The bus rumbled down the lonely road, its headlights cutting through the dense fog that clung to the trees like a heavy veil. Lina pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the window and watched the twisted branches blur by. Each mile took her farther from the life she had known, and deeper into the unknown.

St. Mary’s Boarding School. That was where she was going. A place that seemed plucked from the old gothic novels she used to read when she was younger. Her mother had said it would be “a fresh start,” but the words had tasted bitter. A fresh start after her father’s death, after her mother remarried, after everything she thought of as normal had cracked apart.

The bus driver, a man with a permanent frown etched into his face, had said little during the long journey. When the school finally appeared through the mist, even he looked unsettled.

“There it is,” he muttered, as if to himself.

Lina leaned forward. Beyond the fog rose towering gates of wrought iron, their black bars twisted into the shapes of thorns and crosses. Beyond the gates loomed the school itself—a massive, stone building with sharp angles and countless windows that reflected no light. A bell tower pierced the sky, its pointed roof vanishing into the mist. Even at a distance, Lina felt as though the tower was watching her.

The bus stopped. The air that rushed in as the doors opened was colder than before, thick with the scent of rain-soaked stone and something faintly metallic. Lina gathered her bag, her hands trembling despite herself.

“You’ll be fine,” the driver said gruffly, though his eyes darted nervously toward the school. “They’re expecting you.”

Expecting her. That didn’t make it better.

The gates creaked open as she approached, as if an unseen hand had been waiting. The courtyard was vast, paved with cracked cobblestones and lined with leafless trees. Statues of saints stood on either side of the entrance, but their faces had eroded until they looked more like mourners than protectors.

Lina’s footsteps echoed as she crossed the courtyard. Each sound bounced back at her, too loud, as though the building itself was listening.

When she reached the heavy oak doors, one of them swung open before she could knock. A woman stood there, tall and severe, with iron-gray hair pulled into a bun so tight it seemed to lift her eyebrows. She wore a dark dress buttoned to the throat and an expression that gave nothing away.

“Miss Lina Winters,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “We’ve been waiting. I am Headmistress Blackwood. Come inside.”

Lina obeyed, stepping into a corridor so dimly lit she had to blink to adjust her eyes. The air was colder inside than outside, carrying the faint smell of chalk, mildew, and something else—something like old blood.

The corridor stretched on endlessly, lined with portraits of former headmasters and students. Their painted eyes followed her, glinting with an uncanny sharpness. One portrait in particular made her pause: a girl about her age, with long dark hair and eyes that seemed too alive for paint. There was no nameplate beneath the frame.

Headmistress Blackwood noticed her hesitation. “Don’t dawdle,” she snapped. “Your dormitory awaits. Classes begin tomorrow, and punctuality is sacred here at St. Mary.”

They walked in silence, their footsteps muffled by the faded crimson carpet that ran the length of the hall. The building was vast, its high ceilings arching like the ribs of a cathedral. Shadows pooled in every corner, and Lina could swear she heard whispers just beyond the edge of hearing.

Finally, they arrived at a door marked North Wing – Dormitory. The headmistress handed Lina a brass key that was worn smooth with age.

“Room thirteen,” she said. “Unpack and rest. Attendance is called at dawn. Do not be late.”

The way she emphasized the last words sent a shiver down Lina’s spine.

Room thirteen was at the very end of the corridor. Lina pushed the key into the lock and turned it, the door groaning as though protesting her presence. The room inside was small and cold, with a single iron bed, a desk, and a wardrobe that smelled of mothballs. The window overlooked the courtyard, where the fog still swirled, refusing to disperse.

As she set her bag on the bed, the silence of the room pressed down on her. She tried to distract herself by unpacking, but halfway through folding her clothes, she heard it—faint at first, like a sigh.

Lina.

She froze.

The voice was soft, almost drowned by the creaking of the old pipes, but it was unmistakable. Someone had whispered her name.

She spun toward the door. It was closed. The corridor outside was silent.

