The Dust Beneath Lockridge High
Part 1 – The Locker that Breathed
Lockridge High looked normal from the street — red-brick walls, marching-band trophies, a flickering digital sign that read "Home of the Ravens!" — but everyone in town knew it smelled wrong after rain. Not mold exactly, but something drier, older. Like a museum left open overnight.
Avery Lane noticed it every morning.
They'd pause at the gate, earbuds in, eyes half-closed, and breathe the air that carried a faint taste of dust. "It's in the vents," the janitor once told them. "Old building lungs."
Avery liked that image — the school breathing. Until it actually did.
⸻
Their locker was number 317. Bottom row, next to the chemistry lab.
The first time it moved, Avery thought they were imagining things. They heard a faint sigh, like paper sliding over sand. Then a whisper, too low to be words.
They blinked at the door seam. A strand of linen — pale, frayed — was sticking out, just an inch, like something stuffed inside trying to escape.
"Probably someone's prank," Avery muttered, tugging the scrap free.
It was old cloth, dry as parchment. When they rubbed it, a tiny cloud of beige powder drifted up, and their fingertips smelled faintly of cinnamon and rot.
⸻
That afternoon in history class, Mr. Danner lectured about Thebes and burial rituals. The coincidence made Avery's chest tighten. Their mind kept circling the scrap of fabric now hidden in their hoodie pocket. They wanted to show someone — maybe Jordan from art club — but decided against it. Jordan liked ghost stories too much; they'd turn this into a whole séance.
Instead, Avery went back to the locker after school. The hallway was empty, light gold through the windows, lockers like metal coffins in neat rows. When they crouched down and turned the dial — click, click, click — a gust of warm, dry air brushed their face.
And something rustled inside.
Avery froze.
"Hello?" they whispered, feeling ridiculous. "Anyone… in there?"
No answer, just a soft shifting sound, like pages turning.
They pulled the door open.
A swirl of dust burst out — thick enough to make them cough — and for half a second, they saw something inside: a shape wrapped in linen, curled tight, about the size of a person's torso. Then it collapsed into gray powder, vanishing into the floor vent below.
Avery stumbled back. Their heartbeat stuttered.
When they looked again, the locker was empty — just textbooks, a sketchpad, and their thermos.
⸻
They didn't tell anyone. Not yet.
Instead, they cleaned their hands again and again, but the faint tan dust clung to their skin no matter how hard they scrubbed.
That night, they dreamed of hallways filled with sand. Lockers stood half-buried like tombstones, and from each door came the sound of dry breathing.