The Quiet Ones / Season 1, Episode 1
Highland Secrets Unveiled
The bus shuddered as it climbed the last incline, its engine coughing like a smoker on a bad morning, and Owen Dowd pressed his forehead against the cold, smudged window, feeling the vibration rattle through his skull. The Scottish Highlands stretched endless outside, all jagged gray stone and bruised heather, the kind of place that looked like it had been angry for centuries and wasn’t about to stop now. He could smell the damp wool of his coat, the faint sourness of the seat’s cracked vinyl under him, and the sharper tang of diesel seeping through the floorboards. The other kids on the bus—fifteen of them, counting himself—sat stiff and separate, their silence thicker than the fog clinging to the hills. Not a word since they’d boarded at the train station in Inverness, just the scrape of a shoe here, the rustle of a backpack there, like they were all holding their breath for something to break.
Owen’s fingers tightened around the notebook in his lap, the edges worn soft from three years of carrying it everywhere. He hadn’t spoken since he was twelve, not since the day he’d walked out of his da’s house in Galway and decided words were a trap. Now they lived on these pages instead, scratched out in black biro, every thought, every curse, every thing he’d never say aloud. He flipped it open, the spine creaking, and traced a line he’d written last night on the train: This place will eat us if we let it. His own handwriting, sharp and slanted, stared back at him. But under it, in a looser, unfamiliar scrawl, was a single word he hadn’t put there: Soon.
His breath caught, a small hiss between his teeth, and he snapped the notebook shut, shoving it into the front pocket of his rucksack. His hands were clammy, sticking to the canvas strap. He glanced at the girl across the aisle—Neve, he thought her name was, from the roll call at the station. She was small, hunched in on herself, her dark braid spilling over one shoulder as she stared at her own hands, picking at a cuticle until a bead of red bloomed under her thumbnail. She didn’t look up, didn’t notice him watching, but her fingers kept moving, nervous, relentless, like she was trying to peel something away that wasn’t skin.
The bus lurched to a stop, gravel crunching under the tires, and the driver—a wiry man with a face like old leather—twisted in his seat. “Right, that’s you lot. Glenmoor Academy. End of the line.” His voice was rough, like he’d chewed on the wind too long, and he didn’t wait for a reply, just yanked the door open with a groan of metal. Cold air slapped Owen’s face as he stood, the chill biting into his cheeks, carrying the scent of wet earth and something older, sharper, like rusted iron. He slung his rucksack over one shoulder and shuffled down the aisle, keeping his eyes on the scuffed floor, feeling the weight of the others behind him, their silence pressing against his back like a hand.
Outside, the school loomed against the slate-gray sky, a sprawl of dark stone and narrow windows that looked more like slits than glass. Towers jutted at odd angles, as if the building had grown wrong over the years, patched together by someone who didn’t care for symmetry. Ivy crawled over the walls, black and glistening with damp, and the air hung heavy, tasting of moss and decay. Owen’s boots sank into the muddy gravel as he stepped off the bus, the squelch loud in the stillness, and he felt the place watching him, not with eyes but with something deeper, like the stones themselves had memory.
A woman stood at the entrance, tall and angular, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun that tugged at the lines of her face. She wore a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, hands clasped in front of her, and her smile was thin, practiced, not reaching her eyes. “Welcome to Glenmoor,” she said, her voice clear and clipped, carrying over the low moan of the wind. “I’m Dr. Helen Marsh. You’ve been selected for a very special program. We’re going to work together, find your voices again. I know it’s not easy to be here, but I promise, it’s the first step.”
Owen’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. He didn’t want steps. Didn’t want promises. He wanted to turn around, get back on that bus, let it take him anywhere but here. But the driver was already climbing back in, the engine growling to life, and the tires spun mud as it pulled away, leaving them stranded with this woman and her too-bright words. He glanced at Neve again, who stood a few paces away, her arms crossed tight over her chest, her gaze fixed on the ground. A tiny tremor ran through her shoulders, and Owen wondered if she felt it too—the wrongness of this place, the way the air seemed to hum with something unspoken.
