I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I told myself all week that I wouldn't go. I hated parties — too loud, too crowded, and too full of people who loved to act like the semester hadn't just nearly killed them. But still, there I was, standing near the edge of the dance floor, blinking under strobe lights and wondering if it was too early to sneak out.

The Shutdown.

That's what they called it. The final party of the semester — the one where reputations were made, relationships ended, and apparently, people disappeared.

Nobody said it openly, but the stories were always there.

“He left the party and never got home.”

“They found her in her car — cold.”

“Another shutdown death. Just cult wahala.”

It was always blamed on cults, accidents, or drunken mistakes. But it wasn’t just bad luck. It was a *pattern*.

And this year, I felt it more than ever.

“Lola!” Tobi waved, weaving through the crowd with two drinks in hand. “You actually came. Thought you were ghosting.”

I gave him a dry smile. “I’m not here for long. I just want to say I showed face.”

“Typical,” he laughed. “Let me know when you’re ready to dip.”

By 11:40 PM, I was ready.

“I’m leaving. Can you drop me?” I asked, finding Tobi by the DJ booth.

“Yeah, come,” he said, already heading for the exit. “My car’s not far.”

As we walked, a guy in a black hoodie approached, holding his belt like he wanted to remind us he had something hidden behind it.

“Boss, anything for the boys?” he asked, eyeing Tobi like he was trying to measure his bank balance with his eyes.

“Later, abeg,” Tobi waved him off.

The guy didn’t insist. Just watched us walk past with that slow, unreadable look. That’s when I noticed *them*.

Two men. Standing deep in the trees across the road from the parking area. Dressed in dark clothes, one of them holding something long and metal. They weren’t moving. Just watching.

I *didn’t react*. Just kept walking and talking like I hadn’t seen anything.

Goosebumps rose on my arms.

Then—*firecrackers*.

The sky lit up in green and gold flashes. Everyone screamed and laughed, thinking it was part of the fun. I didn’t laugh. I knew what it meant.

The *fireworks weren’t for celebration*. They were a distraction — a cover for the sounds no one was supposed to hear.

*THUD.*

*THUD.*

A low, sickening rhythm followed, We reached the car. Tobi opened the door, but I turned to scan the road behind us. That’s when I saw it — a car, hazard lights blinking, doors wide open. No one inside.

“Tobi…” I said, pointing.

He looked, and his smile faded.

Then we heard it — a faint rustling in the bushes beside the road.

A girl burst out, barefoot, dress ripped, face scratched, and eyes wide with terror. She didn’t scream. Just ran blindly into the road.

Tobi slammed the brakes as she collapsed in front of us.

We jumped out.

“Hey! Are you okay?” I crouched beside her.

She shook her head, trying to speak, but all that came out was a choking sound. Her hands clutched mine like she’d fall into the earth if she let go.

Behind her, in the darkness, I saw the shadow of *someone stepping back into the woods*.

They were still out there.

Watching. Waiting.

Then a voice echoed across the parking lot — strong, angry, loud.

“Enough!”

The music paused.

People froze.

It was *Terror*. Real name: Tade Ilemona. Final year. Nobody crossed him. Nobody heard him talk. Until now.

“I’ve kept quiet long enough,” he said, walking into the open, his voice clear over the stunned silence. “They’ve turned our parties into hunting grounds.”

Gasps.

“What’s he talking about?” someone whispered.

“They kill us. Year after year. And we dance over the graves.”

And just like that, the Shutdown wasn’t fun anymore.

It was war.

---

Tobi sped out of the parking lot like his foot was welded to the accelerator. The girl lay crumpled in the backseat, her eyes shut, mouth slightly open. I kept looking back, half expecting someone to leap from the shadows and drag her back.

My heartbeat hadn't slowed since we left.

“She didn’t say anything,” I said, staring at her.

“She didn’t have to,” Tobi replied, voice tight. “Look at her. She’s been through something mad.”

“Something’s happening, Tobi. It’s not just cult boys or robbery.”

Tobi didn’t answer. His knuckles were white around the steering wheel.

We took her to the health centre. The nurse on night duty took one look at her and didn’t even ask questions. She was unconscious, bleeding lightly from a scratch on her forehead, and shaking like she’d been dragged through a nightmare.

They admitted her under emergency care.

“What’s her name?” the nurse asked.

“We don’t know,” I replied, my voice quieter than I expected. “We found her… she came out of the bush. Alone.”

