The Quiet Ones / Season 1, Episode 2
Silent Breakfast Secrets
Owen’s pencil scratched against the lined page of his notebook, the sound sharp in the cavernous dining hall. His fingers gripped the wood too tight, knuckles whitening, as if the act of writing could anchor him to the long oak table where he sat alone. The other students were scattered at their own tables, a silent archipelago of bent heads and untouched breakfast trays. The air smelled of burnt toast and damp stone, the kind of cold that seeped from the walls of Glenmoor Academy and clung to the skin like a second layer. Above, the high ceiling disappeared into shadow, its beams creaking softly, as if the building itself were shifting its weight, listening.
His latest entry was half-finished: I don’t know if it’s the place or the people, but I feel it watching. The pencil hovered, trembling slightly, as his eyes flicked to the corner of the page. There it was again, inked in a jagged hand that wasn’t his own. Not watching. Waiting. His breath caught, a small hiss in the quiet. He slammed the notebook shut, the clap of it echoing off the stone walls, and shoved it into the pocket of his frayed sweater. His heart thudded against his ribs, each beat a hammer on anvil, and he forced his hands flat on the table, staring at the grain of the wood until the edges of his vision steadied.
Across the hall, Neve Sharma sat hunched over her tray, her fork pushing cold porridge into little piles. Her dark hair curtained her face, but Owen could see the way her shoulders twitched, the way her fingers kept brushing the edge of her sleeve as if to wipe away something unseen. She hadn’t looked at anyone since they’d arrived yesterday, not even when Dr. Marsh had tried to pair them for some trust exercise that ended in awkward stillness. Owen’s gaze lingered on her, wondering if she felt it too—the weight of the air, the way the silence here wasn’t just absence but presence. Something pressing down.
The double doors at the far end of the hall groaned open, and Dr. Helen Marsh stepped through, her clipboard clutched like a shield against her chest. Her gray blazer was crisp, her hair pulled back into a severe bun, but there was a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the chill. Her shoes clicked on the flagstone floor, a metronome cutting through the hush, and Owen’s fingers curled inward, nails biting into his palms. She stopped at the center of the room, her eyes sweeping over the students with a practiced intensity, like a shepherd counting a flock she didn’t quite trust.
“Morning, everyone,” she said, her voice too bright, too loud, bouncing off the walls until it frayed at the edges. “I hope you’ve had some rest. Today we start properly. Group session in the east wing, Room 12. Ten minutes. Bring something personal—a photo, a letter, anything that means something to you. We’re building trust here.” She paused, waiting for a response that didn’t come, her smile tightening just enough to show the strain. “Right. See you there.”
Owen didn’t move as she turned and clicked her way back out. The other students shifted—some slowly gathering their things, others staring blankly at their trays as if they hadn’t heard. Neve’s head lifted slightly, her eyes darting to the door, then to the high windows where the gray light of the Highlands filtered through warped glass. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a split second, her gaze met Owen’s. Something passed between them, a flicker of shared unease, before she dropped her eyes back to her plate, her fork scraping once, twice, a grating sound like bone on metal.
He stood, his chair scraping louder than he meant, and slung his bag over his shoulder. The notebook in his pocket felt heavier than it should, a brick against his hip, and he kept one hand pressed over it as he crossed the hall. The air grew colder near the exit, the draft snaking through the cracks in the ancient doorframe, smelling of wet earth and something sharper, like rusted iron. He pushed through, the hinges whining behind him, and stepped into the corridor.
Glenmoor’s halls were a labyrinth of stone and shadow, the walls uneven and slick with condensation. Gas lamps flickered in iron sconces, their light too weak to reach the corners where the dark seemed to pool like spilled ink. Owen’s boots thudded softly on the worn floor, each step sending a faint echo skittering ahead of him. He’d memorized the route to the east wing last night, tracing it in his mind while the others slept, but now the turns felt wrong, the angles sharper, as if the building had rearranged itself in the dark. His hand brushed the wall for balance, the stone biting cold against his palm, and he flinched at a sudden sound—a low hum, barely audible, like a voice caught in the throat of the wind.
