The streets of Moonhollow were bone-quiet.

Elle walked alone beneath a sky bruised with cloud, the full moon half-swallowed by fog. The only sound was the hush of her boots against damp pavement and the distant, rhythmic tapping of a crooked streetlamp swaying in the wind.

Every step toward Ravenshade High felt like stepping deeper into a story she hadn’t agreed to tell.

She hadn’t brought her phone.
Hadn’t told Nan.
There hadn’t been time—
Or maybe there hadn’t been courage.

How could she say it out loud?
I think something’s calling me.
Who would believe that?

Who would believe a locker she’d passed a hundred times had whispered her name?

Or that a note, written in ink that shimmered like frost, had told her to return at midnight?

She turned the final corner.

And there it was—Ravenshade High, rising from the fog like a slumbering beast. All angles. All shadows. Its silhouette jagged against the night, like something ancient had rooted itself in the earth and forgotten how to sleep.

The main gates were locked.

But the east wing side door—the one used for gym—was open.

Just a crack.

Elle stared at it.

Then stepped through.

The halls were darker than they should have been.

Emergency lights flickered faintly overhead, casting long, sickly shadows that stretched along the corridor like reaching fingers. Her footsteps echoed too loud on the linoleum—every creak a warning.

The air smelled different at night.

Not like dust and antiseptic, like it did during the day.
No—this was older.
Like moss. Cold stone. Something metallic.

She passed her locker.
Passed the janitor’s closet.

Stopped.

It was there.

Locker 237.

Black metal. Crescent moon etched into the top right corner. Its surface glistened like condensation had bloomed across it, though the air around it was dry.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the latch.

She didn’t turn it.

It turned itself.

Click.

The door groaned open with a sound like rust splitting bone.

Inside—no books. No hooks. No clutter.

Only darkness.

And in the center, resting atop a strip of velvet that hadn’t been there before, was a small obsidian disc.

No larger than a coin.

It pulsed.

A soft, steady light from within, like the echo of something breathing.

Elle stared, breath trapped between a gasp and a scream.

The disc was carved.

Its surface marked with a symbol she didn’t recognize—

—but somehow knew.

A spiral.

Made of frost.

The moment her fingers brushed it, her vision fractured.

The locker vanished.
So did the school.
So did everything.

She was standing in a forest.

Or something like a forest.

The trees rose impossibly high—twisted and gnarled, their bark groaning with age. They whispered to each other, though there was no wind. Pale mist clung to her skin like breath.

Above her, the sky churned.

Not with stars.

But with eyes.

A voice echoed—low and distant, like it was being remembered more than spoken:

She returns.

Then another:

The seal weakens.

And finally—so soft it could’ve been her own thought:

Elle.

She blinked.

The vision vanished.

She was back in the hallway.

Back at Ravenshade.

Clutching the disc like a lifeline.

The locker was closed.

Her knees nearly gave out.

Elle gripped the wall beside it, heart pounding against her ribs like it was trying to claw its way free. The disc in her palm pulsed with cold fire, the spiral still glowing faintly against the black surface.

Her breath came in shallow gasps.

The hallway seemed to tilt under her feet.

She had seen something.

No—she had been somewhere.

That forest.
Those voices.
That sky filled with eyes.

The spiral wasn’t just a mark.

It was a memory—etched into something older than her nightmares.

With shaking fingers, she slipped the disc into her coat pocket.

She didn’t look back at the locker.

Couldn’t.

She stumbled forward, every creak of the hallway now a scream. The air buzzed with pressure. Every shadow had grown teeth.

Ravenshade wasn’t just a school anymore.

It was awake.

Watching.

By the time she reached the exit, her hands were shaking so hard she had to slam her shoulder against the door to open it.

The night air hit her like a slap.

She ran.

Through fog that curled around her legs like chains.
Past sleeping houses and crooked fences.
Across puddles that mirrored fractured stars.

Her scarf flew loose.
Her lungs burned.
Her boots struck water, again and again.

By the time she reached home, her muscles screamed and her breath came in ragged gasps. She barely remembered unlocking the door. Barely noticed kicking off her shoes.

Nan was waiting.

In the living room.

A lamp flickered beside her like it wasn’t sure whether to stay lit.

She didn’t look up from the teacup in her hands.

“Elle,” she said softly, “what did it say?”

Elle froze mid-step.

“…What?”

Nan’s voice didn’t change. Calm. Low. Too calm.

“The thing that called you back.”

Like it wasn’t the first time she’d said those words.

“I—I don’t know,” Elle whispered.

Nan finally lifted her gaze.

There was no surprise in her eyes.

Only sadness.

And something else.

Something deeper.

Something shaped like fear.

“You touched it, didn’t you?”