E L L E

By the time we reach the dorm wing, Luke is still half a step ahead of me, like he can shield me from the whole building. His hand brushes mine once, steady, and the echo of his words lingers: You’re not walking anywhere in this place without me. I should feel safer. Instead, the corridor feels heavier, like Ravenshade itself is waiting for me to slip.

The east dorm corridor is too quiet after an evening meal, the kind of quiet that feels arranged. I know better than to walk it alone, but Luke got pulled into training with his team and promised he’d catch up. I told myself I’d be fine. I lied.

I tell myself I’m only here for my journal. I left it in my locker before dinner, and I need it for tomorrow’s history assignment. That’s the reason. That’s all.

But as soon as I step into the row, my gaze snags on the number halfway down.

237. My locker.

Something prickles at the base of my skull, faint at first. Not a sound exactly, not even a vibration, more like pressure building inside my head. My hand twitches toward the strap of my backpack, the excuse I keep repeating in my head. Just grab the journal. Nothing else. I force myself to keep walking..

“Well, if it isn’t Ravenshade’s favorite ghost story.”

Tobias Vale leans against the wall like he owns it, arms crossed, grin too wide. Two of his friends flank him, the kind of boys who laugh harder the crueler the joke gets.

My pulse stutters. I tighten the scarf around my throat. “Move.”

“Relax,” Tobias drawls, pushing off the wall. His eyes flick to the row beside me, 234, 235, 236 and then, the one that matters.

He smiles when my steps falter. “Go on, Wrenwood. Prove the rumors wrong. Open it.”

The words scrape down my spine. “No.”

His friends snicker. One mimics a whispery voice, “Elowen… Elowen…” The sound cuts sharp because it’s too close to real.

Heat rushes up my neck. “Shut up.”

Tobias steps closer, blocking my path. “Come on, curse-girl. It’s yours anyway. Everyone’s waiting for you to show your true colors. Unless you’re scared.”

Of course I’m scared. The metal hums faintly even now, like it’s listening. I curl my hands into fists to hide the tremble.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” I manage.

He tilts his head, mock-innocent. “Then show us. Open it.”

Behind him, his friends are grinning like it’s the best entertainment they’ve had all week. The corridor feels narrower, colder. My gaze snags on the dull numbers stamped into the door, 2, 3, 7—and my chest tightens.

It would be so easy to reach out. Too easy.

A voice cuts through the tension. “Back off.”

Luke storms toward us, hair damp from training, hoodie half unzipped. His jaw is set in a line I know too well, the one that usually comes right before he throws a punch.

Tobias lifts his hands, feigning innocence. “Relax, Hart. We were just having fun.”

Luke ignores him, stepping directly between me and the locker. “You call this fun?” His eyes are hard, but his hand finds mine, warm and steady. “Daring her to mess with something none of you understand?”

One of Tobias’s friends mutters, “It’s just a locker.”

Luke whirls on him, voice sharp. “No, it isn’t. And if you had half a brain, you’d know that.”

Tobias smirks, trying to hold his ground, but unease flickers in his eyes. “Guess curse-girl doesn’t need you to fight all her battles.”

“She doesn’t need to prove anything to you.” Luke’s voice is rougher now, not anger exactly but fear. Fear that tastes like love.

His grip on my hand tightens as he pulls me firmly away from the locker row. I stumble a step but don’t resist.

When we’re clear of them, his words lash low, almost shaking. “Don’t you ever listen to them. Do you hear me, Elle? Ever.”

I flinch, but not from his anger. Because I can feel what’s underneath it. He’s scared for me. Scared of what the locker might do. Scared of losing me to it.

“I wasn’t going to,” I whisper, though the hum in my chest betrays me.

His chest rises, tight with everything he doesn’t say. Finally, he just shakes his head, tugging me farther down the hall like distance alone can protect me.

The sound follows anyway.

A low vibration, metal rattling against hinges. Locker 237.

I stop short, breath catching. The air tastes sharp, like frost before snow. Luke keeps moving until my arm jerks taut, forcing him to turn.

The locker handle trembles in its socket, the whole frame shuddering as if something inside wants out. The clang echoes down the hall, louder than it should be, like the building itself is amplifying the sound.

“No,” Luke mutters, stepping in front of me again. He plants himself like a wall, shoulders squared, fury rolling off him. “Ignore it.”

But I can’t. The vibration hums in my bones, in my teeth, like the metal has found my frequency. My feet itch to turn back, to touch it, to open it.

“It’s calling me,” I whisper.

Luke’s head snaps toward me. “Don’t say that.” Panic edges his voice. “Don’t ever say that.”

The rattling slams once, hard enough that dust drifts from the rafters above. Tobias and his friends scatter back, faces pale now, their bravado broken.

Luke clamps his hand around mine, anchoring me. His grip is almost painful, but it’s the only thing keeping me rooted.

The sound cuts off as suddenly as it started. The silence that follows is worse.

And that’s when I realize: the locker isn’t dangerous because of Tobias’s dare. It’s dangerous because it’s mine.

The silence stretches, so thick it presses against my ears. Even Tobias and his friends don’t dare break it.

Then low and guttural, a sound rolls out from behind the metal.

A growl.

It isn’t the groan of hinges or the scrape of loose books. It’s deep, alive, wrong. The kind of sound that makes the air vibrate, makes instinct scream predator.

Every hair on my arms stands on end. My pulse stutters, then races.

Luke shifts closer, shielding me with his body. “Get back,” he snaps at Tobias and the others.

They don’t argue this time. Shoes scuff against stone as they retreat down the corridor, muttering curses that don’t disguise their fear.

The growl comes again, longer now, followed by the scrape of claws against metal. The locker shudders under the force, rattling like it can’t hold whatever is inside.

I can’t look away. My throat is tight, but my gaze is locked on the handle, now slick with a thin sheen of frost. The number 237 glitters pale as ice crawls through the grooves of the paint.

Luke grabs my wrist, hard enough to hurt. “Elle. Look at me.”

“I hear it,” I whisper, voice breaking.

“You don’t. You don’t hear anything.” His voice shakes with the lie. His eyes burn, desperate, trying to anchor me to him instead of the locker.

But the sound rips through me a third time, sharper, closer, and now I hear the snarl of breath behind it. Not human. Not possible.

The lock clicks once, sharp as a gunshot, like the door is about to open.