Saint Briella's Academy for Girls, 12:41 a.m.
It started again.
That coldness.
Not the normal kind—the type that slinks up your spine, coils around your throat, and makes you feel like someone's watching.
I lay in bed, eyes wide open, heart thumping. Around me, the other girls in Dorm 4 slept like the dead, their soft breaths rising and falling in the quiet.
Except for Zina.
Zina talks in her sleep. Tonight, she mumbled something different.
"Don't open the door… she's still burning."
I sat up.
A breeze slipped through the cracked window, carrying with it a scent I couldn't quite place—burnt sugar, old roses, and something metallic. Blood, maybe. Or memory.
I reached beneath my pillow for the small flashlight I'd stolen from the janitor's office last term. The batteries were low, but it still worked—barely. A sickly yellow beam flickered against the peeling wallpaper.
And then I saw it.
Ash.
A fine gray line running from the door to my bedside, curling like a trail… no.
Like a message.
I followed it.
Quietly, bare feet pressing against the cold marble floor, I stepped into the hallway. It stretched endlessly in both directions, dark and silent. The West Wing loomed to the left. They sealed it off last year after the ceiling collapsed. Or so they told us.
But I've seen lights moving there.
Sometimes… shadows that don't belong to anyone living.
I followed the ash trail.
Step after step, down into the forbidden hall.
It ended at a door. One I'd never noticed before. It looked newer than the rest—out of place. A faint hum buzzed from behind it, like old static.
Something compelled me to reach out.
I touched the handle.
Cold. Wet. Sticky.
When I pulled my hand back, it was streaked with soot and something dark.
Suddenly—a voice behind me. Soft. Sharp.
"Don't go in, Remi. She doesn't like strangers."
I spun around.
No one.
My flashlight flickered once, then died.