Yvessirae Pov
The silence of St. Jude's at night wasn't actually silent. It was a chorus of hums—the vending machine in the lounge, the distant rattle of the heater, the soft buzz of the overhead fluorescents. I leaned against my locker, my thumb hovering over the screen of my phone.
7:59 PM.
"Just a dare, Rae," I muttered, my voice echoing too loudly in the empty hall. "Sixty seconds of dark, and then you're twenty bucks richer."
I reached out and gripped the cold metal handle of the exit door. I could see the parking lot through the glass—the familiar glow of the streetlamps, the silhouette of the trees. All I had to do was wait for the clock to flip, then push.
8:00 PM.
The world didn't just go dark; it was erased.
The hum of the school died instantly. The streetlights outside didn't just flicker—they vanished, as if someone had draped a heavy velvet cloth over the entire building. I pushed the door handle. It didn't budge. I threw my shoulder against the glass, but it felt like hitting a solid brick wall. The glass was still there, cold and smooth, but it was pitch black on the other side. There was no parking lot. There was no outside.
My heart performed a frantic kick against my ribs. I pulled my phone out, desperate for the flashlight, but the screen was a dead slab of glass. No matter how many times I mashed the power button, it stayed black.
Then, the sound started.
Clack. Drag.
It was distant, coming from the far end of the darkened corridor near the principal's office. In the absolute silence of the blackout, it sounded like a hammer hitting a nail, followed by the heavy scrape of a shovel across concrete.
Clack. Drag.
I froze. I knew this hallway. I knew the water fountain was ten paces to my left and the trophy case was fifteen to my right. But in this darkness, the familiar felt predatory. Every locker vent looked like a watching eye; every shadow looked like a reaching hand.
Clack. Drag. It was closer now.
I felt a sudden, sharp chill crawl up my spine. The air began to smell like old, wet paper and something sour—like milk left in a locker over summer break.
I didn't have a light. I didn't have a way out. And according to the heavy, uneven footsteps approaching me, I wasn't alone.
I turned and began to feel my way along the wall, my fingers trailing over the cold, familiar vents of the lockers. I needed to get to the gym. The coach always kept a spare flashlight in the equipment shed, and I knew the layout of the bleachers well enough to hide.
I moved as fast as I dared, my sneakers squeaking softly on the linoleum. But no matter how fast I moved, the sound stayed exactly the same distance behind me.
Clack. Drag.
It wasn't following me. It was hunting me.