He stopped, breath shallow, ears straining. The hum grew, weaving through the silence, a melody without words. It wasn’t coming from ahead or behind but from everywhere, seeping from the walls themselves. His chest tightened, and he turned, half-expecting to see someone at the far end of the corridor. Nothing. Just the flicker of gaslight and the endless stretch of stone. But the hum persisted, curling around him, and he realized with a jolt that he knew it. Mrs. Fairley. The caretaker. He’d heard her singing to herself yesterday as she swept the courtyard, her hands moving in sharp, deliberate signs even as her voice trembled through an old Gaelic tune. It hadn’t sounded like this then—raw, mournful, a thread of sound fraying at the edges.
Owen pressed forward, the hum following like a shadow, until he reached the east wing. Room 12 was marked by a brass plaque, tarnished and tilted, the door slightly ajar. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle, the metal cold enough to sting. The hum stopped abruptly, leaving a silence so thick it pressed against his eardrums. He pushed the door open, the creak of it loud as a scream in the stillness.
Inside, the room was narrow, lined with mismatched chairs in a rough circle. A single window, streaked with grime, let in a sliver of pale light that barely touched the floor. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of old paper and something fainter, acrid, like burnt hair. Dr. Marsh was already there, arranging index cards on a small table, her movements quick and precise. She looked up as Owen entered, her expression shifting to that practiced warmth, though her eyes lingered too long on his face, searching for something he wasn’t about to give.
“Owen. Good. Take a seat.” Her voice was softer now, almost coaxing, but it grated against the quiet. He nodded once, sharp, and chose a chair near the back, farthest from the window. The wood groaned under his weight, and he kept his bag on his lap, the notebook still hidden in his pocket. His fingers itched to pull it out, to check if that jagged handwriting had scrawled anything new, but he didn’t dare. Not here. Not with her watching.
The others trickled in over the next few minutes, their footsteps hesitant, their eyes avoiding each other. Neve was last, her arms crossed tight over her chest, a small folded piece of paper clutched in one hand. She sat across from Owen, her chair scraping as she pulled it closer to herself, her knees drawn up like a barrier. Dr. Marsh watched them all, her pen tapping lightly against her clipboard, a rhythmic tick that set Owen’s teeth on edge.
“Alright,” Dr. Marsh began, standing at the center of the circle, her shadow stretching long across the floor. “I know this is new. Uncomfortable, even. But we’re here to find a way through. Silence can be a wall, but it can also be a door. Today, I want us to share something. Not with words, if you’re not ready, but with what you’ve brought. Show us a piece of who you are.”
She gestured to a boy on Owen’s left, a lanky kid with pale skin and a shock of red hair, who held a small, dented tin box. The boy’s hands shook as he opened it, revealing a cluster of seashells, their edges chipped and dulled. He didn’t look up, just pushed the box into the center of the circle, his fingers lingering on the rim before pulling back. Dr. Marsh nodded, scribbling something on her clipboard, the scratch of her pen loud in the hush.
One by one, they shared. A worn-out stuffed rabbit from a girl with braids. A faded photograph of a dog from a boy whose hands wouldn’t stop twitching. Neve went last, her movements slow, deliberate, as she unfolded the paper in her hand. It was a drawing, pencil on scrap, the lines harsh and uneven. Owen leaned forward slightly, squinting to make out the details. It was a room—high-ceilinged, with a single, barred window and a door that looked too small to be real. The perspective was wrong, the walls tilting inward, and in the center, a shadow with no source, smudged into the paper like a stain. Neve’s fingers tightened on the edges, crumpling them slightly, before she set it down and leaned back, her face blank but her eyes wide, darting to the corners of the room as if expecting something to step out of them.
Dr. Marsh picked up the drawing, holding it closer to the weak light from the window. Her brow furrowed, just for a moment, before she smoothed her expression and placed it back in the circle. “Thank you, Neve. That’s… powerful. Does anyone want to—” She stopped herself, catching the futility of the question, and shifted tack. “Let’s move on. Owen, do you have something to share?”
