The Quiet Ones / Season 1, Episode 3
Shadow in the East
Owen’s pencil scratched against the lined paper of his notebook, the sound a faint rasp in the dim light of the dormitory. His bunk was the farthest from the door, tucked under a window that rattled every time the Highland wind clawed at the glass. The air smelled of damp wool and old wood, the kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat. His fingers, ink-stained and cold, gripped the pencil too tight, the wood biting into his palm as he wrote. I saw it again today. In the east wing. The door that shouldn’t be there. It’s not on the map Dr. Marsh gave us. I checked twice.
He stopped, breath hitching, as the graphite tip snapped under the pressure. The break sounded louder than it should have, a tiny crack in the heavy quiet of the room. The other boys were asleep—or pretending to be. Their breathing was uneven, some shallow, some ragged, a chorus of unspoken things. Owen’s eyes darted to the notebook’s edge, where the paper curled slightly, stained with a smudge of something dark he hadn’t noticed before. Not ink. Something thicker. His stomach twisted as he rubbed a thumb over it, half-expecting it to flake off like dried mud. It didn’t. It smeared, leaving a faint red-brown streak on his skin.
He froze, the cold of the room sinking deeper into his bones. His gaze flicked to the other pages, the ones he hadn’t written on yet. There, in the bottom corner of the next sheet, was a word. Just one. Listen. Not his handwriting. Not the sharp, jagged scrawl of the earlier messages—“Soon” and “Waiting”—that had appeared without explanation. This was different. Softer. Curved. Like someone had taken their time with it. His chest tightened, the pencil trembling in his hand as he flipped the page back, then forward again, half-hoping it would vanish. It didn’t.
The dormitory door creaked open, a slow groan of hinges that cut through the silence like a knife. Owen’s head snapped up, his notebook slamming shut under his hand. Mrs. Fairley stood in the doorway, her silhouette hunched and shadowed against the weak yellow light of the hallway. Her hands moved in front of her, fingers weaving through the air in the sharp, deliberate shapes of sign language. Breakfast. Now. Don’t dawdle. Her face was unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes lingered on Owen longer than the others, as if she could see the notebook burning a hole through his mattress.
He nodded, quick and jerky, shoving the notebook under his pillow. The other boys stirred, mattresses creaking as they sat up, their faces pale and drawn in the half-light. No one looked at each other. No one ever did. Not really. Owen’s socks were damp from the night before—left near the radiator that barely worked—and the wool stuck to his feet as he tugged them on. The floorboards groaned under his weight, cold seeping through the thin soles of his shoes as he followed Mrs. Fairley out into the corridor. Her boots tapped a steady rhythm ahead, a counterpoint to the wind howling outside, and somewhere, deep in the walls, a pipe rattled like a bone shaking loose.
The dining hall smelled of burnt toast and weak tea, the kind of breakfast that sat heavy in your gut. Long wooden tables stretched across the room, scarred and uneven, with benches that wobbled if you leaned too hard. Owen slid into a spot near the end, farthest from the window where the gray morning light leaked in, turning everything the color of ash. Neve was already there, across from him, her hands folded tight in her lap. Her dark hair hung over one shoulder, unbrushed, and her eyes were fixed on the chipped edge of the table, tracing some invisible pattern. She didn’t look up when he sat down, but her fingers twitched, a small, sharp movement, like she’d felt him arrive.
Mrs. Fairley moved between the tables, signing short, clipped instructions to the kitchen staff—a pair of older women in aprons who nodded without looking at her. The clatter of tin trays and the hiss of a kettle filled the room, but under it, there was something else. A hum. Low and faint, barely there, like the sound you feel more than hear. Owen’s skin prickled, his gaze darting to the walls, half-expecting to see them tremble. Neve’s head tilted slightly, her eyes narrowing, and he knew she’d heard it too. Her fingers pressed harder into the table, knuckles whitening, and for a moment, their eyes met. Just a flicker. Enough to say, You feel it, don’t you?
A tray landed in front of him with a dull thunk, porridge congealed in a chipped bowl, a piece of toast blackened at the edges. The spoon was bent, the metal cold against his palm as he picked it up. He didn’t eat. Couldn’t. Not with that hum still buzzing at the edge of his hearing, not with the notebook’s weight pressing against his thoughts like a stone. Listen. To what? He scraped the spoon against the bowl, the sound grating, just to cover the hum. It didn’t work.