Slowly, she turned back. The mirror above the desk caught her reflection—but for the briefest second, it wasn’t her face staring back. It was the girl from the portrait, her dark eyes full of sorrow and rage.

Lina stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth. The reflection blinked, and it was her own face again, pale and terrified.

A sudden clang rang out, sharp and resonant, echoing through the halls. It was the bell tower. Midnight.

The sound reverberated deep into her chest, and as it faded, she heard a second voice—clearer, closer, filled with venom.

They didn’t answer for me. They will answer for you.

The air grew icy, and the lights flickered. Lina’s breath came in clouds. She backed toward the bed, clutching her bag like a shield.

The wardrobe door creaked open, slowly, as though pushed by invisible hands. Darkness yawned inside, deeper than it should have been.

And then, faintly, the sound of chalk scratching across a blackboard.

Attendance was being taken.

Lina woke to the tolling of the bell. It rang six times, each strike deep and hollow, rolling through the stone walls of the school like the heartbeat of some ancient beast. She sat up in bed, her breath misting in the cold morning air. The events of last night swam in her mind—voices, whispers, the girl’s face in the mirror. She told herself it must have been exhaustion. Her imagination. Nothing more.

Yet the wardrobe stood slightly ajar, though she was certain she had closed it before falling asleep.

She dressed quickly in the uniform folded neatly on her desk: a black pleated skirt, white blouse, and a gray blazer with the school’s crest embroidered on the breast pocket. The crest—a bell wrapped in ivy—made her skin prickle.

The corridor outside her dormitory was alive with footsteps and chatter. Girls in identical uniforms hurried past, some carrying books, others fixing their hair. A few glanced at Lina, their eyes sweeping over her like she was a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.

She trailed behind them until they reached the Great Hall.

The hall was vast, its vaulted ceiling supported by dark beams that seemed to vanish into shadow. Rows of wooden benches stretched across the floor, facing a raised platform where a blackboard stood. At its side was a lectern carved from oak, where Headmistress Blackwood waited, her presence as sharp and unyielding as a blade.

Lina slipped into an empty seat near the back. The air buzzed with nervous energy, though she couldn’t tell if it was because of the headmistress’s stern gaze or something deeper.

When the last student had filed in, the great doors slammed shut with a force that rattled the windows. Silence fell.

“Attendance,” Headmistress Blackwood intoned.

She picked up a piece of chalk from the lectern. The sound of it striking the blackboard echoed like bones snapping.

“Adams.”

“Present,” a girl in the front row answered quickly.

“Barker.”

“Present.”

“Caldwell.”

Each name was called, each student answering in turn. The rhythm was mechanical, almost ritualistic, as though this daily routine was more than just formality. The sound of voices filled the hall, yet Lina felt something else lurking beneath—an invisible ear straining for the roll call.

Her pulse quickened when Blackwood’s eyes landed on her.

“Winters,” the headmistress said.

“Present,” Lina replied, her voice sounding thin in the cavernous hall.

The chalk scratched her name onto the board with a finality that made her shiver.

And then it happened.

The headmistress paused. The hall fell silent, the air thick enough to choke on. Slowly, she turned her head toward the far corner of the room.

Lina followed her gaze. The bench there was empty.

The headmistress raised the chalk again.

“Julia Ashworth,” she called.

The name rippled through the hall like a stone dropped into water. Lina felt the tension around her—students stiffening, exchanging quick glances. No one spoke.

Silence stretched.

And then, faintly, a sound.

Present.

It was barely a whisper, yet it carried through the hall with chilling clarity.

The chalk in the headmistress’s hand snapped in two.

A murmur rose among the students, quickly silenced by Blackwood’s glare. She set the broken chalk aside, her knuckles white.

“Dismissed,” she said, her voice sharp. “To your lessons.”

The benches scraped against the floor as students filed out in rigid lines. Lina followed, her thoughts spinning. Who was Julia Ashworth? Why had her name been called as if she were still alive?

Outside the hall, the crowd broke into smaller groups, chatter erupting as soon as they were out of earshot of the staff. Lina caught fragments of whispers.

