The year was 2042.
St. Mary's High had been closed for decades. Its gates rusted shut, its windows boarded, its name slowly fading from every record that once kept it alive. The townsfolk didn't speak of it anymore. They crossed the street rather than look up at the hill where it stood.
But some places don't die.
They just wait.
---
Evelyn Ward tightened her coat against the rain as she reached the top of the hill. The sign was still there — half buried in weeds, the paint flaking.
ST. MARY'S BOARDING SCHOOL
The last two words were barely legible.
She didn't know why she had come. Maybe curiosity. Maybe blood.
All she knew was that for weeks, she had been dreaming of this place — of hallways she'd never walked, and a girl who looked exactly like her, whispering her name in the dark.
Inside, the air was colder than it should have been.
The floorboards moaned under her weight, echoing through the empty corridors like distant footsteps.
> Come home.
She froze. The sound wasn't in her head this time — it came from the floor beneath her. A soft, melodic hum. Dozens of voices blending together in harmony.
The Choir.
She followed the sound to the chapel.
It was perfectly preserved — untouched by time. Dust hung in the air like smoke, yet every candle was freshly melted, their wicks still warm.
At the altar sat two figures.
Or rather, what was left of them — waxen, lifelike, hands clasped together.
A placard rested at their feet:
> Headmistress Christina Ward
Vice Principal Liam Moore
Evelyn's breath caught.
Her name — Ward.
Her grandmother had spoken it once, years ago, before she died. "Never go near that place. It remembers its own."
The ground beneath her shifted. Just a tremor at first — then a pulse.
A heartbeat.
The candles flickered.
From beneath the chapel floor, a soft voice began to sing — a lullaby, old and warped. Another joined it. Then another.
Evelyn stumbled backward, eyes wide. "No… no, that's—"
She stopped.
Because she recognized the melody.
It was the same song she used to hum in her sleep as a child.
The one she'd never learned.
---
The floor cracked.
A single whisper rose from below, layered and endless — the sound of many children breathing through one mouth.
> "Welcome back, Christina."
The candles blew out.
And the singing began again — louder this time, sweeter, endless.
Outside, the rain stopped.
The air grew still.
And from the hill above the town, faint and steady, the choir sang into the night.
> We remember.
We remember.
We remember.
---
THE END