His stomach twisted, a cold knot forming under his ribs. He hadn’t brought anything, not on purpose. But her eyes were on him, steady and unyielding, and the weight of the notebook in his pocket burned against his thigh. He could feel the others watching too, their silence heavier now, expectant. His hand moved before he could stop it, sliding into his pocket, fingers brushing the worn cover. The paper felt rough, almost alive, and he hesitated, his pulse loud in his ears. He couldn’t show it. Not with those words in that handwriting. Not with Waiting staring back at him like a threat.
Instead, he pulled out a small, folded bus ticket, creased and faded, the date barely legible. It was from three years ago, the last time he’d spoken, the last time he’d been anywhere that wasn’t a locked room or a doctor’s office. He tossed it into the circle without looking at anyone, the paper fluttering like a dead leaf before it landed. Dr. Marsh nodded, her pen moving again, and he felt the heat of her gaze linger even as she turned to the next student.
The session dragged on, the air in the room growing thicker, the silence punctuated only by the rustle of objects and the occasional creak of a chair. Owen’s eyes kept drifting to Neve’s drawing, to that shadow in the center. It looked wrong, not just in shape but in weight, as if it could press through the paper and into the room. His fingers twitched, wanting to write, to get it out of his head, but he kept them still, nails digging into his palms until they stung.
Then, from somewhere beyond the door, came a sound—a low, keening hum, the same melody from the corridor but sharper now, laced with something desperate. Mrs. Fairley again, her voice threading through the walls, rising and falling like a tide. The students froze, heads tilting toward the sound, and even Dr. Marsh paused, her pen hovering mid-stroke. The hum grew, trembling at the edges, until it wasn’t just a song but a warning, a plea cut into the air. Owen’s skin prickled, the cold of the room sinking deeper, and he saw Neve’s hands clench, her knuckles pale against her dark skin.
Dr. Marsh cleared her throat, the sound too loud, too forced. “That’s just… Mrs. Fairley. She likes to sing while she works. Nothing to worry about.” But her fingers gripped the clipboard tighter, the edges bending under the pressure, and Owen caught the flicker of doubt in her eyes before she masked it.
The hum stopped as abruptly as it started, leaving a void that pressed harder than before. The silence wasn’t empty—it was crowded, full of things unspoken, things unseen. Owen’s gaze slid to the door, half-expecting it to swing open, to reveal Mrs. Fairley standing there with her hands signing something he wouldn’t understand. But the door stayed shut, the handle still, and the room held its breath.
Dr. Marsh forced a smile, setting her clipboard down with a small clatter. “Let’s take a short break. Stretch your legs. We’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes.” Her voice was steady, but her hands moved too quickly as she gathered her things, betraying the cracks in her calm.
Owen didn’t move as the others shuffled out, their footsteps uneven on the stone floor. Neve lingered too, her drawing still in the center of the circle, the shadow on it seeming darker now, thicker. She looked at him again, just for a second, her eyes sharp with something like fear, or maybe recognition. Then she turned, slipping out of the room without a sound.
He waited until the last chair scraped and the door clicked shut before reaching for his notebook. His hands shook as he opened it, flipping past his own tight scrawl to the page with the foreign handwriting. The word Waiting stared back at him, ink black as tar, but now there was more. Underneath, in the same jagged script, a new line had appeared, though he hadn’t seen anyone touch the book. It’s closer now.
His breath stopped, the air in his lungs turning to ice. The room felt smaller, the walls leaning in, and from somewhere deep in the building, a faint hum started again, trembling through the stone like a heartbeat.
The hum pulsed through the floor, a low throb that seemed to crawl up Owen’s legs and settle in his chest, pressing against his ribs. He snapped the notebook shut, the leather cover slapping with a sound too sharp for the empty room. His fingers lingered on the edge, the worn texture rough against his skin, as if holding it closed could trap whatever was writing in there. But the words were already in his head—It’s closer now—looping like a broken record, each repetition tighter, colder. The air in the therapy room had thickened, carrying a faint whiff of damp stone and something sour, like old breath. He stood, chair legs scraping against the floor, the noise swallowed by that hum, that endless drone from somewhere he couldn’t place.
