Chapter One — When the Gate Closed
The taxi driver did not wait for Lena Hale to thank him.
The moment her suitcase touched the gravel, he leaned forward, slammed the accelerator, and sped away as if the road behind him had suddenly grown teeth. The red taillights vanished into the fog, leaving her alone beneath the iron gates of Blackthorne University.
Lena stood still for a long moment.
The gate loomed above her, taller than she remembered, its black metal bars twisted into elaborate shapes—vines, thorns, eyes if you stared too long. At the top, the university crest stared down: an open book split by a vertical line, as if cut in half.
Veritas Nos Abscondit.
The truth hides us.
She didn't remember that motto from before.
Cold crept up through the soles of her boots. Not the normal chill of night, but something damp and invasive, like the ground itself was breathing. The fog clung low, curling around her ankles as she stepped forward. When she passed through the gate, it creaked shut behind her with a heavy finality.
The sound echoed.
Too long.
Lena flinched and turned, half-expecting the gate to reopen on its own. It didn't. It stood sealed, as if it had never opened at all.
"You're imagining things," she whispered, though her voice sounded small in the open courtyard.
Blackthorne University unfolded before her.
Stone buildings rose on all sides, gothic and severe, their windows glowing faintly with yellow light. Ivy crawled across the walls like veins. At the center of the courtyard, the old fountain ran endlessly, water spilling over carved figures whose faces had been worn smooth by time.
She remembered those statues.
They had frightened her the first time too.
Back then, she had laughed it off. Elliot had teased her, said she watched too many horror movies, and pulled her closer until the cold didn't feel so bad.
The memory hit her hard enough that she had to grip the handle of her suitcase to steady herself.
Elliot.
Her chest tightened around the name. Three years. Three years since that night. Three years since she had left Blackthorne without looking back, convinced that if she ran far enough, the memories would lose her trail.
They hadn't.
The fountain gurgled, the sound strangely uneven, as though something beneath the water was shifting. Lena forced herself to walk, each step echoing across the stone. Her suitcase rattled loudly, and she hated how alone the sound made her feel.
As she crossed the courtyard, she felt it again.
That sensation.
Being watched.
She glanced up at the surrounding buildings. Windows stared back, dark and reflective. But in one of them—third floor, east wing—she thought she saw movement. A shape pulling back, just out of sight.
Her breath caught.
"Hello?" she called.
The word vanished into the fog.
No answer.
She told herself it was a student, a late-night crammer, anyone normal. Still, she walked faster.
The main hall doors groaned open under her push, releasing a breath of warm, stale air that smelled of dust, old paper, and something metallic underneath it all. The sound of the fountain cut off abruptly as the doors shut behind her.
Inside, the hall stretched long and narrow. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting uneven light that flickered when she passed. Portraits lined the walls from floor to ceiling—former students, donors, professors, founders. Their painted eyes followed her, sharp and knowing.
Lena had always hated these portraits.
Now, they felt different.
Closer.
She rolled her suitcase forward, the wheels squealing in protest. The sound bounced back and forth between the stone walls, multiplying until it felt like footsteps behind her. She stopped.
The sound stopped too.
Her heart pounded.
"Get a grip," she muttered.
Then she saw it.
Near the end of the hall, slightly apart from the others, hung a portrait she did not remember being there before.
The frame was newer, darker wood, polished but not yet dulled by age. The paint itself looked… unfinished. The strokes were careful but hesitant, as if the artist had been unsure how much of the subject they were allowed to reveal.
The face, though—
Lena's breath left her in a rush.
Elliot Moore stared out from the canvas.
Not smiling. Not laughing. Just looking straight ahead, eyes dark and unreadable, lips pressed together like he had been about to say something important but never got the chance.
She stepped closer without realizing it.
Her fingers trembled as she reached out, stopping just short of touching the frame. The plaque beneath the portrait gleamed faintly in the lantern light.
E. Moore
2019 – 2022
No explanation.
No cause of death.
No tribute.
Just dates.
"They didn't even tell the truth about you," Lena whispered.
Her reflection flickered faintly in the glass over the painting, overlapping Elliot's face. For a brief, dizzying second, it looked as though he was standing behind her instead, his breath ghosting against her ear.
You came back.
The thought was so clear it almost sounded like a voice.
Lena staggered back, heart racing. The hall was empty. Silent. The lanterns burned steadily, as if nothing strange had happened at all.
She swallowed hard.
"I'm leaving again," she said aloud, to the hall, to the portrait, to whatever else might be listening. "Soon."
The words felt like a lie the moment they left her mouth.
A clock chimed somewhere deep within the building. Midnight.
From far above, something moved—slow footsteps across stone, pacing, deliberate. Not rushed. Not careless.
As if whoever it was knew exactly where she stood.
Lena grabbed her suitcase and hurried down the hall, not daring to look back at the portrait.
Behind her, unseen, the lantern nearest Elliot's painting flickered once—
—and went out
.
