The clock blinked 11:57 PM.
Harper crouched beneath her dorm window, hoodie zipped tight, sneakers silent on the stone path. Bellridge Academy was asleep—at least, most of it.
She moved like a shadow across the courtyard, heart hammering with every step. Her breath fogged in the cold night air, the silence so deep it felt like she might shatter it with a single misstep.
West Hall. Midnight.
The note burned in her back pocket. Her own handwriting. Her own warning. But she had no memory of writing it.
Bellridge's West Hall had always been... weird. Oldest part of the campus. Half of it boarded up, supposedly condemned after a fire years ago. No one really talked about it. Most people didn't even go near it.
Most people hadn't been erased.
Harper slipped through a narrow path between the arts building and the greenhouses, pushing through tangled ivy and ducking under rusted scaffolding. The West Hall loomed ahead—three stories of forgotten stone and silence. No lights. No cameras.
Just shadows.
She reached the side entrance—a warped wooden door with chipped paint and a broken bell above it. She hesitated for a breath, then pushed.
It creaked open like it was expecting her.
The hallway beyond was thick with dust and memory. Pale moonlight spilled through cracked windows, casting long shadows that danced across the floor. The air smelled like burnt paper and something colder—like metal left out in the rain.
She walked.
The halls were wrong. Too quiet. Too still. Every step echoed like it was being recorded, replayed just slightly after it happened. Lockers lined the walls, but none had names. No graffiti. No stickers. It was like no one had ever used them.
Then—
A whisper.
Faint. Behind her.
She turned.
Nothing.
Harper gripped the flashlight tighter and kept going. Room numbers started appearing—old metal plaques, rusted and nearly illegible.
Room 11. Room 12. Room 13.
She stopped.
There was no Room 13A.
Just like everyone said.
But the wall between 13 and 14 felt… wrong. The space was off. Too wide. Like something had been carved out and covered up.
She stepped closer.
Ran her hand along the faded wallpaper. Knocked lightly.
Hollow.
Her breath caught.
She pressed her ear against it—and heard the faintest hum. Like electricity, or… breathing.
She didn't know what made her do it, but she pulled a hairpin from her pocket—one she hadn't worn in months—and started scraping at the wall. The paper peeled away easily. Beneath it, a faint outline of a door appeared. Painted over. Buried.
She pushed.
And the wall gave in.
A door creaked open.
Harper stumbled inside.
Room 13A was real.
It was dark and cold, but exactly as she remembered—low ceiling, a single window cracked open to the night, and in the center: a narrow metal bed with tattered sheets.
But something was wrong.
The walls were covered in scribbles. Dozens of them—her handwriting. Notes, drawings, symbols, dates.
She moved closer.
One said: "You stayed too long."
Another: "Don't fall asleep."
Her fingers brushed over a small, cracked mirror hanging on the far wall. Her reflection stared back—pale, wide-eyed, real.
And then—
Her reflection blinked.
But she hadn't.
She stumbled back, knocking into the bedframe. The hum in the room grew louder—like it was alive. The walls seemed to ripple, like the scribbles were trying to rearrange themselves.
And then a voice—soft, barely audible—came from behind her.
"Harper Quinn… why did you come back?"
She spun around.
No one.
Just shadows.
Just whispers.
But the door behind her…was no longer open.