He moved toward the door, his boots heavy on the flagstones, each step deliberate to keep his balance. The corridor beyond was dim, the weak light from sconces flickering as if unsure whether to stay lit. Shadows pooled in the corners, stretching long and thin down the hallway, and for a moment, he swore one of them twitched, just at the edge of his vision. His hand tightened on the notebook, the other brushing the cold wall for balance, the stone slick under his palm like it had been weeping. The hum was louder out here, vibrating through the walls now, a sound that wasn’t just heard but felt, like a hand pressing down on his skull.
He needed to find Neve. Her drawing—those lines, that shadow—kept clawing at the back of his mind. She’d seen something in it, or maybe she’d put something there, something he couldn’t name yet. His steps quickened, the echo of his boots bouncing off the high ceilings, too loud in the stillness of the school. The corridor stretched on, doors on either side shut tight, their brass handles tarnished, reflecting slivers of his pale face as he passed. He didn’t look too long. He couldn’t shake the feeling that if he stared, something might stare back.
A staircase loomed at the end of the hall, its banister carved with curling vines, wood so dark it drank the light. He hesitated at the first step, the hum shifting into something almost like a rhythm now, a slow, deliberate beat that didn’t match his own pulse. Up or down? Neve could’ve gone either way after the session, but down felt wrong—down was where the hum seemed to root itself, burrowing into the earth beneath the school. He went up, taking the steps two at a time, the wood creaking under his weight, each groan sounding too much like a sigh.
The second floor was quieter, the hum dulled to a faint tremor, but the air was heavier, pressing against his face like a damp cloth. The windows here were narrow, arched, the glass warped and streaked with grime, letting in only slivers of gray afternoon light. Outside, the Highlands rolled away in a smear of muted green and brown, the horizon swallowed by a fog that clung low to the ground. He moved past empty classrooms, their doors ajar, desks inside coated with dust so thick it looked like frost. A chalkboard in one room caught his eye, smeared marks still visible, as if someone had tried to erase something in a hurry. He didn’t stop to look closer. His skin prickled, a warning he couldn’t name, urging him to keep moving.
A soft thud broke the quiet, coming from further down the hall. His breath caught, a sharp hitch in his throat, and he froze, listening. Another thud, then a scrape, like something being dragged across wood. He edged forward, his shoulder brushing the wall, the stone cold enough to bite through his sweater. The sound came again, sharper now, from behind a door at the far end, one he didn’t remember seeing on the hurried tour Mrs. Fairley had given them yesterday. The handle was different too—not brass, but iron, rusted at the edges, shaped like a claw curled around itself.
He reached for it, his hand hovering, the metal so cold it seemed to hum against his skin before he even touched it. The notebook in his other hand felt heavier, as if it wanted to pull him back. He ignored it, curling his fingers around the handle, the rust flaking off in gritty specks against his palm. The door groaned as it opened, a sound too human, too drawn-out, and the smell hit him first—musty paper, stale air, and something sharper, like copper gone bad. The room beyond was small, a storage closet maybe, shelves sagging under the weight of old ledgers and boxes, their edges frayed and yellowed. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, unlit, swaying slightly though there was no draft.
The thud came again, from the far corner, behind a stack of crates. Owen stepped in, the floorboards whining under his weight, his shadow stretching long across the wall as the weak light from the hall spilled in behind him. His heart was a fist in his chest, each beat too loud, too fast. He moved slowly, easing around the crates, his breath shallow to keep from disturbing the dust that hung in the air like a haze. Behind the stack, a small window sat high on the wall, boarded up with splintered planks, slivers of gray light seeping through the cracks. And below it, crouched on the floor, was Neve.
She didn’t look up, didn’t seem to notice him at all. Her back was to him, hunched over something, her hands moving in quick, jerky motions. The scraping sound was hers, a pencil dragging across paper, the noise grating in the tight space. Her dark hair fell over her shoulder, tangled and damp with sweat, sticking to her neck. The air around her felt different, heavier, like it was holding its breath. Owen took another step, his boot scuffing softly, and her head snapped up, though she didn’t turn. Her shoulders went rigid, the pencil stopping mid-stroke, the sudden silence louder than the scraping had been.
