The rain had stopped just long enough for Greystone’s streets to steam.

From the second-floor detention room, Lira Cross watched the fog roll in—soft at the edges, curling between lampposts like pale fingers. The window glass was streaked with grime, turning the last daylight into a dull, dirty gold. Somewhere down the hall, the janitor’s cart squeaked in an unhurried rhythm.

She was supposed to be writing an apology for “unauthorized use of the science lab’s Bunsen burners.” Her pen hovered above the paper, still.

Across the room, Ezra Hale bent over a history textbook thick enough to stun a bear. His pen moved, but his eyes kept darting to the clock like he was measuring something more than minutes.

Ryke Sato leaned back on two chair legs, chewing gum and staring at the ceiling with lazy patience. Callen Vey—Greystone’s resident ghost in human form—sat closest to the door, hood up, writing in a battered notebook no one had ever been allowed to read.

They weren’t friends. Not even allies. The only thing they shared was being stuck here together.

Then the air changed.

It was subtle—just enough for the fine hairs on her arms to rise. The light thickened. The silence grew heavier, as if the walls were listening. The tick of the clock deepened until each sound felt like a pebble dropping into water.

And then—

Bong.

The sound rolled through the walls like thunder trapped inside a bell jar. This wasn’t the school’s digital chime. This was older, heavier—the kind of tone that belonged to stone towers and iron ropes. The vibration sank into her ribs, rattled the bones in her fingers.

It rang only once. The echo faded, but something remained—an aftertaste of sound. Somewhere high above, a faint metallic drag whispered, too slow to be the wind.

Lira’s breath caught. Probably a loose shutter. Or the janitor. Definitely the janitor.

But the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was… aware.

Ezra’s pen froze mid-word. Ryke’s chair thudded back onto four legs. Callen tilted his head, like he’d been waiting for it.

Out in the hallway, the janitor’s cart squeaked again, perfectly normal.

“Uh,” Ryke said slowly, “did we all just—”

“It’s not possible,” Ezra cut in, voice sharp. “That bell hasn’t—”

“—rung in fifty years,” Callen finished, low.

Ryke smirked, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “And if it rings once—just once—”

Lira already knew the end of the sentence.

“—someone’s gonna die.”

She set her pen down. “That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be funny.” Ryke’s tone stayed lazy, but thin.

Ezra stood abruptly. “It’s impossible. The tower’s been sealed since—”

“Sit down, Hale,” said Mr. Hartwell, the detention supervisor, not looking up from his papers.

“But—”

“Sit. Down.”

Ezra shot Lira a frustrated look, like she could change something. She couldn’t. She wasn’t even sure the sound had been real—except three others had heard it too.

When the hour crawled past, Hartwell dismissed them with all the warmth of a closing door. The hallway outside felt warmer, though the air carried a faint metallic tang, like old coins on her tongue.

Students poured toward the exits, laughing, shoving, living in a world where the bell tower was just part of the scenery.

Ezra muttered numbers under his breath. “Fifty-two years, eleven months, twenty-seven days—”

“Tracking anniversaries now?” Ryke asked.

Ezra didn’t answer.

Callen moved along the wall, fingertips brushing the stone. Sometimes he paused, like his skin was reading the bricks.

They reached the front steps. The fog was thicker now, pooling low over the grass. Greystone’s streets blurred into watercolor shadows.

Ezra stopped abruptly. “We should check the tower.”

Ryke laughed. “Right. Breaking into a condemned building after dark. Excellent idea.”

Ezra turned to Lira. “You heard it.”

She hesitated. She wanted to say no. She wanted to go home and forget. But Callen’s quiet voice cut through.

“If you wait until tomorrow,” he said, “you won’t find anything.”

They all paused.

Ryke narrowed his eyes. “And you know this how?”

Callen didn’t answer. He just walked into the fog.

Lira swore under her breath and followed.

The fog wasn’t drifting anymore—it was sliding, curling low, wrapping around her ankles like water.

The bell tower loomed at the far end of campus, welded to the school’s oldest wing. Up close, it smelled of damp stone, rust, and something faintly sweet—like wet paper left too long in the dark.

The iron gate was chained shut. Beyond it, the wooden door was swollen and warped with age.

Ezra rattled the chain. “Still locked. Which means—”

“—no one could’ve rung it,” Ryke finished.

“Or,” Callen said, “locks don’t matter.”

A faint click broke the night—a latch shifting.

The padlock hung open.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

Ryke let out a low whistle. “Well. That’s not creepy at all.”

Lira’s pulse thundered. She didn’t believe in curses or ghost stories. But she didn’t believe in locks opening themselves either.

Ezra pushed the gate. The hinges groaned like something waking from a long sleep.

Inside, the air was colder. Dust floated in their flashlight beams like frozen insects. The spiral staircase wound upward into shadow, each step worn smooth by decades of feet.

They didn’t climb yet. Something was carved into the first step—shallow, deliberate.

LISTEN.

Lira’s throat went dry.

“Great. Haunted graffiti,” Ryke muttered.

“Not graffiti,” Ezra said. “These grooves are old. Older than the fifty years since the bell last rang.”

A sound slid down from above.

It wasn’t the bell.

It was whispering—low, steady, too smooth to be wind.

Callen’s gaze stayed fixed upward. “It’s waiting.”

The flashlight trembled in Lira’s hand. She wanted to leave. Her legs wouldn’t move.

The whispering stopped.

In the silence, she thought she heard that single chime again—so soft it could have been memory.

Later, halfway home, a black crow landed on the sidewalk ahead.

It didn’t move when she approached. Just tilted its head, one eye unblinking, like it was counting.

She crossed the street to avoid it.

Only then did it lift into the fog—silent, disappearing into the dark.