Dr. Marsh gestured toward the heavy oak doors behind her, the iron hinges rusted and flaking. “Come inside. Let’s get you settled. It’s warmer in there.” Her tone was firm, like she was used to being obeyed, but Owen caught the flicker of something else in her eyes—uncertainty, maybe, or impatience. He followed, his boots dragging, the gravel shifting underfoot, and the others trailed after, a silent procession. The doorway swallowed them one by one, the shadow of the arch cold on his neck as he passed through, and inside, the air was different—staler, heavier, smelling of old paper and damp stone, with a faint undercurrent of something sour, like milk gone bad.
The entrance hall was vast, the ceiling lost in shadow, the walls lined with portraits of stern-faced men and women in black robes, their painted eyes seeming to track every step. A chandelier hung crookedly, its crystals dulled with dust, and the floor was uneven stone, worn smooth in places by decades of feet. Owen’s rucksack strap dug into his shoulder as he shifted his weight, his gaze darting to the corners where the light didn’t reach. Something creaked above, a slow, deliberate sound, like a footstep on old wood, and his pulse ticked up, though he told himself it was nothing, just the building settling.
Dr. Marsh led them down a corridor, her heels clicking sharp against the floor, the sound bouncing off the walls in a way that made the silence between her words feel louder. “You’ll each have your own room in the east wing. Meals are in the dining hall at seven, noon, and six. Therapy sessions start tomorrow, one-on-one to begin with. I’ve got recording equipment—don’t worry, it’s just for my notes. Helps me understand where you’re at.” She glanced over her shoulder, her smile flickering again. “Any questions?”
No one answered. No one moved to write or sign or even look at her. Owen’s fingers twitched toward his notebook, but he kept them still, not ready to spill anything for her yet. He caught Neve’s eye for a split second—she was watching him now, her expression unreadable, but her hands had stopped picking at her skin, balled into fists at her sides instead. The corridor stretched on, doors on either side shut tight, some with brass numbers tarnished to illegibility, and the air grew colder the deeper they went, seeping through Owen’s coat like fingers brushing his spine.
They turned a corner, and a figure stood at the far end of the hall, hunched and still, silhouetted against a narrow window. Owen’s step faltered, his breath hitching, until the figure moved, shuffling forward into the dim light. It was an older woman, her face a map of wrinkles, her gray hair tied back in a loose knot. She wore a faded apron over a cardigan, and her hands moved in quick, precise gestures, signing something Owen didn’t understand. Her eyes were sharp, though, cutting through the group like she already knew every secret they carried.
“This is Mrs. Fairley,” Dr. Marsh said, her tone softening just a fraction. “She’s the caretaker here. Been with Glenmoor for… how long now?”
Mrs. Fairley’s hands stilled, and she tilted her head, her lips curling into a faint, crooked smile. Then she hummed, low and tuneless at first, the sound growing into a melody that didn’t match any song Owen knew. It was eerie, the way it filled the hallway, weaving through the silence like thread through cloth, and he felt the hairs on his arms stand up, not from the cold but from the way her voice seemed to pull at something inside him, something he didn’t want touched.
“She signs,” Dr. Marsh added, as if that explained everything. “Doesn’t speak much otherwise. But she’ll help with anything you need. Rooms, food, getting around. Right, Mrs. Fairley?”
The humming stopped abruptly, and Mrs. Fairley nodded once, her gaze lingering on Owen a moment too long before shifting to Neve, then the others. Her hands moved again, slower this time, and though Owen couldn’t read the signs, he felt the weight of them, like a warning pressed into the air. Then she turned, her slippers scuffing against the stone as she shuffled back toward the window, her humming starting up again, softer now, almost swallowed by the walls.
Dr. Marsh cleared her throat, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. “Right. Let’s get you to your rooms. Long day of travel, I’m sure you’re knackered.” She pushed open a door to their left, revealing a narrower hallway, the walls damp with condensation, the air thick with the scent of mildew. Owen’s boots stuck slightly to the floor as he followed, each step heavier than the last, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that the building was listening, every creak of a beam or groan of a pipe a reply to their presence.
They stopped at a row of doors, each with a small chalkboard nailed beside it, names already scrawled in white: Owen Dowd, Neve Sharma, and on down the line. His room was second from the end, the chalkboard smudged as if someone had tried to erase his name and given up. Dr. Marsh handed him a key, the metal cold and heavy in his palm, its edges rough with age. “Settle in. Unpack. I’ll see you all at dinner in an hour. We’ll talk more then.” Her voice was brisk again, her smile gone, and she turned to the others, passing out keys with the same efficiency.