Dr. Marsh entered the room, her clipboard tucked under one arm, her coat still damp from the morning mist outside. Her boots left faint muddy prints on the stone floor, and her hair—gray streaked with fading brown—was pulled back so tight it looked like it hurt. She scanned the room, her gaze clinical, like she was counting heads at a livestock auction. “Good morning,” she said, voice clipped, expecting no answer. She never did. Not out loud, anyway. “Group session in twenty minutes. East wing, same room as yesterday. Bring something new to share. Something personal. I know it’s hard, but trust takes effort.”
Her eyes lingered on Owen, then Neve, before moving on. He felt it like a pinprick, that look of hers, always searching for cracks. He hated it. Hated the way she wrote everything down, every twitch, every glance, like they were puzzles to be solved. His fingers curled tighter around the spoon, the metal digging into his skin. Neve’s hands were still in her lap, but her shoulders had gone rigid, her breath shallow. Whatever she was thinking, it wasn’t about trust. It was about survival.
The hum grew louder, just for a second, a vibration that seemed to come from under the table, or maybe the floor itself. Owen’s spoon slipped, clattering against the bowl, and a few heads turned—sharp, fleeting glances before looking away. Mrs. Fairley was at the far end of the hall now, her back to them, but her hands paused mid-sign, as if she’d felt it too. Then she started humming to herself, a low, tuneless sound that cut through the room like a blade. It wasn’t a song. Not really. Just noise. A shield. Owen’s chest tightened, his gaze dropping to the porridge, gray and lumpy, as the hum faded back into nothing.
Breakfast ended in a shuffle of trays and benches scraping against stone. The group moved toward the east wing, a slow, silent procession through corridors that smelled of mildew and something sharper, like old blood soaked into the wood. The walls were lined with portraits—stern faces in faded oils, their eyes following you no matter which way you turned. Owen kept his head down, his notebook tucked inside his jacket now, the weight of it pressing against his ribs. Every step echoed, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was listening, waiting for the right moment to answer back.
The therapy room was colder than the dining hall, the kind of cold that made your breath catch. A circle of chairs sat in the center, mismatched and worn, the fabric on some torn at the edges. A single bulb hung overhead, casting harsh shadows across the floor, and the window—cracked at one corner—let in a draft that smelled of wet earth. Dr. Marsh was already there, her clipboard open, pen poised, as the students filed in. Neve took a seat near the back, her hands still folded tight, her gaze fixed on the floor. Owen sat opposite her, the notebook burning a hole in his jacket. He could feel it, that word—Listen—like it was whispering straight into his skull.
“Right,” Dr. Marsh said, her voice cutting through the quiet. “Let’s begin. I want to build on yesterday. Sharing something personal—it’s not just about the object. It’s about what it means. Why it matters. Who’s ready to start?”
No one moved. No one ever did, not right away. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere in the walls. Owen’s fingers twitched, itching to pull out the notebook, to write something, anything, just to break the weight of it. But he didn’t. Not with her watching. Not with that hum still lingering in his memory, faint but there, like a pulse under the floorboards.
Neve shifted in her seat, her movement small but sharp, like she’d been stung. Her eyes flicked up, not to Dr. Marsh, but to the corner of the room, where the shadows seemed thicker, darker, even under the harsh light of the bulb. Owen followed her gaze, his breath catching as he saw it—a flicker, just for a second, like something had moved. Not a person. Not even a shape. Just… a disturbance. A ripple in the dark. His hands clenched into fists, the notebook’s edge digging into his side through the jacket.
Dr. Marsh didn’t notice. She was too busy writing, her pen scratching against the clipboard, the sound a harsh counterpoint to the drip in the walls. “Neve,” she said, not looking up. “You’ve been quiet—well, quieter than usual. Got something to share today? Anything at all?”
Neve’s jaw tightened, her fingers digging into her palms now, leaving faint crescents in the skin. She didn’t nod, didn’t shake her head. Just stared at that corner, her eyes wide and unblinking, like she was waiting for it to move again. Owen’s pulse hammered in his ears, louder than the drip, louder than the pen. He wanted to write it down, to get it out of his head—She sees it too. It’s not just me.—but his hands wouldn’t move. Not yet.
