The air changed before the man appeared.
It started with the temperature—a sudden drop, like the sun had dimmed due to clouds and had forgotten to stay warm. Wind hissed through the booths. The flyers fluttered. And then the crowd parted.
He emerged without warning. No footsteps. Just there.
A man in a long black coat walked toward our booth with the precision of a funeral procession. His brimmed hat shadowed most of his face, and the skin I could see was pale, the kind of pale that didn't look like it belonged in daylight. His hands were gloved. One of them held a single flyer between two fingers, like he didn't want to touch it for long.
Hailey and I stopped what we were doing. I didn't remember agreeing to feel cold in my spine, but here we were.
"Is this the Paranormal Investigations Club?" he asked.
His voice was wrong. It was too calm, too quiet—but it still carried. Like a whisper made of gravel and fog. Hailey stepped forward, hesitation hidden under her usual bravado. "Yeah. That's us." The man didn't look at her. He didn't look at anyone. He looked through things. Through us.
"I am not here for conversation," he said. "I am here for correction." He tapped the flyer in his hand once—then let it go. It didn't fall.
Instead, something floated through the air like paper submerged in water: a thick envelope sealed with a red wax crest. It drifted between us, impossibly slow, and then stopped—midair—before tilting into Hailey's hands without being touched.
"What... the hell?" I whispered, but nobody answered.
Hailey turned it over. The paper was heavy. Cream-colored. Edged with gold.
She broke the seal and pulled the letter out.
I read it over her shoulder.
Midnight Invitation
Black Manor
Whitewell Street
Tonight only.
One trial. One reward.
Survivors will be compensated.
Below, in red ink:
Attendance is mandatory once accepted.
I gulped. But just as I was going to press the old mysterious guy for more answers to the invitation and his sudden appearance he was nowhere to be seen. The man was already gone, swallowed by festival traffic I could assume.
"It's real." Hailey said with a shock on her face as a single sweat trickled down on her forehead. She went quiet, frowning like something just clicked. Festival noise buzzed around us, but the silence between us only grew louder. I looked at the letter again. "Mandatory once accepted…huh.." That part was a little ambiguous.
"Mandatory once accepted. Remy, this is exactly the kind of experiential urban‑legend challenge our club lives for."
"Yeah, and maybe after that we summon Bloody Mary for clout" I joked.
Hailey pouted. "Then at least help me verify the address after cleanup. We can swing by, poke around, decide if it's worth rallying the club."
Jordan raised his hand like a nervous auction bidder. "I'm…uh…out. I've got an economics quiz Monday and a full night's worth of anxiety already."
"Fine," Hailey said, turning to me. "Partner?"
I sighed. "This is the part where I say no. Where I walk away like a sane person."
Hailey didn't flinch. Just watched me.
"But if I don't go," I muttered, "you'll go alone." She smiled. Damn her.
"Fine. Just to look."
"Hey, you two! There you are." It was Macy, our club president. She pushed her glasses up and lashed out on us, her arms laden with folded-up decorations. "The festival's almost over, and we need all hands on deck to clean up!"
I glanced outside. Somehow, the day was already ending. The sun had already casted a dark orange shadow as it prepared itself to set down for the day. I glanced the area and of our clubmates were already preparing to set the club booth decorations down. Hailey glanced at me, then back at the letter in her hands. "Uh, yeah, sure. We'll be right there."
.
.
.
Festival teardown always felt like a kind of aftermath—less cleanup, more recovery. Confetti stuck to the pavement like dried blood. Half-deflated balloons clung to branches like they'd surrendered. Faculty barked orders through megaphones, herding exhausted students like dazed survivors.
The sun was low now. Orange. Unforgiving.
Hailey stood outside our club room, wind teasing strands of hair across her face. She was still holding the box—half-flattened, warped at the edges. Her eyes flicked between it and the sky like she couldn't decide if she was packing up or gearing up.
I pulled my phone from my pocket. 13%. Not enough for what we were about to do.
I looked at her. "We should go. If we're doing this."
She nodded once, sharp. "Right."
Then called over her shoulder, louder, "Jordan! You staying or coming?"
Jordan was already halfway down the stairwell, his retreat almost theatrical. He didn't even turn all the way around when he answered.
"Staying gone," he said. "You two be careful. Seriously."