“Why did she—”

“She’s been gone for years.”

“Not supposed to say her name.”

Lina slowed her pace, listening. A group of three girls ahead of her walked close together, their voices sharp and cruel.

“Did you see the new girl?” one said, her tone dripping with mockery. “She looked ready to faint when Julia’s name was called.”

“Of course she did,” another replied. “No one tells the newbies. They let them figure it out the hard way.”

The third girl laughed, high and cold. “Maybe Julia will like her. Maybe she’ll be the next one.”

They disappeared down another corridor, leaving their laughter echoing behind them.

Lina’s stomach twisted. She wanted to demand answers, but her instinct told her silence was safer. For now.

Her first class was History, held in a room that smelled of dust and old leather. She took a seat at the back, but her mind wasn’t in the lesson. She kept replaying the moment in the hall—the way the name had been called, the whisper that had answered.

The teacher droned on about wars and treaties, but the words blurred into static. Lina’s gaze wandered to the window. Outside, the fog pressed against the glass like a living thing.

She thought she saw a shadow move within it. A girl’s silhouette, standing perfectly still, watching.

Lina blinked. The figure was gone.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. She stumbled from one class to another, her notes as a meaningless scrawl. Everywhere she went, she felt eyes on her—sometimes human, sometimes not.

By lunchtime, she found herself in the cafeteria, a cavernous hall filled with long tables. Students sat in cliques, laughing or whispering. No one invited her to sit with them. She ended up alone at the edge of the room, poking at a plate of gray stew.

It was then that a boy slid into the seat across from her. He had messy dark hair and a crooked smile, his blazer unbuttoned as though he cared little for rules.

“You’re Lina, right?” he said.

She nodded cautiously.

“I’m Daniel. Don’t worry, you’re not the only outsider here.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You heard it this morning, didn’t you? Julia’s name.”

The fork froze in her hand. “You know about her?”

He nodded grimly. “Everyone does. They just don’t talk about it. Not unless they want trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Daniel’s eyes darkened. “The kind that doesn’t end well. Look, just… don’t ask questions too loudly, alright? This school has a way of swallowing people who dig too deep.”

Before Lina could reply, the cafeteria doors slammed shut with a deafening bang. The chatter died instantly.

For a moment, the air seemed to hold its breath.

Then, faintly, from the far end of the hall, came the unmistakable sound of chalk on a board.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Writing a name.

Every head turned, eyes wide with fear. Lina’s heart pounded as the sound grew louder, though there was no blackboard in sight.

And then it stopped.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Daniel swallowed hard. “It’s starting again,” he whispered.

Lina’s blood ran cold. She didn’t know what it was—but she was certain Julia Ashworth was at the heart of it.

And she was certain that Julia was not finished.

Lina’s first afternoon at St. Mary crawled by like a nightmare she couldn’t wake from. Classes ended, yet the tension lingered, as if the walls themselves still vibrated from the unseen chalk scratching across them. She followed the other students back to the dormitories, her body heavy with exhaustion, her mind tangled in fear.

Daniel had vanished as quickly as he’d appeared, muttering something about being careful who saw him with her. That left Lina alone again, her footsteps echoing down the long, dim corridors.

The school was a labyrinth. Staircases doubled back on themselves, doors opened into empty rooms lined with broken desks, and portraits seemed to hang in places she didn’t remember passing earlier. The deeper she walked, the more she felt the school rearrange itself around her.

By the time she reached her dormitory, the corridor was empty. A draft swept down it, making the old lamps flicker. Lina unlocked her door and slipped inside, shutting it quickly behind her.

She sank onto the bed and pressed her palms against her face. She needed to breathe, to think.

Julia Ashworth. The name burned in her mind. Why had the headmistress called it? Why did everyone react with fear, but no one dared speak of it?

Her stomach growled, dragging her back to reality. The cafeteria food had been nearly inedible, and she hadn’t eaten much. With a sigh, she dug into her bag and pulled out the packet of crackers she had packed from home.