The hum came back then, softer this time, but closer. Under the chairs, maybe. Or behind the walls. A vibration that made the air feel heavier, like it was pressing down on his chest. Mrs. Fairley wasn’t here to hum over it, to drown it out. Just them, and Dr. Marsh, and whatever was in that corner. Owen’s gaze darted to Neve again, her face pale now, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She wasn’t just seeing something. She was hearing it. And whatever it was, it wasn’t going away.
Dr. Marsh looked up finally, her pen pausing mid-scratch. Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as she followed Neve’s stare to the corner. For a moment, just a split second, her expression shifted—something like doubt, or maybe fear, flickering across her face before she smoothed it away. “Neve,” she said again, sharper now. “Focus. Here. With us. What’s on your mind?”
Neve’s lips parted, just for a moment, like she might answer. But nothing came. Just a shallow breath, and then her mouth snapped shut again, her eyes still locked on that shadowed edge of the room. The hum pulsed once, hard, like a heartbeat, and Owen felt it in his teeth, in the soles of his feet. His hand moved then, almost without thought, slipping inside his jacket to grip the notebook. He didn’t pull it out. Not yet. But he needed to feel it, to know it was there, to know he could write it down if he had to.
The silence stretched again, heavier now, loaded with something unspoken. Dr. Marsh set her clipboard down, the clatter loud in the quiet, and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Alright,” she said, voice low, almost a whisper. “If no one’s ready to share, we’ll try something else. A game. Eye contact. Look at the person across from you. Hold it. Five seconds. See what you notice. Go.”
Owen’s stomach dropped, his gaze snapping to Neve before he could stop himself. Her eyes met his, wide and dark and full of something he couldn’t name, something that made his chest ache. One second. Two. The hum grew louder, sharper, like it was feeding on the connection, on the weight of their shared silence. Three. Her fingers twitched again, a small, desperate movement, like she was trying to signal something. Four. The corner of the room seemed to shift again, a flicker at the edge of his vision, and he wanted to look, needed to look, but he couldn’t break away from her stare. Five.
The hum stopped. Just like that. Cut off mid-pulse, leaving a ringing void in its place. Neve blinked, her gaze dropping to the floor, and Owen felt the loss of it like a punch. His hand was still on the notebook, fingers trembling now, and he knew—he knew—whatever was in that corner wasn’t gone. It was waiting. Listening. Just like the word said.
Dr. Marsh picked up her clipboard again, oblivious, her pen scratching out notes as if nothing had happened. “Good,” she said, voice flat. “That’s a start. Let’s build on it. Tomorrow, I want—”
She stopped, her pen freezing mid-word, as a new sound cut through the room. Not the hum. Not the drip. Something else. A scratch. Slow and deliberate, coming from the wall behind Neve. Like fingernails dragging across stone. Owen’s blood ran cold, his grip on the notebook tightening until his knuckles ached. Neve’s head snapped toward the sound, her whole body going rigid, and for the first time, he saw her hands shake. Really shake. Like she couldn’t stop them.
Dr. Marsh heard it too. Her mouth opened, then closed, her clipboard slipping slightly in her lap. The scratch came again, longer this time, a grating, insistent sound that seemed to echo inside the walls themselves. And then, under it, fainter but unmistakable, the hum returned. Low. Hungry. Waiting for something to give.
[End of Part 1 – approximately 3,000 words. Story continues in Part 2 with rising tension around the source of the sound and its connection to the students’ silence.]
The scratch dragged on, a slow, torturous grind against the stone, as if whatever made it was testing the wall’s patience. Owen’s chest tightened, each breath shallower than the last, the air in the room suddenly thick with the smell of damp plaster and something sour, like old breath caught in the cracks. Neve’s hands, still trembling, curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms so hard Owen could see the half-moons of pressure on her skin. Dr. Marsh sat frozen, her clipboard now tilted at an odd angle, one corner pressing into her knee. Her eyes darted to the wall behind Neve, then back to the group, her lips pressed thin as if she could will the sound away by sheer stubbornness. But it didn’t stop. It grew, a rhythmic scrape now, like a claw—or worse—carving a message no one could read.
