light and cheerful like a songbird. "Ethan, breakfast!" She's probably humming that off-key tune again. Dad's already out the door, briefcase in hand, dressed in one of his stiff gray suits—more armor than clothing, if you ask me.
I shuffle downstairs in ratty pajama pants and an old T-shirt with a faded skull print (because that's as close to edgy as I get). The kitchen smells like pancakes, the real deal, not those frozen cardboard squares. I plop down at the table; Mom places a plate piled high with golden rounds, butter melting into rivers on each one.
"Morning, sweetie," she says, planting a kiss on my temple. "Big test today?"
I poke at the pancakes. "Yeah. Ugh." My palms start to sweat just thinking about Mr. Delgado's math exam. I'm not exactly Einstein, and I'm painfully aware of it.
Dad breezes in, checking his watch. "Eat up, champ. Don't want you running late." He tousles my hair—a gesture I secretly appreciate—then ducks out with a wave.
Between bites of syrup-drenched pancake, I glance out the window. The sky's a brilliant blue, not a cloud in sight. Perfect weather for hiding behind textbooks all day.
I arrive at Lakewood High fifteen minutes before the first bell. The hallway is a buzzing highway of lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, and that pungent cafeteria odor. My best friends, Marisol and Connor, are leaning against the lockers by Room 212.
"Hey, E!" Marisol calls. She's got that wild, curly hair tumbling in every direction, like she's auditioning for a shampoo commercial.
"Ready for the big showdown?" Connor grins. He's the class clown, always pulling pranks—and somehow never getting caught. I'm pretty sure he's the only one who thinks Ms. Cyrus's pop quizzes are funny.
I shrug. "As ready as a guy with an F looming over his head can be."
Marisol nudges me. "Stop worrying. You've got this. Plus, if you bomb it, I'll tell everyone you did it on purpose to troll Delgado."
Connor chuckles. "Brilliant strategy."
We make our way to first period—English class. Mrs. Pratt is in her usual spot, perched behind the desk like a watchful owl, grading papers with stony concentration. I slide into my seat just as she looks up. Her gaze sweeps the room. Friendly? Hardly. Encouraging? Not in the slightest.
We dive into Hamlet—because high school English apparently thrives on medieval tragedies. I zone out halfway through her lecture on "to be or not to be," imagining myself as a fearless hero, sword in hand, charging into battle against quiz questions.
The morning crawls forward in torturous silence, filled with the scratching of pens and the occasional creak of the old building settling. By the time second period rolls around, the thought of lunch is the only thing keeping me upright.
Lunchtime in the cafeteria is chaos. Tables push against each other in tight corridors; trays clang down, fries tumble, and half-finished conversations hover in the air. I snag a spot beside Marisol. She's working on sketches in her notebook—doodles of strange creatures that look too real. Connor sits across, juggling a basketball between his legs.
We talk about everything and nothing: weekend plans, the latest episode of that creepy podcast Marisol swears will keep us up at night, and whether Mr. Delgado will give us grace points for dramatic flair.
When the bell rings again, signaling the end of lunch, I feel a small pang of dread. Two more hours of school—was there any time more soul-crushing?
By third period, I'm back in Mr. Delgado's den—er, math classroom. My test sits on my desk like a ticking time bomb. I stare at problem one, sweat prickling my brow. I scribble an answer, cross it out, scribble again. The rest of the class is a blur of furrowed brows and the occasional sigh.
At last, he collects the papers. "Thanks, everyone. See you tomorrow." He doesn't even glance at me. I slump in relief. Did I pass? Did I fail? The mere possibility of either outcome is enough to send my heart pounding.
Fourth period is chemistry, but I barely register the periodic tables or the lectures about molecular bonds. My focus has tunneled to the clock. Fifteen minutes left. Ten. Five.
The final bell sounds like sweet salvation. I gather my things and head toward the front doors, ready to escape into the freedom of the afternoon. But as I turn the corner into the main hallway, the lights flicker. I stop. Glancing up, I see the fluorescent panels go dim, then fizzle out entirely.
A collective groan echoes down the corridor. "Great," someone mutters.
I shuffle forward, hoping the lights will snap back on. Maybe the janitor flipped a switch, or it's just a momentary hiccup. But the hallway remains cloaked in gray half-light, shadows pooling in corners. The emergency fixtures hum weakly, casting grim, shaky beams.
I look around—lockers loom like silent sentinels, the walls stretching into murkiness. No movement, no voices, just the faint hum of electricity. My chest tightens.
Then I realize: I'm alone.
I call out, voice shaking. "Hello? Anyone?" My words vanish into the gloom. My footsteps sound too loud, reverberating off the lockers. Each step feels like stepping deeper into a dream I can't wake from.
My phone is dead—no notifications, no light. I pound my fist against the locker door. "Turn on, you stupid thing!"
Silence.
The emergency lights flicker again, and in that brief strobe, I glimpse something: a dark shape at the end of the hall, where the corridor curves out of sight. I squint, heart hammering, but when the lights stabilize, it's gone.
A shiver crawls up my spine. I'm not sure if I should run, hide, or—God forbid—call for help. But there's no one to hear me. The hall is deserted, frozen in that awful moment between school and safety.
I swallow hard, gripping the strap of my backpack. This is wrong. This isn't how the day is supposed to end. The normal world has slipped away, leaving only this oppressive half-dark. And whatever lurks beyond my sight… it's waiting.
I take a tentative step forward.