He wanted to say something, anything, but the words stayed locked in his throat, a weight he hadn’t shaken in three years. Instead, he tapped the notebook against his thigh, a small, sharp sound to let her know he was there. Her head tilted slightly, just enough to show the edge of her profile, her jaw tight, her eye wide and unblinking. Then she moved, scrambling to her feet in a rush, the paper she’d been working on crumpling under her hand as she shoved it behind her. She faced him now, her chest rising and falling too fast, her hands clenched at her sides, flecks of pencil lead smudged across her fingers like bruises.
Her eyes flicked to the notebook in his hand, then back to his face, searching for something. He lifted it slightly, a question in the gesture, but she shook her head, a quick, sharp jerk, her lips pressed into a thin line. The air between them crackled, unspoken things piling up like static. He took a step closer, and she flinched, her back hitting the wall, the boarded window above her casting jagged shadows across her face. Her gaze darted to the door, then back to him, and for a moment, he thought she might bolt. But she didn’t. She just stood there, trembling, her fingers twitching like she wanted to grab something—or push him away.
He opened the notebook, flipping to the page with the foreign handwriting, the words Waiting and It’s closer now glaring up at him in the dim light. He held it out, angling it so she could see, his hand steady despite the cold sweat on his palm. Her eyes narrowed, locking on the page, and something shifted in her expression—fear, yes, but also something harder, like she’d known this was coming. She reached out, hesitating, then pulled her hand back as if the paper might burn her. Her mouth opened, just a fraction, but no sound came. Instead, she pointed at the crumpled paper behind her, her finger shaking, her other hand gripping her wrist like she needed to hold herself together.
Owen moved past her, ignoring the way she tensed, and picked up the drawing. It was rough, hurried, the lines smudged and uneven, but it was the same room from the therapy session—the shadow in the center, the walls that didn’t match any place in the school. Only now, there was more. Figures, faint and barely formed, sketched into the shadow, their shapes too long, too thin, their edges bleeding into the darkness like they weren’t fully there. And below it, in her tight, slanted handwriting, a single word: Listening.
His stomach dropped, a cold weight settling in his gut. The hum from downstairs crept back into his awareness, stronger now, threading through the air like a whisper he couldn’t quite hear. He looked at Neve, her face pale, her eyes too wide, too bright, reflecting the weak light like glass. She pointed again, not at the drawing, but at the wall behind him, her finger jabbing with urgency. He turned, slowly, the hairs on his neck standing on end, and saw it—a crack in the plaster, hairline thin, running from the floor to the ceiling, jagged like a lightning strike. It hadn’t been there when he’d walked in. He was sure of it.
He stepped closer, the floor creaking under him, and touched the crack, his fingers brushing the rough edge. The wall was cold, unnaturally so, the chill seeping into his skin like water. And then he felt it—a faint vibration, matching the hum, pulsing through the plaster as if something on the other side was pushing to get out. His hand jerked back, his breath hitching, and he turned to Neve, her face a mask of dread now, her hands pressed flat against the wall behind her like she could hold it in place.
The hum spiked, a sharp, grating note that made his teeth ache, and the bulb above them flickered to life for a split second, casting a sickly yellow glow before snapping off again. Shadows danced across the room, twisting the shapes on the shelves into something grotesque, something alive. Neve’s mouth moved, forming a word he couldn’t hear over the noise, her lips trembling as she pressed herself harder against the wall. Owen’s notebook slipped from his grip, hitting the floor with a dull thud, pages splaying open to that cursed handwriting. The air grew tight, squeezing around them, the smell of copper stronger now, sharp enough to taste.
He bent to grab the notebook, his fingers fumbling, and as he straightened, the crack in the wall widened, just a fraction, a soft hiss escaping like air from a sealed tomb. Dust trickled down, a fine gray stream, and behind it, a sound—a low, wet rasp, like breathing through something broken. Neve’s eyes locked on his, pure panic now, her hands clawing at the wall as if she could claw her way out of the room. Owen’s chest seized, his own breath ragged, the notebook clutched to his side like a shield. The hum was a roar now, shaking the floor, the shelves, the very bones of the building, and that rasp grew louder, closer, until it felt like it was right behind the wall, right behind him.