Owen pushed his door open, the hinges squealing like something alive, and stepped inside. The room was small, barely bigger than a closet, with a single iron-framed bed, a desk scarred with initials, and a window so narrow it let in more shadow than light. The air was frigid, smelling of dust and something faintly metallic, and the walls were bare stone, slick with damp in the corners. He dropped his rucksack on the bed, the mattress sagging under the weight, and sat down, the springs groaning under him. His fingers found the notebook again, pulling it out almost without thought, and he flipped it open to that page, to that word: Soon.
His heart thudded hard, once, twice, as he stared at the scrawl. Not his. Not anyone’s he knew. The ink was fresh, the edges still wet-looking, as if it had been written minutes ago. He pressed his thumb to it, half-expecting it to smear, but it didn’t, and the paper felt cold under his touch, colder than it should have. A sound came from the wall behind him—a faint scratch, like fingernails dragging slow across stone—and he froze, his breath shallow, listening. It came again, deliberate, closer, and he turned, staring at the blank wall, half-expecting to see something move.
Nothing. Just stone, gray and unyielding, the damp glistening in the weak light. But the scratching didn’t stop, growing sharper now, like it was trying to carve its way through. Owen’s grip on the notebook tightened, his knuckles whitening, and he stood, backing toward the door, his boots scuffing loud against the floor. The sound followed, matching his steps, and as he reached for the handle, it stopped, sudden and complete, leaving a silence so heavy it pressed against his ears like water.
He stood there, hand on the cold brass knob, pulse hammering in his throat, waiting for it to start again. Down the hall, he heard the faint clatter of a door shutting, then another, the other kids settling in, oblivious or ignoring whatever this was. He wanted to open the door, check the corridor, see if Neve or anyone else heard it too, but his hand wouldn’t move, stuck to the knob like it was glued. Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker at the window—something passing outside, too quick to make out, a shadow against the gray.
His breath fogged the air as he turned his head, slow, deliberate, toward the glass. The window was empty now, just the bleak stretch of hillside beyond, but the frame rattled softly, as if tapped by an unseen finger, the sound sharp and insistent in the quiet. Owen’s chest tightened, his free hand clutching the notebook like a lifeline, and he felt the weight of the building settle over him, heavier with every second, whispering in ways he couldn’t hear but could feel, deep in his bones.
[Approximately 3,000 words. Story continues in Part 2.]
Owen’s fingers twitched against the notebook, the worn leather cover biting into his palm as the window frame gave another faint shudder, a tap-tap like a nail against wood, though nothing touched it. The glass stared back at him, a dull mirror of the room—his narrow bed with its sagging mattress, the chipped dresser, the single bulb flickering overhead with a low buzz that scraped at his nerves. Outside, the hillside loomed, a slab of gray-green under a sky so heavy it seemed to press the earth down. His breath came shallow, misting in the cold, each exhale a small cloud that hung before him, trembling. The air in the room felt thicker now, like he was breathing through a damp cloth, and the smell of old wood and mildew clung to the back of his throat.
He forced his hand off the doorknob, the brass leaving a cold imprint on his skin, and stepped toward the window, boots scuffing against the uneven floorboards. They creaked under his weight, a sharp groan that cut through the stillness, and he froze, ears straining for that tapping again. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the bulb, the distant drip of a leak somewhere in the walls, a sound so steady it felt like a heartbeat. He reached the window, his shadow falling across the glass, and leaned close enough that his nose almost brushed the icy pane. His reflection looked hollow, eyes too wide, the scar on his left cheek a pale slash in the dim light. Beyond, the hillside was empty, no movement, no shadow, just the wind bending the gorse in slow, lazy waves. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, a prickle at the base of his neck, like a finger tracing down his spine.
He turned away, quick, his back pressing against the wall beside the window, the rough plaster scratching through his thin jumper. His heart thumped hard, each beat a dull thud in his chest, and he flipped open the notebook, fingers fumbling for the pen tucked into the spine. The pages were a mess of his tight, slanted handwriting—three years of thoughts, questions, things he couldn’t say out loud, couldn’t trust to anyone but the paper. He pressed the pen to a blank page, the nib scratching as he wrote, Heard something. Window tapped. Not wind. Not sure. He paused, the pen hovering, then added, Felt it watching. The words looked wrong, too small for what he felt, but they were all he had. He snapped the notebook shut, the sound a sharp crack in the quiet, and shoved it into the waistband of his jeans, the edges digging into his side.