That was when she heard it.

Psst.

The sound was faint, coming from the direction of the wardrobe.

Her chest tightened. Slowly, she turned her head. The wardrobe stood closed, but shadows shifted along its bottom seam.

Psst… Lina…

Her name again. She dropped the crackers onto the bed, her hands trembling. “Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The room went cold. Her breath clouded. The lamp on the desk flickered once, twice, then went out, plunging her into darkness.

Lina scrambled for the matches she had seen on the desk earlier. Her fingers struck one against the box, and the flame burst to life, casting trembling light.

The wardrobe door creaked open. Just a fraction.

Inside, the darkness seemed to breathe.

And then—nothing. No figure stepped out. No voice whispered again.

The match burned down to her fingertips, and she hissed, shaking it out. In the silence that followed, she realized she wasn’t alone.

Her reflection stared at her from the mirror across the room. But it wasn’t moving with her.

The other Lina stood motionless, her dark hair hanging damply around her face, her eyes wide and unblinking. The corners of her mouth twitched into a grim smile.

Lina stumbled back against the bed, her heart hammering. “Stop it,” she gasped. “You’re not real.”

The reflection tilted its head.

And then the glass cracked—just once, a hairline fracture crawling across it like a vein. The sound was sharp, final.

She bolted for the door, throwing it open and rushing into the corridor. Her shoes clattered on the wooden floor as she ran blindly, anywhere that wasn’t her room.

The hallways seemed endless, stretching longer than they should, each door identical to the last. Panic rose in her throat. She turned a corner and nearly collided with someone.

Daniel.

He steadied her, his brow furrowed. “Whoa, hey! What happened?”

Her voice shook. “There was—someone—in my room. In the mirror. I swear—”

Daniel glanced around, then pulled her into an empty classroom, shutting the door behind them. “Keep your voice down. If anyone hears you talking like that, you’ll be labeled crazy by morning.”

“I’m not crazy,” she snapped, though her trembling hands betrayed her. “Something’s wrong with this place. It’s her, isn’t it? Julia.”

Daniel’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. It’s her.”

Finally, someone said the name without flinching. Lina clung to that. “What happened to her?”

He hesitated, pacing. The classroom was lined with dust-coated desks, their surfaces carved with decades of initials. The blackboard at the front was blank, though chalk dust lingered in the air.

“She died,” Daniel said at last. “But no one will tell you how. Officially, it was an accident. Fell from the bell tower during evening roll call, they say. But everyone knows that’s a lie.”

Lina’s blood ran cold. “A lie?”

He nodded grimly. “She was different. Too smart, too outspoken. She didn’t fit in. People made her life hell here. And when she… went missing, the staff covered it up. Said she couldn’t handle the pressure. But the truth is…” He stopped himself, glancing at the door as though afraid someone was listening.

“The truth is what?” Lina pressed.

Daniel lowered his voice to a whisper. “Some say she was pushed.”

The words struck Lina like ice water. Pushed. Murdered.

“And now she’s—what? Taking revenge?”

Daniel’s eyes darkened. “Wouldn’t you, if you’d been forgotten? If no one answered your name?”

A silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Then, without warning, the blackboard at the front of the room screeched.

Both of them spun toward it. A line of chalk, invisible in the air, dragged itself across the surface. Letters appeared, jagged and uneven.

ANSWER ME.

The chalk dropped to the floor, shattering.

Lina’s heart thundered. Daniel swore under his breath.

The classroom door rattled violently, though no one touched it. The sound echoed down the corridor beyond, like a thousand fists pounding in unison.

Lina backed against the wall, her chest heaving.

The rattling stopped. Silence swallowed the room.

Daniel grabbed her wrist. “We need to go. Now.”

They bolted from the classroom, their footsteps echoing as they fled through the twisting corridors. Lina didn’t dare look back.

But as they turned a corner, she heard it again. The sound of a voice, faint but clear, chasing her through the halls.

Winters… present.