Grayeridge High was small—smaller than Noah expected. It carried the smell of old books and polished tile, with a color palette that made it hard to tell where the walls ended and the sky began. The school stood as a remnant of a forgotten era, built in the early 1900s and complete with spires, creaky floors, and classroom doors adorned with frosted glass windows.
Noah walked through its halls like someone drifting through a dream—neither fully involved nor completely detached.
By the end of his first week, he knew the names of people who didn't bother to learn his. The rumor that he "never smiled" spread faster than he could correct it, not that he made any effort. It was easier to be left alone than to pretend to be someone he wasn't.
The students of Grayeridge were friendly in a way that reminded him of strangers in a fog—blurry and just out of reach. They smiled widely, asked vague questions, and moved on before he could respond. One kid stared too long and asked if he "saw the colors too" before bursting into laughter. Another girl dropped her books and whispered something about "mirrors cracking on their own."
Leah, on the other hand, had already blended in like cream in coffee. She was popular in a quiet way—not loud, but magnetic. She joined the art club, got invited to a bonfire, and came home smelling like smoke and friendship.
"Give it time," she told Noah one night, brushing wet hair from her face. "They'll come around."
But Noah didn't want them to come around. He wanted something real.
That change came on a Tuesday, after a week of gray lunches and even lonelier hallways.
His name was Jamie Barlow.
He showed up like someone crashing a play mid-performance—messy brown hair, mismatched socks, and eyes full of energy. He dropped his backpack on the cafeteria bench across from Noah as if they'd known each other for years.
"You're new," he said, unwrapping a crumpled sandwich. "Which means you don't know the story. Which is perfect."
Noah raised an eyebrow. "What story?"
Jamie leaned in. "The church. The one in the woods just past the old railway. Abandoned. Rotten. Covered in weird symbols. You can't miss it."
Noah blinked. "Why would I want to go there?"
"Because," Jamie said, grinning, "it's haunted. Or cursed. Or both. Depends on who you ask."
Noah stared as Jamie continued eating.
"There was this kid, right?" Jamie said, gesturing with his sandwich like it was a wand. "Cassidy. Seven years ago. She vanished in the middle of a Sunday sermon. No one saw her leave. They found her standing at the altar a month later, in the same dress, same shoes—like no time had passed."
Noah leaned forward, just slightly. "What happened to her?"
"She didn't remember anything," Jamie replied. "Not even her own name at first. Just kept whispering 'the mirror's gone quiet.' Over and over. She moved away right after. No one talks about it, especially not the mayor."
Noah's throat felt dry.
Jamie smiled like he'd won something. "Anyway, I'm going back tonight. I gotta check out the basement. They say there's an old staircase that leads underground, but no one's found it."
Noah hesitated. He looked around the cafeteria—same distant smiles, same casual avoidance. For once, someone was actually talking to him. And not just talking, but offering something strange. Something real.
"What time?" Noah asked.
"Eleven sharp," Jamie replied. "Meet me behind the iron fence. Come quietly. Don't wake the crows."
That night, Grayeridge fell silent early.
Leah was upstairs on a call. Ruth was curled up on the couch, a mug of tea in her hand, her eyes fluttering between sleep and a rerun of a show she never really watched.
Noah waited.
When the clock struck 10:42, he slipped on his hoodie, eased open the front door, and stepped outside.
The town was darker than it should have been. No streetlights. No insects. Just wind, shadows, and the soft creak of trees stretching in their sleep.
The forest loomed in the distance, its edge resembling a jagged mouth.
Noah didn't look back.
Not yet.