CHAPTER 13 - 3
Autumn's POV
If someone told me months ago that I'd spend my Friday night in school, hunting for ghosts instead of binge-watching dramas and snacking like a normal student, I would've laughed and said, "Are you out of your mind?"
Yet here I am — flashlight in hand, heart threatening to punch its way out of my ribcage, surrounded by some of the smartest and dumbest people I know. Yes, both. Because smart people don't decide to investigate a rumored ghost at *11:58 PM*on a *Friday the 13th-adjacent Halloween week*.
But here we are.
Trailing behind Theo, who looks like he could punch a ghost in the face if he needed to.
Dorielle's walking beside me, clutching her notebook like it's a holy artifact.
Quinn keeps whispering, "If something jumps at me, I'm signing out from life."
Liam looks calm, but his eyes are scanning shadows like he's calculating ghost trajectory paths.
Rhea marches ahead like she's the commander of a paranormal SWAT team.
And me?
I'm trying really hard not to pass out dramatically and become the ghost instead.
---
The hallway leading to the old staircase feels… wrong. The air is thicker here, like exhaling through cotton. The lights flicker like they're auditioning for a horror film. Every step sounds louder than it should.
"I swear if I see even a strand of long hair floating in the air—" Quinn begins.
"We'll bury you next to the vending machine," Rhea cuts in. "Now hush."
"Why the vending machine?" Quinn hisses.
"So we can visit you when we crave snacks," Theo deadpans.
Dorielle snickers quietly. The laughter is thin, nervous — like we're afraid too much sound might wake something.
My nerves are spaghetti. Not cooked al-dente, mind you — *overcooked*, mushy, falling apart.
We reach the landing where the staircase begins — steep, old, and roped off with faded caution tape. A broken sign still hangs:
> DO NOT USE
> Maintenance Only
"Maintenance only," Liam reads flatly. "Or portals to the afterlife only?"
"Shut up," I whisper sharply. "I told you I'm fragile."
Rhea raises her camera. "Alright. We stay together. No one wanders. No one runs alone. If someone screams—"
"We scream together," Quinn nods solemnly.
"And if one of us gets possessed?" Theo asks, too casually.
"We knock them out first, ask questions later," Rhea answers without hesitation.
"…noted," I mutter. "You all scare me more than any ghost."
The quiet settles in too heavy. The kind that presses into your shoulders, like invisible fingers weighing you down. We move closer, stepping past the "Do Not Cross" tape.
And then—
tap…
tap tap..
Soft footsteps.
But they're not ours.
They're *above* us.
Slow. Deliberate. Too heavy for wind, too human-like for rats.
My spine shifts into steel-cold terror.
Theo's jaw tightens. "Someone's up there."
Quinn's hand clamps onto my wrist. Hard.
Dorielle scribbles something trembling into her notebook, as if writing will keep her sane.
Rhea quietly turns on the voice recorder app.
Liam's flashlight beam tightens on the first step. "We go?"
"We go," Rhea confirms — voice steady, eyes not.
The staircase creaks like it's breathing under our weight. With every step, the air chills more, like a slow-leaking winter being poured down the stairwell.
I swear I feel something move behind us — a whisper of cold brushing my neck. I spin.
Nothing.
Just the hallway. Empty. Silent.
We're halfway up when Quinn whispers, "Why do ghosts always pick stairs? Why not elevators? Or escalators? Like— modernize please."
"That's your concern?" Dorielle whispers back, voice shaking.
"My coping mechanism is talking," Quinn hisses. "Let me cope!"
I want to laugh, but fear claws at my throat.
Then, faint.
Soft.
Shivering.
A whimper.
A small, muffled *cry* from above us.
My blood freezes. My heart — gone. MIA. Probably on the floor.
Dorielle gasps quietly. Liam tenses. Theo's knuckles whiten around his flashlight.
Rhea lifts a hand, signaling silence.
That cry… it's not banshee horror movie stuff. It sounds human. Young. Scared.
Like someone hiding. Someone crying into their own sleeve.
Someone… trapped?
My fear twists with something else — empathy. Because fear is crushing, loneliness worse, and being stuck somewhere crying? It hits too close.
"Guys…" I whisper, voice trembling. "What if it's not a ghost? What if someone really needs help?"
No one answers for a moment.
Then Theo nods. "We keep going."
We reach the top. The hall is dark, long, and colder than outside. The silence feels alive.
Then something skitters in the shadow — fast.
A whisper of movement.
Quinn jumps. "Nope— nope— ghost— demon— large rat— choose your fighter—"
"Quiet!" Rhea hisses, eyes sharp.
We spread carefully, sticking shoulder-to-shoulder like terrified penguins.
Then — *a sob*.
We swing toward a supply closet door.
Locked.
But the crying comes from inside.
Rhea knocks gently. "Hello? Are you okay?"
Silence.
Then—
The handle *rattles*.
I flinch so hard I nearly fling my flashlight.
Theo grips the handle.
Liam steadies his shoulder.
Dorielle whispers a shaking prayer.
Quinn holds my hand — or I hold theirs, honestly unclear.
Theo counts quietly, "Three… two… one," and yanks it open—
Darkness.
And then—
A girl. Small. Trembling. Knees drawn to her chest. School uniform wrinkled. Eyes red and swollen from crying.
Not a ghost.
A student.
She looks up at us with an expression I'll never forget:
Fear that doesn't come from ghosts.
Fear that comes from *humans.*
"P-please…" she whispers, voice breaking. "Don't tell him I'm here."
My heart cracks open.
This isn't paranormal.
This is *real fear*.
Liam steps forward slowly. Gentle. "Who?"
Her lips tremble.
Her voice cracks.
"…the man who's been following me."
A chill slices the air sharper than any ghost story.
Quinn squeezes my hand harder.
Rhea's expression hardens — leader mode, protective.
Theo straightens like he's ready to fight.
Dorielle's eyes glisten — not just fear, but empathy.
And me… I suddenly feel steady. Because paranormal scares, yes — but real danger? Real people needing help?
That's why we're here.
That's why this club exists.
I kneel beside her slowly. "Hey… you're safe now, we're here, we'll help you, I promise."
Her tears fall faster, relief and terror mixed.
The old staircase groans behind us. The air hums heavy — like the school itself is listening.
And suddenly I understand:
Ghosts aren't always dead.
Sometimes they're the ones still walking around —
unnoticed, unchecked, hurting people in silence.
And we're here to stop it.
Even if something else is watching us from that staircase.
And for the first time tonight…
I'm not afraid of ghosts.
I'm afraid of what people can do.