DISCLAIMER
This story is fiction. All places and characters are all product of author's imagination. Some scenes in the story may be familiar to real events as it inspired to true unsolved crimes.
WARNING
All the scenes in every chapter contains of graphic depiction of violence and other sensitive issues that can trigger to the reader. Discretion is advised.
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The iron gates of Ephemeral Academy's girls' dormitory loom tall above me, their ornate scrollwork casting long shadows across the cobblestone path. My hands tighten around the handle of my suitcase as I take in the ivy-covered brick building – grand, a little worn, and buzzing with an energy I can't quite place.
Then I see her.
Under the old mango tree by the bench, a girl stands perfectly still, her school uniform dripping wet despite the cloudless summer sky. A deep, jagged cut slices through her right cheek, and dark rope marks circle her wrists like ugly bracelets. Her eyes are fixed on a couple sitting close on the bench – the boy laughing as he twirls a strand of his girlfriend's hair around his finger. The rage radiating from the girl is so thick I can almost taste it.
There's another one. I breathe the words out quietly, my shoulders tensing.
I've never told anyone about what I can do – how every time my skin touches an object or a person, fragmented flashes of past moments or possible futures flood my mind like broken film reels. Sometimes they last just a few seconds, sometimes a little longer. And because of this strange connection to time and memory, I can also see spirits that haven't moved on – ghosts bound to places or people by unfinished business.
Most would call it a gift. I call it a curse. It's hard enough being a teenager without random memories of strangers playing in your head, or having to pretend you don't see the girl in the hallway who's been dead for years.
The ghost under the tree turns her head slowly, her empty eyes locking directly onto mine. My heart hammers against my ribs as I immediately look away, focusing on a crack in the pavement like it's the most interesting thing in the world. I keep my gaze down until I hear the soft click of heels on stone.
"Good morning! You must be Zoey Lopez, yes?"
I look up to find a woman in her early thirties standing before me, dressed in a crisp white blouse, black corset, and long skirt printed with red roses. Her hair is tied in a neat bun, and pearl earrings catch the sunlight. She beams at me – a warm, genuine smile that makes my nervousness ease just a little.
"I'm Martha Taylor, housemother here. Let me help you with that." Before I can protest, she's taken my suitcase and is already heading for the front door. "Come along – I'll show you to your room and go over the rules while we walk."
We step into a cool reception area with polished wood floors and a grand staircase. As we make our way to the elevator, Mrs. Martha's voice fills the quiet: "Curfew is 10 PM on weekdays, midnight on weekends. No guests after 9 PM. Kitchen is on the first floor – feel free to use it, but clean up after yourselves. There's a coffee shop and diner just ten minutes down the road if you get hungry between meals."
The elevator dings open, and we step inside. She presses the button for the fourth floor. "Oh, and your other bags were delivered earlier. You'll have three roommates – lovely girls, I'm sure you'll get on well."
When the doors slide open, the hallway is quiet and bright. Mrs. Martha leads me down to a door marked 405.
"Here we are – home sweet home for the rest of the year."
I lift my head to look at the door, then freeze.
Standing right in front of room 406 is another girl – this one in a damp bathrobe, her hair plastered to her neck. Blood seeps through the fabric on her back, and her eyes are fixed on the door as if waiting for it to open. She mumbles something in a shaky voice, the words barely audible: "N-no… not… Celina…"
I stare, my mind automatically piecing together what I can – the damp clothes suggest she died after a shower, the blood means violence. It's a habit I can't shake, trying to understand why these spirits are still here.
"Ms. Lopez? Zoey?" Mrs. Martha taps my shoulder gently, and I jump. "Are you feeling alright? You look a little pale."
"I'm fine," I lie, forcing a small smile. When I glance back, the ghost is still staring at me, tears streaming down her lifeless face. I look away quickly.
Mrs. Martha hands me a small card. "Smart lock – just tap it here. Your roommates are already inside. Let me know if you need anything at all."
I thank her and watch as she heads back to the elevator. Taking a deep breath, I tap my card against the lock and push the door open.
Three girls turn to look at me as I step inside. The room has four loft beds along the walls, a tatami table in the middle, and enough space to move around comfortably.
"Welcome! You must be Zoey!" A girl with warm brown skin and a ponytail bounds over, taking my hand in hers. "I'm Rory – I'm the one who made sure your bed was ready. These two are Leila and Clarisse."
A girl in thick-rimmed glasses looks up from a book she's reading, giving me a small wave. "Leila. I hope you don't mind quiet – I do most of my studying here."
"Quiet is fine by me," I say, then turn to the third girl, who's arranging a rack of colorful clothes by her bed. She's wearing designer jeans and a silk blouse, her hair styled in perfect waves.
"Clarisse," she says with a bright smile, "and before you ask – yes, I do bring all my clothes to school. A girl needs options!"
"More like she needs a whole boutique," Leila mutters without looking up.
"Jealousy doesn't suit you, bookworm," Clarisse shoots back, but there's no real bite to it.