He stumbled back, his boot catching on a crate, and nearly fell, his free hand shooting out to catch himself on the shelf. The wood groaned, boxes tipping, spilling old papers and photographs across the floor, their edges curling like dead leaves. One caught his eye—a grainy black-and-white shot of children, maybe ten or twelve, standing in front of Glenmoor Academy, their faces blank, their mouths shut tight. Too tight. And in the background, blurred but unmistakable, the same window he stood under now, unboarded, open, showing a darkness inside that didn’t match the daylight.
Neve made a sound then, not a word, not even a gasp, but a choked, desperate noise, the first he’d heard from her. She was pointing again, not at the wall, not at the crack, but at the floor, at the photograph, her finger trembling so hard it blurred in his vision. He looked down, following her gaze, and saw it—ink, fresh and wet, seeping across the back of the photo, forming letters in that same jagged script from his notebook. They see you.
His blood turned to ice, his legs locking in place as the rasp behind the wall turned into something else—a low, keening whine, like a voice trying to form through a throat that wasn’t there. The crack split wider, plaster crumbling, the hiss turning to a gust, cold and foul, carrying the scent of rot. Neve slid down the wall, her knees buckling, her hands over her ears now, her face twisted in a silent scream. Owen’s grip on the notebook tightened, the leather creaking, as the hum and the whine and the rasp blended into a single, unbearable sound, pressing against his skull until he thought it might crack.
And then, from the hall outside, a new sound cut through—footsteps, heavy and slow, dragging against the stone. Someone was coming. Or something. The door, still ajar, creaked wider, the iron handle rattling as if touched by an unseen hand. Owen’s heart slammed against his ribs, his eyes darting from the crack to the door to Neve, who was shaking her head now, mouthing no, no, no over and over. The footsteps stopped, just outside, the silence that followed heavier than any noise, and in that silence, he felt it—a presence, waiting, watching, as close as his own shadow.
The wall groaned, the crack spidering outward, and the photograph at his feet curled inward, the ink spreading, the words shifting before his eyes. They see you became They know you. His breath stopped, the air in his lungs turning to knives, and he knew, with a certainty that burned, that whatever was on the other side of that wall, whatever was at the door, wasn’t just listening. It was deciding.
Owen’s fingers dug into the edge of the notebook, the leather biting into his skin as the air in the room thickened, heavy with the scent of damp stone and something sour, like old breath. The silence wasn’t empty—it pressed against him, a weight that made his chest ache, made his ears strain for the smallest sound. The footsteps had stopped, but the presence lingered, a shadow too dense to be just imagination, hovering beyond the door. Neve’s lips moved faster now, her silent no, no, no a frantic rhythm, her hands pressed flat against the wall as if she could push the building itself away. Her eyes, wide and dark, flicked toward the crack in the plaster, where the spidering lines had spread like veins, reaching for the ceiling. The photograph at Owen’s feet trembled, though there was no draft, the ink smearing further, the words They know you bleeding into a jagged scrawl he couldn’t read anymore.
He forced his gaze to the door, the iron handle still quivering, a faint metallic shiver cutting through the quiet. His pulse roared in his ears, a drumbeat too loud, drowning out everything but the certainty that whatever waited out there wasn’t human—not in the way he understood human. The floor beneath him felt unsteady, the cold seeping through his boots, numbing his toes until they felt like they belonged to someone else. He wanted to move, to shove the door shut, to barricade it with the desk or the chair or his own body, but his legs wouldn’t answer. Fear rooted him, a cold vine twisting through his spine, and all he could do was clutch the notebook tighter, as if the scribbled pages could shield him.
Neve’s hand shot out suddenly, grabbing his wrist, her grip so tight it stung. Her nails bit into his skin, and he flinched, meeting her gaze. Her face was pale, almost gray under the dim bulb overhead, but her eyes burned with something beyond fear—urgency, maybe, or warning. She shook her head once, sharp and deliberate, then pointed at the photograph, her finger trembling. Owen followed her gesture, his stomach twisting as he saw the ink had shifted again, the words now a smear of black, but beneath it, a shape emerged—a rough outline of a face, no features, just hollows where eyes should be. The paper curled tighter at the edges, as if shrinking from his stare.