Owen’s notebook lay open in his lap, the pencil still wedged between his fingers, but he couldn’t move to write. Not now. His eyes flicked to the page anyway, half-expecting to see that handwriting again, the sharp, jagged script that wasn’t his. Not watching. Waiting. The memory of those words sent a shiver racing down his spine, cold as the stone floor under his chair. The hum beneath the scratching pulsed, almost in time with his heartbeat, a low throb that seemed to seep up from the foundation of Glenmoor Academy itself. He wanted to look at Neve, to see if she felt it too, but his neck felt locked, his body betraying him with a stillness he hadn’t chosen.
Dr. Marsh cleared her throat, the sound sharp and forced, cutting through the tension like a dull knife. “Right,” she said, her voice tighter than before, a crack in her usual control. “Let’s—let’s not get distracted. Buildings like this, they’re old. They settle. They make noises. That’s all.” She adjusted her glasses, pushing them up the bridge of her nose with a finger that wasn’t quite steady. “Neve, why don’t you… share something next? Something small. A memory. Or a thought. You can write it if that’s easier.”
Neve didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Her gaze stayed fixed on the wall, her dark eyes wide, reflecting the dim yellow of the overhead bulb. The scratching paused for a heartbeat, then resumed, softer now but somehow more deliberate, as if it had heard Dr. Marsh and disagreed. Owen saw Neve’s shoulders hunch, her thin frame folding in on itself, and he felt a pang of something he couldn’t name—not pity, not quite, but a shared weight, like they were both carrying the same invisible stone.
“Neve,” Dr. Marsh said again, softer this time, but with an edge of insistence. “I know it’s hard. But we’re here to work through things. Together. Whatever’s behind that wall—it’s nothing. Just the building. Just the past catching up with the present.” She forced a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes, and Owen caught the way her fingers tightened on the clipboard, the paper crumpling slightly under her grip.
The past catching up. The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. Owen’s mind flashed to the notebook entry, to the Soon scrawled in that unfamiliar hand, and then to the second message, Not watching. Waiting. Was that the past too? Or something else? His stomach churned, the cold sweat on his palms making the pencil slip. He wiped his hand on his trouser leg, the rough wool scratching against his skin, grounding him for just a moment before the hum swelled again, louder, vibrating through the soles of his boots.
Neve’s head turned slowly, not toward Dr. Marsh but toward Owen. Her eyes met his, and for the first time, he saw something raw there, something beyond fear. It was recognition. Like she knew what he was thinking, like she’d heard the same whispers he hadn’t dared write down. Her lips parted, just a fraction, as if she might speak, but nothing came. Instead, her hand moved, slow and deliberate, to the small sketchbook she always carried. She flipped it open, her fingers fumbling with the pages, and started to draw. The pencil scraped against the paper, a faint echo of the sound from the wall, each stroke sharp and urgent.
Dr. Marsh leaned forward, her brow furrowing. “Neve, what are you—” She stopped herself, as if remembering her own rules about not pushing too hard. But her curiosity won out. She shifted in her chair, the wood creaking under her weight, and craned her neck to see the page. Owen couldn’t see it from where he sat, but he watched Neve’s face, the way her jaw tightened, the way her hand moved faster now, almost frantic. The scratching from the wall matched her rhythm, a grotesque harmony that made Owen’s skin crawl.
The other students in the circle—fourteen in all, though Owen could barely keep their faces straight in his mind—sat silent, as always. But their stillness wasn’t passive anymore. A boy with a jagged scar across his cheek, who’d shared the seashells earlier, had his hands clenched on his knees, his knuckles white. A girl with pale blonde hair kept her head down, but her shoulders twitched with every scratch from the wall, as if each sound was a lash against her skin. The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in, the air stale with the scent of old wood and unwashed wool from their uniforms.
“Neve,” Dr. Marsh said again, her voice dropping lower, almost a whisper. “Can I see?”
Neve stopped drawing. Her pencil hovered over the page, trembling. Then, with a slowness that felt like it stretched minutes into hours, she turned the sketchbook around. Owen leaned forward, his breath catching, and saw it. A rough, hurried sketch of a room. Not this room, not the therapy circle in the east wing with its peeling wallpaper and flickering bulb. A different room. Narrow, with a low ceiling, stone walls slick with something dark—moss, maybe, or worse. And in the center, a single chair, empty but somehow wrong, its legs uneven, its back tilted as if it had been broken and left to rot. Around the chair, scratched into the paper with violent, jagged lines, were shapes. Not people, not quite. Shadows with too many edges, too many limbs.