The nurse gave me a sharp look. “From that party?”

I nodded.

She didn’t ask anything else. Maybe she already knew.

***

Outside the clinic, Tobi leaned on his car, silent.

I stood beside him, watching the campus melt into silence as the party ended. People were leaving in groups, laughing, tipsy, unaware. No one else seemed alarmed.

Then again, they never were.

Until someone ended up dead.

“You saw those two guys, right?” I asked.

“In the woods? Yeah. But I didn’t want to believe what it looked like.”

“You think they’re the ones?”

“I think they’re part of it. And that girl… she’s a witness.”

We fell into silence. Then Tobi said something I didn’t expect.

“Terror was right.”

I looked up. “You believe him?”

He nodded slowly. “I’ve always heard the rumors. Thought they were just... exaggerated. But tonight? No. There’s something real behind it.”

I remembered what Terror said: *“They’ve turned our parties into hunting grounds.”*

And suddenly, I couldn’t un-hear it.

***

By morning, the story had twisted.

*“Some drunk girl collapsed near the party.”*

*“She was probably high.”*

*“Shutdown drama as usual.”*

The girl was still unconscious, and her ID showed her name was *Ifunanya Oko*, a second-year Mass Comm student.

I visited her again. The nurse said she had bruises on her legs and arms and signs of being dragged through rough terrain.

Still no police.

Still no report.

Again.

That afternoon, I got a text.

*Unknown Number:*

> “You’re asking the wrong questions. Stop.”

My chest tightened.

I showed Tobi.

“This is how it starts,” he said grimly. “Warnings first. Then threats.”

“I’m not stopping,” I replied. “Ifunanya survived. Others didn’t.”

That evening, someone slipped an envelope under my hostel door.

Inside: *A photo.*

A body in a car. Blood on the window. Dated two years ago.

And a note:

> “They were warned too.”

My hands shook as I folded it back.

This wasn’t a party gone wrong.

It was a system.

And I’d just stepped into it.

---

*My name is Lola Adunlade.*

I’m the kind of person most people overlook — not because I’m invisible, but because I don’t demand attention. I stay in the background, watch from the edges, and keep quiet even when I know more than I should. I’ve always been that way — the onlooker, the observer, the one who notices the things others miss.

I don’t like noise, I don’t like crowds, and I definitely don’t like parties. Especially not the Shutdown — the wild, end-of-semester celebration that leaves the campus littered with red cups, regrets, and sometimes… things no one talks about.

I’m in my final year at *The Ingenius University*, studying Public Health. Finishing school is something I’ve been working toward with quiet determination. No drama, no attention — just focus. That’s how I’ve survived . I grew up fast. My mum died when I was eight — a quiet illness, the kind that takes and takes until there’s nothing left but the smell of hospital rooms and old photographs. My dad, a no-nonsense school principal, raised me and my younger brother Damilare with structure, curfews, and strict routines. He did his best. But there’s something growing up without a mother does to you — it makes you cautious. Guarded. Always scanning.

That’s probably why I’m so good at noticing things.

I have a few people who’ve managed to get past my walls.

*Koyinsola Davids* is one of them — my best friend since forever. She’s everything I’m not: bold, outspoken, fiery. She studies Mass Communication at *Charming University*, a few states away, and never hesitates to voice her opinions — or drag me out of my shell when necessary. She thinks I overthink everything. Maybe she’s right.

Then there’s *Tobi Babatunde* — my childhood friend turned coursemate. We’ve grown up side by side, and though he sometimes gets on my nerves with his sarcasm and endless energy, he’s always had my back. He doesn’t always understand the way I process things, but he never judges me for it.

Lately, though, I’ve been unsettled.

I’ve started to notice a pattern — one that appears only around Shutdown.

Each year, there are whispers.

A girl who doesn’t return to her hostel.

A guy found unconscious in a car.

Another one who “just disappeared.”

People always blame cult boys, drugs, or stress. But I don’t believe in convenient explanations.

Last year, I saw something again — and it shook me. A girl was found behind Faculty of Arts, unconscious, bruised. They said she was high. But I saw the guy who brought her to the health centre. He was there last year too. Different girl. Same story.

Someone close to one of the victims approached me recently — discreet, scared. They hinted at something organized. Something ongoing. Something dark.

That was the moment I realized — I’ve been watching for too long.

Now, I’m done just being the observer.

Something is happening at this school.

And I think it’s time someone paid attention.