A low sound broke the silence then, not from the door but from the wall itself—a groan, deep and resonant, like wood bending under too much weight. The crack widened, just a fraction, enough for a sliver of darkness to show through, thicker than shadow, almost liquid. Owen’s breath caught, his throat burning as he inhaled, the air tasting of rot and wet earth. Neve yanked at his wrist again, pulling him back a step, her other hand still pressed to the wall, as if she could feel something moving behind it. Her fingers twitched, tracing the plaster, and for a moment, he thought he saw her lips form a different word, not no but something shorter, sharper. But it was gone before he could be sure, swallowed by the dim light and the suffocating quiet.
The door handle rattled again, harder this time, the iron scraping against its hinge with a sound like a knife on bone. Owen’s head snapped toward it, his heart lurching as the door inched open another fraction, the gap revealing nothing but blackness beyond. No hallway, no flickering sconces, just a void that seemed to suck the light from the room. His free hand fumbled for the desk, for anything to hold onto, his knuckles brushing against the rough wood, splinters catching at his skin. The pain was sharp, grounding, but it wasn’t enough to pull him out of the spiral in his mind. He wanted to write, to spill the panic onto a page, to make it something he could see and control, but his notebook felt heavier now, almost alive in his grip, the leather warm against his palm.
Neve’s grip on his wrist tightened, her nails drawing a thin line of heat across his skin, and she tugged him toward the corner of the room, away from the door, away from the wall. Her movements were jerky, her breath coming in shallow gasps he could hear over the pounding in his own chest. She pointed at the floor, at a spot near the window where the boards were scuffed and uneven, as if something heavy had been dragged across them long ago. Owen didn’t understand, but he followed her gaze, squinting in the weak light. There was a faint outline there, a rectangle of darker wood, almost like a trapdoor, though he’d never noticed it before. His stomach turned, a cold dread pooling at the base of his spine. He didn’t want to know what was under there. He didn’t want to know anything more about this place.
A sound came from the door then, not a rattle but a whisper—a soft, sibilant hiss, like air escaping through a crack, or like a voice too faint to carry words. It slithered into the room, curling around the edges of his hearing, and Owen’s knees buckled, his body sagging against Neve’s pull. She held him up, her grip unyielding, her own frame trembling but steady enough to keep them both standing. Her eyes darted between the door and the outline on the floor, and he saw her jaw clench, a muscle ticking under her skin. She was deciding something, he could feel it, though he didn’t know what. Her silence wasn’t just absence—it was a wall, a choice, and right now it felt stronger than any sound.
The whisper grew, not louder but closer, brushing against his ear like a cold finger. He flinched, his shoulder hunching as if he could shrug it off, but it lingered, sinking into his skin. The door creaked wider, the gap now wide enough to show a sliver of movement—something shifting in the dark, not a shape but a suggestion, a flicker of absence where light should be. Owen’s throat closed, his breath a shallow rasp, and he felt Neve’s hand slide from his wrist to his shoulder, her fingers digging into the fabric of his sweater. She pushed him down, toward the floor, her other hand gesturing wildly at the outline in the wood. He didn’t resist—couldn’t resist—his body folding under her urgency, his knees hitting the cold boards with a dull thud that echoed too loudly in the quiet.
His hands scrabbled at the floor, fingers catching on the edge of the rectangle, the wood rough and splintered under his touch. There was a seam there, a gap just wide enough to slip a fingernail into, and he dug at it without thinking, the sharp edge biting into his skin. Neve crouched beside him, her breath hot against his cheek as she leaned close, her hands joining his, prying at the board with a desperation that mirrored his own. The whisper at the door turned sharper, a hiss that scraped at the inside of his skull, and he bit his lip to keep from making a sound, the copper taste of blood grounding him for a split second.
The board gave with a sudden groan, popping upward with a puff of dust that stung his eyes. Beneath it was darkness, a hollow space that smelled of mildew and something older, something metallic. Owen hesitated, his hands hovering over the gap, but Neve didn’t wait. She shoved her arm into the hole, her shoulder pressed against the floor, her face twisted with effort as she felt for something. Her fingers emerged clutching a bundle of cloth, gray and tattered, wrapped around something small and hard. She thrust it at him, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and triumph, and he took it without thinking, the fabric coarse against his palms, the weight inside heavier than it should have been.