Dr. Marsh’s face went pale, the color draining from her cheeks as if someone had pulled a plug. Her fingers twitched, almost reaching for the sketchbook before pulling back. “Where… where did you see this?” she asked, her voice barely above a breath, the words uneven, like she hadn’t meant to say them out loud.
Neve didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at her. Her eyes went back to the wall, to the spot where the scratching had come from, and Owen followed her gaze. The sound had stopped, but the silence that replaced it wasn’t relief. It was heavier, denser, like the moment before a scream. The hum lingered, a faint undercurrent, buzzing in his teeth, and he realized with a jolt that it wasn’t just in the room. It was in him, somehow, vibrating in his chest, pulling at something he didn’t want to name.
Dr. Marsh stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor with a sound that made half the group flinch. “I think—that’s enough for today,” she said, her tone clipped, her hands smoothing her skirt with jerky movements. “We’ll… we’ll pick up tomorrow. Everyone, back to your dorms. Now.” She didn’t look at Neve’s sketch again, didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. She busied herself with gathering her clipboard and papers, her fingers fumbling, a pen rolling off the edge and clattering to the floor.
Owen didn’t move right away. Neither did Neve. The other students shuffled out, their footsteps uneven on the worn floorboards, the rustle of their uniforms a soft hiss in the quiet. But Owen stayed, his notebook still open, his pencil still in hand. He wanted to write something—anything—to get the weight off his chest, but his hand wouldn’t move. Instead, he watched Neve close her sketchbook, her fingers lingering on the cover, tracing the worn edge as if it held something more than paper and graphite.
The room emptied, leaving just the three of them—Owen, Neve, and Dr. Marsh, who was now standing by the door, her back to them, her shoulders rigid. The hum was still there, fainter now but persistent, a reminder that nothing in this place ever really stopped. Owen’s eyes drifted to the wall again, to the spot Neve had stared at, and he noticed something he hadn’t before. A crack, thin as a hairline, running from the ceiling to the floor, jagged and uneven, like it had been clawed open from the inside.
“Out,” Dr. Marsh said, not turning around, her voice sharp enough to cut. “I said now.”
Neve stood first, her movements slow, almost reluctant, her sketchbook clutched to her chest like a shield. Owen followed, his legs heavy, the cold seeping through his boots as he crossed the room. But as he passed the wall, he couldn’t help it—he reached out, just for a second, his fingers brushing the crack. The stone was icy, slick with damp, and for a heartbeat, he swore he felt it pulse under his touch, a faint tremor that matched the hum in his chest.
He yanked his hand back, his heart slamming against his ribs, and hurried after Neve, not daring to look behind him. The hallway outside the therapy room was dim, the light from ancient sconces casting long, flickering shadows across the stone walls. The air out here smelled different—sharper, like frost and something metallic, like old blood. Neve walked ahead of him, her steps uneven, her head tilted as if she was listening for something. Owen wanted to catch up, to tap her shoulder, to ask without words if she’d felt it too—the pulse, the hum, the weight of that room she’d drawn. But his feet wouldn’t move faster. His notebook hung heavy in his hand, the pages inside rustling faintly, as if they had a mind of their own.
They reached the staircase leading to the dorms, the worn wooden steps groaning under their weight. Halfway up, Neve stopped, so abruptly that Owen nearly collided with her. She turned, her face pale in the dim light, her eyes wide and searching. Her mouth opened again, just like before, but this time, a sound came out. Not a word, not even a whisper, but a small, broken gasp, raw and ragged, like she’d been holding it in for years. It was the first sound Owen had heard from her, and it hit him like a punch, sharp and unexpected, making his own throat tighten in response.
Before he could react, she pointed—not at him, but past him, down the hallway they’d just left. Owen turned, slow, dread curling in his gut, and saw it. A shadow at the far end of the corridor, near the therapy room door. Not a person, not exactly. Too tall, too thin, its edges blurring into the dark like ink dissolving in water. It didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, but Owen felt it watching, felt the weight of its gaze pressing against his skin, colder than the stone under his feet.
The hum returned, louder now, a deep, resonant drone that seemed to come from everywhere at once—above, below, inside. Neve’s gasp turned into a shudder, her hand dropping to her side, her sketchbook slipping from her grip and hitting the floor with a dull thud. Owen’s notebook felt heavier, burning against his palm, and he knew without looking that there’d be something new written there, something he hadn’t put down himself.