The corridor outside his room was silent now, no more doors shutting, no footsteps. The other kids—Neve, the tall boy with the shaved head, the girl who kept her hands stuffed in her pockets—they’d all gone quiet, tucked into their own corners of this crumbling heap of a school. He didn’t know them, not really, just faces from the long, awkward bus ride up here, hours of staring out windows at endless hills, the driver muttering about bad roads and worse weather. They’d been dumped at the gates under a sky spitting rain, Dr. Marsh herding them inside with her clipped, too-bright voice, promising change, promising answers. Owen hadn’t believed a word of it then, and he didn’t now. Change wasn’t something you got handed. It was something you clawed out of the dark, if you were lucky.
He pushed off the wall, the cold seeping through his jumper, and crossed to the bed, sitting heavy on the edge. The springs groaned, a low whine that echoed in the small room, and he rubbed his hands over his face, the calluses on his palms rough against his skin. He didn’t want to be here, in this place that smelled of damp and decay, where the walls seemed to lean in too close, where every sound felt like a warning. But he didn’t have a choice. Three years of silence, three years of doctors and therapists and his ma’s quiet, desperate tears—they’d all led to this. The experimental program, they called it. A last shot. He didn’t know what they expected to find in him, what they thought they could fix, but he knew what he felt: a weight in his chest that hadn’t lifted since the day he’d stopped speaking, a weight that grew heavier here, in this school, with every passing hour.
A faint sound cut through his thoughts—a low, melodic hum, drifting through the wall from the corridor. It wasn’t mechanical, not the bulb or a pipe; it was human, a voice, soft and wavering, carrying a tune he didn’t recognize. He straightened, hands dropping to his lap, listening. The hum grew clearer, threading through the quiet, a woman’s voice, rough at the edges but steady, like she’d sung it a thousand times. Mrs. Fairley. He’d seen her earlier, the caretaker, a wiry figure in a faded cardigan, her hands moving in sharp, deliberate signs when she spoke to Dr. Marsh, her gray hair pulled tight in a bun. She hadn’t looked at the kids, not directly, just shuffled past with a bucket and mop, her lips moving silently until she was out of sight. But now, her voice was here, seeping through the walls, a lullaby or a lament, he couldn’t tell.
He stood, the bed creaking again, and moved to the door, pressing his ear to the wood. The grain was rough against his cheek, splinters catching at his skin, and the hum vibrated faintly through it, a sound that felt too old for this place, too heavy. It wasn’t comforting. It was the kind of song you sang to keep something at bay, to fill a silence too big to bear. He pulled back, his hand hovering over the knob again, but didn’t turn it. What would he do, go out there? Wander the halls looking for a woman who clearly didn’t want to be found? He had nothing to say, nothing to sign, nothing but the notebook burning against his hip.
The hum stopped, abrupt, leaving a void so thick it pressed against his ears. He held his breath, waiting, but there was nothing—just the drip in the walls, the faint buzz of the bulb. Then, a creak, not from his room, not from the corridor, but above, in the ceiling, a slow, deliberate sound, like weight shifting on old beams. His eyes flicked up, tracking the noise across the plaster, a faint crack running through it like a scar. Dust drifted down, catching in the weak light, and the creak came again, heavier, dragging, as if something—or someone—moved directly over him.
His throat tightened, a cold sweat breaking out on his neck. The school was three stories, he knew that from the bus window, the jagged roofline cutting against the sky. His room was on the second floor, so there was a level above, but Dr. Marsh had said it was closed off, storage or something, no one up there. Maintenance, maybe, she’d muttered, waving a hand like it didn’t matter. But this wasn’t a pipe settling or a loose board. It was rhythm, a pace, a step. He backed away from the door, his boots scuffing softly, and sat on the bed again, harder this time, the springs squealing under him. His hands shook as he pulled the notebook free, flipping to the same page, the pen scratching louder now, Something upstairs. Moving. Not supposed to be anyone there. He underlined moving, the ink smearing under the pressure.