The door slammed open then, not with a creak but a crash, the wood splintering against the wall, the sound a gunshot in the silence. Owen’s head snapped up, his heart stopping as he saw nothing in the doorway—just blackness, deeper than any night, a void that pulsed with intent. The whisper surged, a chorus now, overlapping voices too faint to understand but too real to ignore, and the air turned frigid, his breath fogging in front of him. Neve grabbed his arm again, yanking him back as she scrambled to her feet, the bundle still clutched in his hands. She pointed at the window, her movements frantic, and he understood—run, hide, get out—but his legs felt like lead, his body caught between the pull of her urgency and the weight of that darkness.
He stumbled after her, the bundle pressed to his chest, the hard shape inside digging into his ribs. The window was old, the frame warped, the glass streaked with grime that turned the outside world into a blur of gray and green. Neve fumbled with the latch, her fingers slipping on the rusted metal, a soft grunt escaping her throat—the first sound he’d heard from her, raw and desperate. The latch gave with a screech, the window swinging outward, letting in a blast of cold air that smelled of pine and rain-soaked earth. Owen leaned forward, his free hand gripping the sill, the wood slick under his palm, and peered out. The drop was steep, the ground below a tangle of bracken and stone, but beyond it, the forest loomed, a dark promise of cover.
Behind them, the whisper turned to a growl, a sound that wasn’t sound at all but a vibration, shaking the floor, rattling the walls. The crack in the plaster split wider, dust raining down, and Owen felt it—the presence wasn’t just at the door now, it was in the room, a weight pressing against his back, cold and unyielding. He didn’t turn to look. He couldn’t. His body moved on instinct, shoving the bundle into his sweater, the fabric scratching at his skin as he climbed onto the sill, Neve right behind him. Her hand pressed against his shoulder, a silent push, and he dropped, the air rushing past him, the ground slamming into his knees with a jolt that rattled his teeth.
Neve landed beside him, lighter, quicker, her hands already pulling him up, her eyes darting back to the window. Nothing followed, not yet, but the growl lingered, vibrating through the stone of the building, a warning or a promise. Owen’s chest heaved, his breath burning as he clutched the bundle tighter, the shape inside shifting, sharp against his ribs. Neve gestured toward the trees, her movements sharp, and he nodded, stumbling after her as they ran, the bracken snagging at his trousers, the damp earth sucking at his boots.
The forest closed around them, the air thick with the scent of moss and decay, the branches overhead knitting together to block out what little light remained. Owen’s legs burned, his knees aching from the fall, but he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, Neve’s silhouette just ahead driving him forward. They ran until the school was a shadow behind them, until the growl faded into the rustle of leaves and the distant cry of some night bird. Only then did Neve slow, her shoulders slumping as she turned to face him, her face pale and streaked with dirt, her eyes still wide but softer now, searching.
Owen sank to his knees, the bundle slipping from his grip to the ground, the cloth unwrapping as it fell. Inside was a small box, wood blackened with age, the lid carved with symbols he didn’t recognize, lines and curves that seemed to shift under his gaze. His hands hovered over it, trembling, the cold of the forest seeping into his bones. Neve crouched beside him, her fingers brushing the edge of the box, a hesitation in her touch that mirrored his own. Whatever was inside, whatever they’d taken from under the floor, it wasn’t just a thing. It was a secret, a weight, something the school—or whatever lived in its walls—didn’t want them to have.
Her eyes met his, a question in them, a shared understanding that whatever they’d just done had changed everything. They couldn’t go back, not the same way, not without knowing what this was. The forest whispered around them, the wind carrying the faint echo of that growl, a reminder that they hadn’t escaped, not really. Owen’s fingers brushed the lid of the box, the wood rough and cold, and he felt it—a pulse, not his own, but something older, waiting. His breath caught, the air sharp in his lungs, and he knew, with a certainty that clawed at his gut, that opening it would be a mistake they couldn’t undo.