"Alright, you two – enough bickering," Rory laughs, pulling out a stack of takeout boxes from a bag on the table. "I figured you might not have eaten yet, so I got extra. Dig in!"
We sit around the table, passing containers of fried rice and grilled chicken. Leila and Clarisse go back and forth about whether fashion or literature is more important – Clarisse arguing that style opens doors, Leila countering that knowledge builds them. Despite their squabbling, there's an easy warmth between them that makes me feel welcome.
By 10 PM, we're all getting ready for bed. Clarisse insists on her "beauty sleep" routine, Leila curls up with another book, and Rory starts tidying up the table. I climb into my loft bed, wrap my wet hair in a towel, and lean back against the wall – only to jerk away with a quiet gasp.
"Whoa – is that hot to you?" I ask Rory, who's already settling in.
She presses her hand to the wall, then pulls it back quickly. "Yeah, pretty warm. Probably our neighbor in 406 cranking their heater."
"It's the middle of summer!" I exclaim, staring at the wall like it might give me answers.
Leila doesn't look up from her book. "Maybe they have a medical condition. Not our problem."
Clarisse waves a hand dismissively. "Who cares? As long as it doesn't set the place on fire, let them be."
Rory gives me a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about it, Zoey. We've had weird neighbors before."
I nod, even though every instinct tells me something's wrong. The ghost outside room 406, the hot wall in the middle of July… it all feels connected somehow. But I'm the new girl here – I don't want to seem strange or paranoid.
"Alright," I say, forcing myself to relax. "You're right. Probably nothing."
I blow-dry my hair, turn off my lamp, and lie down. But as I close my eyes, I can't shake the image of the girl in the bathrobe, staring at room 406 and whispering a name I don't know.
Something's not right here, I think, as sleep finally pulls me under.
A blood-curdling scream rips through the silence, jolting me upright in bed. My heart pounds against my ribs as I blink away sleep, pushing my hair out of my face. I watch as Rory scrambles frantically down from her loft, nearly tripping over her slippers in her rush. Clarisse stumbles out of the bathroom, her hair sticking up in every direction, while Leila shoves her book aside and leaps to her feet.
"What was that?" Clarisse whispers, her voice trembling.
I glance at the digital clock on my bedside table – 7:02 AM.
Without a word, Rory grabs the door handle and pulls it open. "We have to see what's happening."
The three of them dash out into the hallway, and I quickly swing my legs over the edge of the bed, pulling a hoodie over my pajamas before following them. The fourth floor is already in chaos – doors are ajar, students are peering out with worried faces, and a growing crowd has gathered in front of room 406. Muffled whispers and gasps fill the air.
"Let us through! We're on this floor!" Rory calls out, and people start to shift aside to make space. I squeeze in behind my roommates, my stomach twisting with a familiar sense of dread as I spot the ghost from last night standing at the edge of the group, her eyes fixed on the door with tears streaming down her pale face.
The moment we cross the threshold into room 406, a sharp mix of rotting flesh and musty air hits me – the same sickening scent I'd grown all too familiar with back at my old school. While Clarisse claps a hand over her mouth and turns away, and Leila goes rigid, I stand steady, my expression calm. I've seen death like this before; it doesn't shock me anymore, though it never gets easier.
There, sitting in front of the vanity mirror exactly as I'd seen the ghost, is the victim. She's in a damp bathrobe, her head slumped forward on the wooden desk, eyes rolled back in her skull. A silver knife is driven deep into her lower back, blood spreading dark and thick across the fabric.
In the corner, one of the room's occupants – a girl with dark hair I'd met briefly at dinner – is sobbing uncontrollably, her body wracked with shakes as Rory pulls her close, wrapping both arms around her and murmuring soft, comforting words.
I find myself moving forward, my feet carrying me toward the scene on instinct. I take in every detail: the smart lock on the door is untouched, no signs of forced entry anywhere. The victim's hands rest neatly on the desk, as if she'd been caught completely unaware. The mirror in front of her is spotless – if the killer had approached from the front, she would have seen them coming and reacted.
Stabbed from behind, I note silently. Someone she knew and trusted.
"Move aside! Let us through!"
Three young men push their way into the room, all wearing Ephemeral Academy uniforms with a distinctive silver spiral puzzle piece emblem stitched onto their blazers. They move with confident, practiced ease – one pulls out a leather-bound notepad and starts jotting down notes, another begins taking photos with his phone, and the third immediately starts examining the door frame and windowsills.
"Who are they?" I ask Leila quietly, watching as they begin questioning the crying girl and other students who'd gathered inside.
She doesn't take her eyes off the group, her own gaze sharp and observant. "The Riddle Club. They're famous around here – even the police let them help with campus cases because they know every corner of this school better than anyone else."
I stare as they work, their movements coordinated and focused. One of the boys – tall with dark hair and intense eyes – looks up, his gaze sweeping across the room until it lands on me. For a split second, our eyes meet, and I feel a jolt run through me like static electricity. I look away quickly, my mind already racing.
"This is exactly the kind of trouble I was hoping to leave behind," I think, my gaze drifting back to the victim's still form. "But it looks like it's found me anyway."