The creak stopped, sudden, and the silence that followed felt worse, a held breath, a waiting. Owen stared at the ceiling, his neck stiff, the muscles in his jaw tight enough to ache. The bulb flickered again, a stutter of light that threw shadows across the walls, and for a moment, he thought he saw something in the corner of his vision—a shape, too vague to name, gone when he turned his head. His pulse raced, a drum in his ears, and he gripped the pen like a weapon, though he knew it was useless. Whatever was here, whatever he’d felt at the window, whatever moved above, it wasn’t something you could fight with ink or paper.
A knock at the door snapped him out of it, sharp and quick, two raps that echoed in the small room. He froze, the pen still in his hand, ink bleeding into the page where he’d pressed too hard. Another knock, softer, hesitant. His breath caught, and he stood, slow, the floor groaning under him. He crossed to the door, each step heavier than the last, and paused with his hand on the knob, the brass cold again, biting into his skin. He didn’t want to open it. He didn’t want to see who—or what—stood on the other side. But the knock came a third time, faint, almost pleading, and he couldn’t ignore it.
He turned the knob, the mechanism clicking loud in the quiet, and pulled the door open an inch, just enough to peer into the corridor. The hallway was dim, the single bulb at the far end casting a sickly yellow glow over the peeling wallpaper, the warped floorboards. Neve stood there, her dark hair falling over one shoulder, her hands twisted together in front of her. She wore a faded hoodie, too big for her frame, the sleeves frayed at the cuffs, and her eyes—wide, brown, edged with something raw—met his for a second before darting away. She didn’t speak, of course she didn’t, but her fingers moved, quick and sharp, a gesture he didn’t understand but felt like a question. Her breath was uneven, puffing out in small clouds in the cold air, and she shifted her weight, the floor creaking under her scuffed trainers.
Owen opened the door wider, stepping back, his own hands still, useless. He didn’t know sign, not like Mrs. Fairley, not like some of the others might. He pointed to the notebook at his hip, then to her, a clumsy way of asking if she needed to write something. Her eyes flicked to it, then back to him, and she shook her head, a small, tight motion. Instead, she pointed down the hall, toward the stairwell at the far end, her finger trembling just enough to notice. Then she tapped her ear, hard, twice, and her face twisted, a flash of something—fear, maybe, or frustration—before it smoothed out again.
He nodded, slow, understanding enough. She’d heard something too. The tapping, the creaking, maybe more. His chest tightened, a mix of relief and dread—she wasn’t imagining things, which meant he wasn’t either, but it also meant whatever this was, it wasn’t just in his head. He stepped into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click, the sound too loud in the stillness. The air out here was colder, damp seeping from the walls, the smell of mold stronger, clinging to his clothes. Neve turned, her hoodie brushing against the wallpaper, and started down the hall, her steps light but hurried, glancing back once to make sure he followed.
The stairwell loomed at the end, a dark mouth in the dim light, the steps disappearing up into shadow. Owen’s boots felt too heavy, each step a dull thud on the warped boards, and he kept close to Neve, her smaller frame a shadow ahead of him. The bulb flickered as they passed under it, the light stuttering, throwing their shapes against the walls in jagged bursts. His hand brushed the banister as they reached the stairs, the wood slick with damp, splintered in places, and he pulled back, wiping his palm on his jeans. Neve stopped at the base, her head tilted up, listening, her fingers gripping the edge of her sleeve so tight the fabric bunched.
A sound came from above, faint but clear—a scrape, like a chair dragged across a floor, slow and deliberate. Owen’s stomach dropped, his hand going to the notebook on instinct, though there was no point writing now. Neve’s shoulders tensed, her breath hitching, and she turned to him, her eyes sharp now, urgent. She pointed up, then tapped her ear again, harder, her nail clicking against her skin. He nodded, though every part of him wanted to turn back, lock his door, pretend he hadn’t heard a thing. But her face—pale, set, a mirror of his own unease—kept him there, rooted.
They climbed, step by step, the wood groaning under their weight, the air growing colder with every inch. The stairwell smelled of dust and something sharper, metallic, like old blood or rust. The walls closed in, the plaster cracked and stained, and the light from below faded, leaving them in a gray half-dark. At the landing, a corridor stretched out, narrower than the one below, the ceiling lower, pressing down. Doors lined both sides, all shut, their paint peeling in long, curling strips. A single window at the far end let in a sliver of dusk, the glass smeared with dirt, the hillside beyond a blur of shadow and mist.
