Episode 2: The Boy Behind the Door

The door glowed faintly, a pulse of red in the shadows, and Arielle couldn’t look away.

The voice that called her name still lingered in her head, soft as a sigh, but filled with something cold and ancient — something that didn’t belong in this world.

Her heart raced.

Every part of her body screamed don’t touch it, but her fingers itched to know what was on the other side.

Before she could decide, the dorm door burst open.

“Arielle! You’re the new girl, right?”

A voice snapped her out of her trance. She spun around to see a tall girl with curly black hair and a mischievous grin. Her name tag read “Lydia.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Lydia said, setting her suitcase on the next bed. “Don’t tell me the walls already whispered to you.”

Arielle’s throat went dry. “What do you mean?”

Lydia smirked. “You’ll see. Everyone hears something different in this building. Some say it’s the wind. Some say it’s… them.”

“Them?”

“The ones who never left Westmoor.” Lydia winked. “This dorm used to be the east servant wing. People died here during the fire years ago. That’s why this section stays colder than the rest.”

Arielle forced a laugh, but she couldn’t shake the memory of that whisper. When she glanced back, the strange door was gone. The wall was blank again, as if it had never been there.

⸻

That night, she dreamed of water.

A long, empty hallway flooded ankle-deep. Candles floated on the surface, their flames flickering like frightened eyes.

She followed the light, her footsteps echoing softly — until she reached a mirror. Her reflection smiled, but she didn’t. Then her reflection whispered:

“He’s waiting, Arielle.”

She woke up drenched in sweat. The room was dark, silent, except for the rain tapping against the window. She glanced at the wall — the door had returned. This time, it wasn’t glowing.

She sat up slowly. Lydia was fast asleep, headphones in her ears.

Arielle’s pulse quickened. She slid out of bed and walked toward the door. When she touched it, it was warm.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then — faintly — came a reply:

“Someone who remembers you.”

She froze. “What?”

The doorknob turned on its own. Slowly. Creaking.

Arielle stumbled back, heart pounding, as a soft hum escaped the crack. It sounded like a lullaby — the same one her mother used to sing.

She felt tears sting her eyes. “Mom?”

The door opened just an inch. The scent of roses and burnt wood drifted out, wrapping around her like smoke.

And then, a hand reached through.

It was pale, almost translucent, veins faintly glowing blue beneath the skin. A boy’s hand — delicate, trembling.

Arielle gasped, stumbling backward. “Who are you?!”

The hand withdrew, and a low chuckle came from the other side. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The door creaked open wider, revealing a boy standing in the darkness — or what looked like a boy. His hair was silver-white, his eyes a shade between ice and ash. He wore an old Westmoor uniform, torn at the sleeves.

“You can see me,” he said softly.

Arielle could barely breathe. “You’re… you’re not real.”

He tilted his head. “And yet, you’re talking to me.”

“What do you want?” she whispered.

His lips curled into a faint, sad smile. “To remember what I was. And maybe… to know why you came back.”

Arielle blinked. “Came back? I’ve never been here before.”

“Oh, you have,” he said. “You just don’t remember. None of them ever do.”

Lightning flashed outside. In that brief light, Arielle saw something behind him — a room filled with old dolls, broken mirrors, and blood-red curtains.

When the thunder rolled, the vision vanished, and the boy was gone. The door slammed shut.

Arielle pressed her ear against the wood. Silence. Only her racing heartbeat.

She returned to bed, trembling, clutching the little wooden door she’d found at home. On its back, the gold letters shimmered faintly again:

“Home is where your soul remembers.”

⸻

The next morning, Lydia noticed her pale face.

“Bad dreams?” she asked, yawning.

“You could say that,” Arielle murmured.

As they walked to class, Arielle noticed strange carvings along the corridor walls — symbols she didn’t understand, swirling patterns like the ones on the tiny door. And each time she passed a mirror, her reflection lingered a second longer, smiling when she wasn’t.

In class, she barely heard the teacher. Her thoughts kept drifting to the boy — his voice, his eyes. He’d seemed… lonely. Sad.

But why did he say she’d been there before?

At lunch, she found herself wandering the library, a vast place filled with dust and secrets. In a far corner, a shelf caught her eye. It was covered with old photographs of Westmoor’s first students.

She flipped through one — a picture from 1921.

Her heart nearly stopped.

There he was.

The same silver-haired boy, standing at the edge of a group photo, smiling faintly. His name printed below:

Elias Vaughn.

Her last name.

Arielle’s fingers trembled. “That’s… impossible.”

Then, from somewhere behind her, that same soft, velvety whisper brushed her ear:

“You found me.”

She turned around — but no one was there.

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