Chapter Two - Roll Call

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.

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