Neve stopped, her trainers scuffing to a halt, and Owen nearly bumped into her, his breath loud in the quiet. She pointed to a door halfway down, the handle rusted, the wood around it splintered as if something had clawed at it. The scrape came again, from behind that door, a slow drag, then a pause, then another drag, like something heavy being moved inch by inch. Owen’s throat went dry, his hand tightening on the notebook, the leather slick with sweat now. Neve took a step forward, then stopped, her body rigid, and he saw her hands shake, just for a second, before she shoved them into her hoodie pockets.
He wanted to write something, to ask if she was sure, to tell her they should go back, get Dr. Marsh, anyone. But the pen stayed in his pocket, useless, and the silence between them felt like a wall, thicker than the ones around them. The scrape came again, louder, and then a new sound—a low, muffled thud, like something falling soft but heavy. Neve’s head snapped toward him, her eyes wide, and he felt it too, the shift, the weight of whatever was behind that door pressing out, filling the corridor, filling his chest until he could barely breathe.
They stood there, frozen, the air so cold it burned his lungs, the smell of rust and decay so thick he could taste it. The door at the end of the hall seemed to pulse in the dim light, the scratches on the wood deeper now, or maybe that was just his eyes playing tricks. Another thud, softer, almost a knock, and Owen’s heart slammed against his ribs, his hand hovering over the notebook like it could shield him. Neve took a step back, her shoulder brushing his, and he felt her trembling, or maybe it was him, he couldn’t tell anymore. The silence after the thud was worse than the sound itself, a void that sucked in everything, waiting, daring them to move, to breathe, to run.
Owen’s fingers twitched over the notebook, the worn leather cover rough against his palm, as if touching it could ground him, could pull him back from the edge of whatever was pressing against the other side of that door. The air in the corridor hung heavy, laced with the sharp bite of rust and something sweeter, sickly, like overripe fruit left to rot. His breath came shallow, each inhale scraping the back of his throat, and the cold seeped through his thin jumper, settling into his bones until his knees felt like they might give. Neve’s shoulder against his was the only warmth, a faint heat trembling through the layers of their clothes, but even that felt fragile, like it could shatter with the next sound.
Another thud came, softer still, almost deliberate, like a hand testing the weight of the wood. Owen’s eyes locked on the door, the scratches in the grain seeming to shift, to writhe under the weak glow of the overhead bulb. He blinked hard, willing it to be a trick of the light, but the marks looked fresher now, jagged lines etched deeper, as if something had clawed at it only moments ago. His stomach churned, bile rising, and he swallowed it down, the taste bitter on his tongue. Neve’s breath hitched beside him, a tiny, sharp sound that cut through the silence like a blade, and he felt her shift, her weight leaning away, as if she might bolt. He wanted to grab her arm, to keep her there, to not be alone with whatever was waiting, but his hand wouldn’t move, frozen mid-air, useless as the rest of him.
The bulb flickered above, a stuttering buzz that made the shadows jump, stretching long and thin across the stone floor before snapping back. The corridor seemed narrower now, the walls pressing in, their damp patches glistening like open sores. Owen’s gaze darted to the notebook in his other hand, the pages inside full of his scrawl, his thoughts, his shield against the world—but there was something else in there now, wasn’t there? Lines he hadn’t written, words that had appeared in a slanted, spidery hand that wasn’t his. He hadn’t looked at them since last night, hadn’t wanted to, but the memory of them burned behind his eyes, whispers on paper he couldn’t shake. Listen. They’re close. His grip tightened, the leather creaking, and he fought the urge to fling it down the hall, away from him, away from whatever was seeping into it.
Neve took another step back, her trainer scuffing against the uneven stone, the sound too loud, too wrong in the stillness. Owen’s head whipped toward her, his chest tight, and he saw her eyes, wide and glassy, reflecting the flickering light. Her hands were at her sides, fingers splayed like she was bracing for something, and her lips moved, just a fraction, no sound coming out, but he knew she was trying to say something, or maybe trying not to. He shook his head, a tiny jerk, don’t, don’t break it, don’t let it hear you. Her gaze flicked back to the door, and he followed it, every muscle in his body locking as the air seemed to thicken, to hum with a weight he couldn’t name.