.
Chapter two--- room 312
Never Slept
The corridor outside Room 312 smelled faintly of cleaning solution and something older beneath it—stone that had absorbed decades of footsteps, whispered arguments, quiet breakdowns. The lights overhead buzzed softly, flickering just enough to make Lena's eyes ache.
She stood outside the door longer than necessary.
Her hand hovered inches from the handle, fingers stiff, as if the metal might bite her if she touched it. Somewhere behind her, the building creaked. A low, distant sound, like a sigh traveling through walls.
You're safe, she told herself. It's just a room.
She pushed the door open.
The room was narrow, split evenly down the middle by an invisible line of territory. Two beds. Two desks. Two wardrobes pressed against opposite walls like uneasy neighbors. The window at the far end overlooked the northern courtyard—smaller, darker, enclosed by high stone walls that blocked most of the moonlight.
One bed was already claimed.
Neatly made. Military corners. A pale blue blanket folded at the foot. On the desk beside it sat a framed photograph, turned face-down, and a small desk lamp that cast a warm, steady glow.
A girl sat cross-legged on the bed, braiding her dark hair.
She looked up and smiled.
"You must be Lena," she said, cheerful, as if they'd arranged to meet weeks ago. "I was wondering when you'd get here."
Lena blinked. "How did you—"
"Mara," the girl said, hopping down from the bed and extending her hand. "Your roommate."
Her grip was firm. Too firm. Her palm was warm, almost feverish, a sharp contrast to the cold Lena still carried with her from outside.
"You're late," Mara added lightly. "Most people don't arrive after midnight."
"I… had trouble finding a ride," Lena replied.
"That happens," Mara said, shrugging. "Blackthorne doesn't like being found."
The words slipped out casually, like a joke, but something in Mara's tone made Lena uneasy.
She dragged her suitcase to her side of the room and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight with a soft groan. The sheets smelled clean, but faintly dusty, like they'd been stored too long without being used.
"So," Mara said, leaning against her desk. "You transferred back."
Lena stiffened. "Back?"
Mara tilted her head. "Oh. You didn't know people talk?"
"Talk about what?"
"About you," Mara said gently. "About how you left. About how you weren't supposed to come back."
The room seemed to shrink.
"I'm allowed to be here," Lena said, more sharply than she intended.
Mara smiled wider. "I know. I'm glad you are."
That didn't help.
Lena unpacked in silence, hyper-aware of every movement, every sound. The wardrobe door creaked when she opened it. Somewhere in the walls, water pipes knocked rhythmically, like an uneven heartbeat.
When she finally looked up again, Mara was watching her.
Not staring. Studying.
"Do you sleep with the light on?" Mara asked suddenly.
"No," Lena said. "Why?"
Mara hesitated. "Just asking."
They settled into an uneasy quiet. Outside, the northern courtyard lay still and shadowed. No fountain. No lanterns. Just darkness pressed flat against the glass.
As Lena lay back on her bed, exhaustion finally pulling at her limbs, she felt it again—that sense of being observed. Not from the window.
From inside the room.
"Mara?" she whispered.
"Mm?"
"Does this building ever… make noises at night?"
Mara didn't answer immediately.
"Yes," she said finally. "But you shouldn't listen to them."
Sleep crept over Lena in broken fragments.
She dreamed of footsteps circling her bed. Of whispered counting. Of hands brushing just above her skin without touching. Every time she tried to wake up, the dream pulled her back down.
Then—
Scrrrch.
Her eyes snapped open.
The room was dark. The desk lamp on Mara's side was off. Moonlight barely filtered through the window, casting pale bars across the floor.
Another sound.
Scrrrch… scrrrch.
Something slid along the floor outside.
Lena held her breath.
The sound stopped directly in front of their door.
A pause.
Then the soft, deliberate slide of paper against wood.
Lena sat up slowly, heart pounding so loudly she was sure it would wake Mara. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and tiptoed across the floor. Each step felt dangerously loud.
She opened the door just enough to reach down.
A single folded note lay on the threshold.
The corridor beyond was empty.
She shut the door quietly and unfolded the paper with shaking hands.
The handwriting was familiar.
Too familiar.
You shouldn't have come back.
Below it, written harder, as if the pen had nearly torn the paper:
One of us remembers.
Lena's throat closed.
She read it again. And again.
Behind her, the mattress creaked.
Mara sat upright in bed, eyes open, watching her.
"What is it?" she asked softly.
Lena hesitated. Something told her—deep, instinctive—that showing the note would change something irreversible between them.
"Nothing," she lied, crumpling the paper into her fist. "Just… campus rules."
Mara studied her for a long moment. Then she lay back down.
As Lena returned to her bed, she noticed something that made her skin prickle.
Mara's breathing didn't change.
She hadn't been asleep.
Lena lay awake until morning, staring at the ceiling, clutching the crumpled note in her hand.
Outside, in the northern courtyard, something shifted in the shadows—
and then went still.