The shadow shifted, just a fraction, its outline sharpening for a moment before dissolving again. And then, from the direction of the therapy room, the scratching started anew, louder, more insistent, like it wasn’t just behind the wall anymore. Like it was coming closer. Owen’s breath hitched, his boots rooted to the step, every muscle in his body screaming to run while his mind refused to let go of the shadow, refused to stop staring at the dark where it had been.
Neve grabbed his sleeve, her grip tight and desperate, pulling him up the stairs. He stumbled, his knee hitting the edge of a step, pain shooting through him, but he didn’t stop. The scratching followed, echoing in the stairwell, a grating, relentless sound that clawed at the back of his mind. The hum pulsed with it, a sickening rhythm, and as they reached the landing, Owen risked one last glance down.
The shadow was gone. But the hallway wasn’t empty. At the far end, near the therapy room door, a faint smear of something dark glistened on the floor—wet, slick, like ink or oil, spreading slowly as if it had just been spilled. And in the center of it, a single mark, jagged and uneven, like a claw had dragged through the stone itself.
Owen’s chest burned as he stood frozen on the landing, Neve’s fingers still digging into his sleeve. The air up here felt thinner, sharper, like breathing through a cracked window in winter, and the smell of damp stone mixed with something sour, something he couldn’t name, stung his nostrils. Below, the dark smear on the hallway floor seemed to pulse under the weak flicker of the sconce light, the jagged mark in its center catching his eye like a wound that wouldn’t close. The scratching had stopped, but the hum—that low, bone-deep vibration—was still there, seeping through the walls, through the soles of his boots, into his skin. It wasn’t just sound anymore. It was weight.
Neve tugged harder, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts, her eyes wide and darting between him and the stairwell. Her free hand hovered near her throat, fingers twitching like she wanted to claw at something stuck there. She didn’t need to speak for him to understand—move, now. He forced his legs to obey, stumbling after her down the narrow corridor toward the dormitories, the floorboards groaning under their weight with every step. Each creak sounded too loud, like the house was tattling on them, and he half-expected to hear boots or claws or something worse thundering up the stairs behind. His hand brushed the wall for balance, and the rough, cold stone scraped against his palm, gritty with unseen dust. He yanked it back as if burned, wiping it on his jumper, but the sensation lingered, a prickling unease that crawled up his arm.
They reached the boys’ dormitory door first, a heavy slab of oak with iron hinges that looked older than the school itself. Owen pushed against it, the wood resisting with a low groan before giving way. The room beyond was dim, the single bulb overhead casting a sickly yellow glow over the rows of metal-framed beds, their thin mattresses sagging under faded quilts. The air smelled of mildew and unwashed wool, and the window at the far end rattled faintly in its frame, the wind outside pressing against the glass like a living thing trying to get in. Two other boys were already there—Calum, the lanky one with the scar on his cheek, sat cross-legged on his bed, staring at the floor, while Euan, smaller and twitchy, paced near the window, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Neither looked up as Owen and Neve stumbled in, but Euan’s pacing faltered for half a second, his head tilting just enough to show he’d noticed.
Neve didn’t let go of Owen’s sleeve until he was fully inside, and even then, her hand lingered in the air, trembling, before dropping to her side. She backed toward the wall, her shoulder brushing against the peeling paint, and her gaze flicked to the door as if expecting something to barge through. Owen’s heart was still hammering, each beat loud enough that he swore the others could hear it, and he fumbled for his notebook in his jacket pocket, needing something to anchor himself. The leather cover was cool against his fingers, worn smooth at the edges from months of handling, but when he flipped it open, his stomach twisted. The last page he’d written on—the one from earlier, scrawled with his shaky attempt to describe the hum—had a new mark. Not words, not handwriting. A smudge, dark and uneven, like someone had dragged a wet finger across the paper, right through his own ink. It hadn’t been there an hour ago.
His breath caught, a sharp hitch that made Calum glance up, his scarred cheek twitching as his eyes narrowed. Owen snapped the notebook shut, shoving it back into his pocket before anyone could see, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He pressed them against his thighs, trying to steady himself, but the hum was still there, buzzing under his skin, and now it felt like the smudge was watching him, somehow, through the leather and cloth. He risked a glance at Neve, hoping she hadn’t noticed, but she was staring at the floor, her arms crossed tight over her chest, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Her foot tapped once, twice, a nervous rhythm against the wood, and then stopped abruptly, like she’d caught herself.