The next sound wasn’t a thud. It was a scrape, slow and deliberate, like nails dragging down the other side of the wood, a sound that crawled up Owen’s spine and nested at the base of his skull. His breath stopped, his chest burning, and he felt the corridor tilt, the floor under his feet no longer solid but shifting, like wet sand giving way. Neve’s hand brushed his wrist, cold and clammy, and he flinched, nearly dropping the notebook. Her fingers lingered there, not gripping, just resting, as if she needed the contact to stay upright, and he didn’t pull away, couldn’t, because the scrape came again, longer this time, ending in a faint tap, tap, tap, like a finger testing, teasing.
He wanted to run. Every nerve in his body screamed it, the urge to turn and sprint down the hall, back to the dorms, back to the weak safety of numbers, but his legs wouldn’t move. The door held him, or something behind it did, a pull he couldn’t explain, like gravity but worse, like hunger. The smell grew stronger, decay and sweetness twisting together until he could almost taste it on his tongue, and the cold bit deeper, his fingertips numb now, the notebook a dead weight in his hand. Neve’s breathing was ragged beside him, little gasps that she tried to muffle, and he wanted to tell her to stop, to hold it in, but he couldn’t, not with his voice gone, not with the silence his only defense.
The tap came again, sharper, and then nothing. The silence after was a living thing, a beast that crouched in the space between them and the door, waiting. Owen’s eyes burned from not blinking, fixed on the handle, a rusted brass knob that hadn’t moved but seemed to quiver in the dim light, as if it might turn on its own. His mind raced, images flashing unbidden—his old house in Galway, the creak of the stairs at night when no one was there, the way his mam had looked at him after he stopped speaking, like he was a puzzle with missing pieces. And the notebook, always the notebook, the words that weren’t his, creeping in like a stain. They’re waiting for you. He shook the thought away, or tried to, but it clung, sticky and cold, as the silence stretched on.
Neve’s hand slipped from his wrist, and he felt the loss of it like a shock, his skin prickling where her touch had been. She took another step back, her shoulder brushing the wall, and the faint rasp of her jacket against the stone was deafening. Her eyes were still on the door, but her body was angled away, poised to flee, and he knew she’d go if another sound came, knew he’d be alone then, and the thought was worse than the door itself. He shifted, just enough to face her, his own back to the wall now, the damp seeping through his jumper, chilling his shoulder blades. The bulb flickered again, a sickly yellow pulse, and for a moment, he thought he saw something in the shadow by the door—a shape, too thin, too long, gone when the light steadied.
His heart slammed against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that drowned out everything else, and he pressed the notebook to his chest, the edges digging into his skin through the fabric. Neve’s gaze met his, and there was something there, a question or a plea, her pupils huge in the half-dark. He didn’t know what she wanted—stay, go, hide—but he nodded, barely, a twitch of his chin, because he couldn’t stand the thought of deciding alone. The silence pressed harder, a weight on his lungs, and he realized he couldn’t hear her breathing anymore, couldn’t hear anything but the faint hum of the bulb and the blood in his ears.
Then, a creak. Not from the door, but from above, a groan of old wood settling, or something moving in the ceiling. Owen’s head snapped up, his neck aching from the strain, and he stared at the plaster, cracked and stained, as if he could see through it to whatever was there. Neve followed his gaze, her hands balling into fists at her sides, and he felt the air shift again, colder now, impossibly so, his breath fogging in front of him in tiny, fleeting clouds. The creak came again, slower, dragging, like footsteps on warped floorboards, and he pictured it—someone, something, pacing just above them, listening as much as they were.
He didn’t know how long they stood there, frozen, the silence a cage around them, but his legs started to tremble, the ache spreading from his knees to his thighs. The notebook felt heavier, or maybe it was his arms, weak from holding it so tight, and he lowered it slowly, careful not to make a sound, tucking it into the waistband of his trousers like a secret. Neve’s eyes flicked to the movement, then back to the ceiling, and he saw her swallow, the bob of her throat sharp in the dim light. The footsteps, if that’s what they were, stopped, and the silence that followed was worse, a void that seemed to suck the warmth from the corridor, leaving only the damp and the rot and the weight of being watched.
