"Kayla, talk to me."
Caston's voice was steady, but the way his hands gripped her arms betrayed his concern.
Kayla sucked in a breath, trembling. "There was a girl… in the library. She talked to me. She's dead, Caston. She's—she's one of them."
His brows furrowed. "One of what?"
"The missing students. From the original graveyard." Her voice broke. "She knew my name. She said someone's watching me."
Caston's gaze flicked over her shoulder, down the now pitch-black hallway. "We're getting out of here."
He didn't wait for her to protest—he just pulled her with him, hand wrapped firmly around hers, guiding her through the school's silent, haunted guts. Kayla didn't argue. She couldn't.
Outside, the night air was colder than it should've been. The wind whispered through the trees, almost as if it were echoing her name.
"Why were you here alone?" Caston asked, not letting go.
"Because I don't need a babysitter," she snapped, recovering her edge.
"You need to not get possessed by ghosts," he retorted. "Which apparently means you do need a babysitter."
She almost laughed. Almost.
But the laughter faded when she saw something on her arm. Just below her elbow, a faint handprint—as if someone had gripped her with icy fingers. The skin was red and slightly bruised.
"Kayla…" Caston saw it too.
Her voice was barely a whisper. "She touched me."
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, stepping in front of her. "Okay, you're not going anywhere alone again."
She gave him a flat look. "Since when do you care?"
He was silent for a moment. Then, "Since you looked like you were about to fall apart in my arms."
That shut her up.
She looked away, heart thudding in a rhythm that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with him.
He cleared his throat. "Come on. We're getting you home."
---
The next morning, Kayla sat in the living room of Rose's house with Laura and Marina, wrapping her fingers tightly around a steaming mug of tea. She hadn't slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the ghost girl—pale, flickering, accusing.
"I think she marked me," Kayla said.
Laura adjusted her glasses. "Marked you how?"
Kayla showed them the handprint. It was still there.
Marina leaned closer. "That's not normal."
"None of this is," Kayla said.
Laura hesitated. "What exactly did she say to you?"
"That someone's watching me." Kayla's voice dipped. "And she was afraid. Not just angry. She kept saying it was too late."
Marina looked around nervously. "We need to tell the others."
Rose nodded grimly. "We're meeting tonight. All of us."
---
That evening, the five friends gathered in the woods behind Ridgewood again, flashlights in hand. The tension between Kayla and Caston was tangible—he kept hovering near her, and she kept pretending not to notice.
"I say we go back to the graveyard," Laura said. "We're not going to get answers in the school anymore. The ghosts are warning us, not attacking us. Not yet."
"And what exactly are we going to do if they do attack?" Caston asked.
"Not let Kayla go running into haunted libraries alone," Rose muttered.
"I didn't run!" Kayla snapped. "I walked! And I was careful."
"You got marked!" Marina said.
Caston stepped in before it escalated. "Look, it doesn't matter. We go in, we stick together. That's it."
They followed the now-familiar path into the overgrown graveyard. The tombstones were more visible than before, as though the spirits were making themselves known. As they neared the center, Kayla felt it—a strange pull, like something deep beneath the earth was calling to her.
"Guys," she whispered, kneeling by a stone half-buried in moss. She brushed it away, revealing a name.
Eleanor Greaves.
That was the name of the girl. The ghost.
Suddenly, a gust of wind blasted through the trees, strong enough to knock them off their feet.
A voice rose with it—ragged, angry, and echoing with a thousand whispers.
"You dug us up."
"You disturbed the dead."
"Now you will join us."
The earth rumbled.
"Run!" Marina screamed.
But Kayla couldn't move. She was frozen, eyes locked on the grave. The handprint on her arm burned, flaring bright red.
Then—Caston grabbed her, hauling her to her feet. "I told you—you don't go anywhere alone."
They sprinted, branches clawing at their clothes, the ghostly wind howling behind them.
---
Back in Kayla's room that night, Caston stood by her window, arms crossed. Kayla was pacing.
"You're acting like some protective boyfriend," she muttered.
He glanced at her. "I'm acting like someone who doesn't want to see you dragged into a hole by the undead."
She stopped. "Why do you care?"
A beat passed.
"Because I do," he said simply. "I don't know when that started. Maybe when you called me out in front of everyone in chem class sophomore year. Maybe when you rolled your eyes every time I opened my mouth. I don't know. But I do."
She stared at him, stunned.
Before she could answer, her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. One word.
"Marked."
Kayla's blood turned cold.
She looked at Caston, who read it over her shoulder.
And then the lights in her room flickered.