Euan muttered something under his breath, too low to make out, and resumed pacing, his sneakers scuffing the floor with a soft, grating sound that scraped at Owen’s nerves. The window rattled again, harder this time, and a draft slipped through the cracks, chilling the back of his neck. He pulled his jacket tighter, the rough fabric scratching against his skin, and moved to sit on the edge of his bed, the springs squeaking under his weight. The mattress was lumpy, the quilt damp to the touch, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that the room was smaller than it had been yesterday, the walls pressing in just a fraction closer, the ceiling sagging lower. He didn’t look at the others, didn’t want to see if they felt it too, but the silence between them was heavier than it should have been, thicker, like it was waiting for something to break it.
Neve shifted, her shoulder brushing the wall again, and the faint scrape of her coat against the paint made Owen flinch. She didn’t notice, or if she did, she didn’t care—her eyes were still on the door, unblinking, and her fingers had started twitching again, curling and uncurling at her sides. He wanted to write something, to ask if she’d seen the smear downstairs, if she’d heard the scratching in the walls, but his notebook felt like a trap now, a thing that could betray him if he opened it again. Instead, he watched her, waiting for some sign, some gesture that would tell him she understood, that he wasn’t losing it. But she didn’t look at him. She just stood there, a statue carved from tension, her breath so shallow it barely moved her shoulders.
The hum pulsed again, sharper now, like a needle tapping at the base of his skull, and with it came a new sound—a faint, rhythmic tapping from somewhere above, like fingernails on wood, slow and deliberate. Owen’s head snapped up, his eyes scanning the ceiling, the cracked plaster spiderwebbed with age. The tapping paused, then started again, closer, as if whatever made it had shifted just overhead. Calum noticed it too—his jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists on his lap, but he didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Euan stopped pacing, his sneakers freezing mid-step, and for a long moment, the only noise was the wind outside and that relentless tap-tap-tap from above.
Neve’s hand shot to her pocket, fumbling for something, and when she pulled it out, Owen saw the edge of a small, folded piece of paper, the corners worn as if she’d handled it a thousand times. She didn’t unfold it, just gripped it like a lifeline, her knuckles whitening, and her eyes finally met his. There was something raw in them, something that made his chest ache—fear, yes, but also recognition, like she knew exactly what he was feeling, like she’d been waiting for this moment as much as dreading it. Her lips parted, just for a second, and he thought she might say something, might break the rule they’d all clung to, but then she pressed them shut again, harder, and looked away.
The tapping stopped. The hum didn’t. It grew, swelling into a low drone that seemed to come from everywhere at once, vibrating through the floor, the walls, the metal of the bedframe. Owen’s teeth ached with it, his hands pressing harder against his thighs, trying to ground himself, but there was no escaping it. It was in him now, burrowing deeper, and with it came a memory he hadn’t touched in years—a flash of his old house, the creak of the attic door, the way the air had changed when he’d climbed those stairs as a kid, the way something had watched him from the dark. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it away, but the drone only sharpened, and behind his lids, he saw the smear from downstairs, the jagged mark, moving, spreading, like it was reaching for him.
A hand touched his shoulder, light but firm, and he jolted, eyes snapping open. Neve was there, closer than she’d been, her face pale under the dim light, her expression unreadable except for the tight set of her jaw. She didn’t pull back, didn’t flinch at his reaction, just held his gaze for a moment before nodding toward the door. Not a question, a command—we’re not staying here. Owen didn’t argue. He couldn’t. The drone was too loud, the memory too close, and the thought of sitting still while something tapped and scratched and watched was unbearable. He stood, the bed creaking under him, and followed her to the door, ignoring the way Calum’s eyes tracked them, the way Euan’s pacing started again, faster, more erratic.
The corridor outside was colder, the air heavy with the smell of old wood and something faintly metallic, like rust or blood. The sconces flickered as they passed, casting long, jittery shadows on the walls, and Owen’s boots scuffed against the uneven floor, each step too loud in the oppressive quiet. Neve led the way, her shoulders hunched, her hands stuffed into her pockets now, but he could see the tension in her stride, the way she kept glancing at the walls, the ceiling, as if expecting something to drop or lunge. He wanted to ask where they were going, wanted to write it down, but his notebook burned against his hip, and he kept his hands at his sides, clenched into fists.
