Ghost Files

The envelope burned in my hand.

I read the note again:

*“They were warned too.”*

I didn’t know whose body it was in the photo. The face was blurred, probably by blood — or maybe on purpose. But the car in the picture looked familiar. A red Toyota, parked crooked with its lights still on. That same car had been in the lot the night of the Shutdown.

Someone had been watching us.

“Tobi, we need help,” I said, pacing in front of my bed.

He raised an eyebrow from where he sat, arms crossed. “From who? Campus security? Please. They’ll sweep it under the rug or worse — pin it on us.”

He wasn’t wrong.

I pulled out my notepad. I had already started listing things:

- Ifunanya — witness, still unconscious.

- Fireworks \= distraction.

- Unknown number \= threat.

- Photo \= two-year-old unsolved murder.

- Terror \= possible ally.

That last one felt risky.

Terror wasn’t exactly approachable. Most people avoided him. Some said he was expelled once but mysteriously returned. Others whispered that he was protected by some underground group. But he was the only person bold enough to speak out.

I decided to find him.

***

The next day, I went to Faculty of Arts — where I’d heard Terror sometimes sat on the rooftop of the abandoned theatre block. I took the stairs slowly. The building was supposed to be sealed off, but the door was loose.

I found him there.

Sitting on the edge of the roof, staring out like a king watching a broken kingdom.

“You’re brave,” he said without turning. “Most people wouldn’t come up here.”

“I’m not most people,” I replied, steadying my voice.

He turned to face me. His eyes were cold but curious. “Lola. Final year, Public Health. Smart. Always quiet. Until now.”

He knew my name?

“I found a girl the night of the Shutdown,” I said. “She escaped something. Or someone. And now I’m getting threats.”

Terror didn’t flinch. “You’re in it now.”

“In what?”

“The machine.” He stood and walked past me. “The same one that’s been operating for years. Deaths that don’t make headlines. Witnesses that disappear. Victims labeled as ‘drunk’ or ‘cultists.’”

He looked me dead in the eyes.

“They run it during Shutdowns. It’s the perfect cover. Noise, chaos, people scattered. They take who they want, do what they want, and nobody remembers by morning.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

He shrugged. “Depends on who you ask. Some say ex-students who didn’t really graduate. Others say it’s staff. Or security. Or alumni tied to something deeper. All I know is, they like silence.”

I pulled out the envelope. Handed him the photo.

He stared at it for a long time.

“I knew him,” he said finally. “That was Caleb. 300 level, Sociology. Quiet. Just like you.”

“What happened to him?”

“Same thing that almost happened to Ifunanya.” He folded the photo carefully. “You sure you want to keep going?”

I nodded. “I can’t walk away.”

Terror smiled — the first time I’d ever seen him do that. “Good. You’ll need allies. I’ll introduce you to someone tonight.”

“Who?”

“Someone who used to be part of it.”

***

Back in my room, another message came.

*Unknown Number:*