7

That night, I stayed late for detention.
The halls were almost empty — just the hum of the lights above and the sound of rain tapping against the windows. The kind of quiet that makes you hear things you’re not sure are real.

On my way out, I passed the science wing again. The door was open this time, just slightly, like it was waiting.
I should’ve kept walking. I wanted to keep walking.
But something — curiosity, guilt, maybe both — made me stop.

I pushed the door open. The air inside was colder than the rest of the building.
For a moment, I thought I saw something move between the desks — a shadow, quick and thin.
And then I heard it.
My name. Whispered.

“Emily?” I said before I could stop myself.
The lights flickered once.
And there — written on the whiteboard in faint, gray letters — appeared a single sentence:
“You shouldn’t be here.”

I ran.
Down the hall, through the echo of my own footsteps.
But even as I reached the main doors, breathless and shaking, I could still hear it behind me —
that soft, broken whisper following me into the night.