He took a step back, mirroring Neve, his trainer scuffing softly on the stone, and the sound felt like a betrayal, too loud, too human. The door at the end of the hall didn’t move, didn’t creak, but he felt it watching, or something behind it, a presence that pressed against the wood as much as it pressed against his mind. Neve moved with him, their steps uneven, halting, and he kept his eyes on the door, half-expecting the handle to turn, to see it swing open on hinges that shouldn’t work, to see—what? He didn’t know, couldn’t picture it, but the dread was a physical thing, a stone in his gut, dragging him down.
The corridor stretched behind them, longer than it should have been, the other doors they’d passed now swallowed by shadow, and Owen’s shoulder brushed the wall again, the damp plaster slick under his sleeve. The cold was relentless now, his fingers stiff, his breath still fogging, and the smell hadn’t faded, that mix of rust and rot and something alive, something wrong. Neve’s elbow bumped his, accidental, and he felt her flinch, felt the tremor in her frame, and he wanted to reach for her, to steady her or himself, but his hands stayed at his sides, useless, heavy.
They took another step, then another, the stone underfoot uneven, catching at the edges of their soles, and every scuff, every breath, sounded like a shout in the silence. The bulb flickered once more, a weak sputter, and for a heartbeat, the corridor was pitch, a void where the door might have been anything, anywhere. Owen’s chest seized, his pulse a hammer, and then the light steadied, dimmer now, casting their shadows long and warped against the walls. The door was still there, unchanged, the scratches no deeper, the handle still, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had moved, just a fraction, just enough.
Neve stopped, and he did too, their shoulders brushing again, and he felt her turn, felt her gaze on him before he met it. Her face was pale, almost gray in the weak light, her lips pressed tight, and her eyes held something he couldn’t read—fear, yes, but also something else, something like resignation, like she’d seen this before, or something worse. He wanted to ask, to write it in the notebook, What did you see, back then? but his hands wouldn’t move, and the silence was too thick to break, even on paper. She shook her head, just a tiny tilt, and looked away, back to the door, as if it had called her name.
The creak came again, from above, a single, sharp groan, and Owen’s gaze snapped to the ceiling, his neck protesting the sudden movement. The sound didn’t repeat, but the weight of it lingered, a shadow over them, and he felt the corridor shrink again, the walls closer, the air tighter. Neve’s hand found his sleeve, her fingers curling into the fabric, not pulling, just holding, and he didn’t pull away, couldn’t, because the contact was the only thing keeping him tethered. The silence pulsed, alive, and he felt it in his chest, a rhythm that wasn’t his heartbeat, wasn’t anything human.
He didn’t know how long they stood there, braced against the wall, the door at the end of the hall a fixed point in the shifting dark, but the bulb gave one last flicker and died, plunging them into blackness. His breath caught, a gasp he couldn’t muffle, and Neve’s grip on his sleeve tightened, her nails digging through the fabric into his skin. The dark was absolute, a weight that pressed against his eyes, and the smell surged, rot and sweetness choking him, filling the space where light had been. He couldn’t see the door, couldn’t see anything, but he felt it, or something, closer now, the air shifting like a breath not his own.
A sound broke through, faint but clear, not a thud or a scrape but a hum, low and uneven, like a voice caught at the edge of hearing. It wasn’t coming from the door, or from above, but from somewhere deeper, somewhere inside the walls, or maybe inside him, he couldn’t tell. Neve’s grip spasmed, her fingers trembling, and he knew she heard it too, knew it wasn’t just in his head. The hum grew, just enough to feel it in his teeth, a vibration that wasn’t sound but something else, something older, and he felt the notebook at his waist like a burn, the words inside it pressing out, Listen. They’re close.
He wanted to scream, to shatter the silence with something, anything, but his throat was locked, his voice a ghost he couldn’t summon. The hum faded, or seemed to, leaving a ringing in its wake, and the dark held them, heavy, endless. Neve’s hand slid from his sleeve, slow, reluctant, and he felt the loss like a cut, but then her fingers found his, cold and damp, intertwining just enough to hold on. He didn’t pull away, couldn’t, and in the black, with the weight of the unseen door somewhere ahead, he squeezed back, a silent promise, or a plea.
The silence settled again, but it wasn’t empty. It was full, brimming with something he couldn’t name, something that had always been there, waiting. And then, in the dark, a new sound—a faint, wet click, like a latch giving way, like a door, somewhere, finally opening.