Hailey didn't answer. She just saluted—two fingers, mock-serious—and then gave me a grin that didn't quite reach her eyes. "This place better have ghosts. Otherwise we're breaking laws for nothing."
I didn't return it.
But before we could take a step, a voice cut across the hallway—sharper than glass.
"Remy. Hailey."
Macy stood with the authority of a judge. Her arms full of leftover signage, eyes pinned on us like she already knew what we were planning. No jokes. No questions.
She marched straight up and slammed a cardboard box into Hailey's arms without ceremony.
"Storage room. Drop it off. Then do whatever the hell you're doing."
No argument. No smile. Just orders.
Hailey groaned, but not loudly. The kind of sound you make when you know you've already lost.
She tilted her head at me. "Come on. Let's just get it over with."
The storage room was tucked behind the gym. Few people ever used it—barely lit, always damp, like the building had tried to forget it existed. The buzzing fluorescent light overhead stuttered like a dying insect. Inside, everything smelled like cardboard, mildew, and time.
We stepped in.
Hailey dropped the box without care. Not a slam—but not gentle, either. Like she didn't want to hold it for a second longer than she had to.
She stayed by it, one hand still on the edge, breathing slowly through her nose.
Nothing had changed in here. Not really. Same coiled cables, broken chairs, rusted shelving. Same banner from a festival five years ago still half-folded in the corner.
Except something had changed.
There, sitting on top of a crate that hadn't been opened in months, was an envelope. Cream-colored. Heavy stock. Just like before.
I took one step closer.
"You seeing this?" I asked.
"Yeah," she murmured. "And I really wish I wasn't."
She moved toward it like it might vanish. Hesitant. Careful. Her fingers hovered over it, then picked it up.
It was already addressed. Already sealed. Already waiting.
She opened it.
Same embossed lettering. Same message.
Confirmed Attendees:
Collins, Hailey
Vance, Remy
Anderson, Jordan
Delgado, Macy
…and twenty-one more.
Hailey didn't speak. Just flipped to the next page.
ACCEPTANCE PENDING
Black Manor thanks you.
Arrival window: 23:30–23:45
Non-arrival will be considered forfeiture.
Penalty: One life per absentee.
She exhaled, barely a breath. Her lips parted.
"This is... this is an invitation, right?"
I shook my head. "No."
My voice was low. Almost a whisper.
"This is a warning."
She looked at me then. Really looked.
And this time, she didn't smile.
Reaching for the phone at my pocket one last time, it was decided at that moment we had to go or else we'd face consequences. Moments later, and an hour had already passed by ever since we found that letter or invitation and once Hailey mentioned the whole thing out to our groupchat, everyone heard.
I pushed the invitation back into my pocket and looked up at the knot of faces bathed in the dying amber of streetlamps—twenty‑five of us, each holding the same menacing card like a manifesto. The air tasted of impending rain and something… else. A low murmur rippled through the group, hesitant as a heartbeat.
One clubmate's voice trembled. She folded her arms, shoulders tight. "This feels like one of those horror movies I refuse to watch. Am I the only one who thinks we're walking into a trap?"
This wasn't a dare scribbled on a napkin. It wasn't a chain text or a group prank or some viral scare attempt. Whoever sent this had patience and the kind of precision that made my skin crawl. This invitation wasn't asking us to play. It was telling us we'd already agreed.
Then Hailey stepped forward, her eyes flickering with conviction and something like firelight. Hailey her voice loud and steady. "Listen up. We all got the invitation. Penalty: one life per absentee. That's not a rumor or a dare. That's a threat. Friends, if this is fake, we'll debunk it. If it's real… we don't get a second invite." Spoken like a true leader.
I straightened, feeling the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes. My pulse settled into a calm thrum—this was where I thrived. I gulped, meeting each gaze without a trace of theatrics. My voice stayed even, measured.
"We're here because someone wants answers. We're not a scavenger‑hunt club and we're not thrill‑seekers. We're investigators—which means we move as one. No one breaks off alone. We carry flashlights, not cameras or gimmicks. We set a single rally point and a strict departure time. If anything goes wrong, we regroup immediately and pull out. Clear?" I boldly proclaimed to them.
A hush fell—no laughs, no scoffs—just twenty‑five nods under the moonlit sky.