The school's hallways felt longer than before, like time had stretched them. The air hummed faintly — not with electricity, but with memory.
Her flashlight flickered as she turned the corner.
She froze.
The gym doors were still chained shut. Just like they'd been the night of the accident. But someone had cut the lock.
Alex hesitated, then pushed through.
Inside, the air smelled of mildew and old sweat. Bleachers collapsed in on themselves. The basketball hoops hung like nooses.
In the center of the floor was a circle of burnt wood — the spot where it had happened.
She felt her chest tighten. "Okay, Felix," she muttered. "You got your dare. Happy?"
The flashlight flickered again — once, twice — then died.
Silence.
A faint sound echoed from behind her. A scuff. Then a whisper.
"It wasn't an accident."
Alex spun around. "Who's there?"
Nothing.
Then, faintly, the old scoreboard lit up — 00:01 flashing over and over again.
Her scream cut through the halls like a siren.