They passed the girls’ dormitory, the door ajar just enough to show a sliver of darkness inside, and then the stairwell they’d fled up earlier. Neve hesitated there, her steps faltering, and Owen felt it too—the pull to look down, to see if the smear was still there, if it had grown. He didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he focused on the back of her head, the way her dark hair caught the faint light, the way her coat bunched at her shoulders as she moved. The hum followed them, a constant companion, but the tapping didn’t return, and for a moment, he let himself hope they’d left it behind.
They reached a narrower hallway, one he didn’t recognize, the walls closer, the ceiling lower, the air thicker with dust and decay. The floor here was stone, not wood, cold through the soles of his boots, and the sconces were unlit, leaving only the weak glow from behind to guide them. Neve slowed, her hand brushing against the wall for balance, and then stopped entirely, her head tilting as if listening. Owen heard it a second later—a faint, wet sound, like something dripping, slow and steady, from somewhere ahead. His stomach turned, the memory of the smear flashing again, and he stepped closer to her without thinking, his shoulder brushing hers. She didn’t pull away, but her hand tightened on the wall, her fingers digging into the stone as if to anchor herself.
The dripping grew louder as they crept forward, each drop echoing in the tight space, a soft plip-plip-plip that made the hair on Owen’s neck stand up. The hallway ended at a door he hadn’t seen before, smaller than the others, the wood warped and stained, the iron handle rusted over. A faint sheen of moisture coated the stone around it, pooling at the base, and the smell here was stronger, sharp and sour, like something rotting just out of sight. Neve reached for the handle, her movements slow, deliberate, but before she could touch it, the door shuddered, a quick, violent jolt that made them both flinch back. The dripping stopped. The hum didn’t. It spiked, a sudden, piercing thrum that made Owen’s vision blur, and behind the door, something moved—a soft, dragging sound, like fabric or flesh over stone, slow and heavy.
Neve’s hand dropped, her breath hitching audibly now, and she took a step back, her shoulder pressing against his chest. He didn’t move, couldn’t, his eyes locked on the door, on the way the wood seemed to bow inward for a moment, as if something pressed against it from the other side. The dragging sound came again, closer, and with it, a new noise—a low, keening hum, not mechanical like the other, but human, broken, like a voice that had forgotten how to form words. Owen’s throat closed, his pulse hammering so hard it hurt, and he felt Neve trembling against him, her whole body rigid with the effort not to run.
The door shuddered again, harder, the wood creaking like it might split, and then—silence. Not the hum, not the dripping, just a void, a gaping absence of sound that was worse than anything that had come before. Owen’s ears rang with it, his mind scrambling to fill the gap, and in that moment, he saw it—not with his eyes, but in his head, clear as day—the room beyond the door, the one that wasn’t on any map, the one Neve had drawn in her sketches. Dark, wet stone, walls that wept black, and in the center, shapes that weren’t shapes, things that moved without moving, waiting. His knees buckled, and he caught himself against the wall, the rough stone biting into his palm, grounding him just enough to keep from collapsing.
Neve turned to him then, her face ghostly pale, her eyes too big, too bright, and in them, he saw the same thing he’d felt—she’d seen it too, somehow, the room, the shapes. Her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist, and this time, she didn’t pull him away. She just held on, her grip bruising, as if letting go would mean losing something vital. The silence stretched, heavy, suffocating, and then, from behind the door, a single sound broke it—a soft, deliberate scratch, like a nail dragging down wood, slow and purposeful, right at eye level.
Owen didn’t think. He yanked Neve back, half-dragging her down the hallway, away from the door, away from the scratch that followed them, fainter but no less real. They stumbled, her foot catching on the uneven stone, his shoulder slamming into the wall, pain flaring hot and bright, but they didn’t stop. The hum was back, chasing them, and the air grew colder with every step, the smell of rot clinging to their clothes, their skin. They reached the main corridor, the sconces flickering wildly now, and Owen’s chest heaved as he fought for air, his mind a tangle of fear and questions and the unshakable image of that room.
Neve stopped first, her grip on his wrist loosening but not letting go, and she leaned against the wall, her head tilted back, her eyes closed for a moment as she fought to steady her breathing. Owen watched her, his own breath ragged, and felt something shift inside him, something he couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore. They weren’t just running from the same thing anymore. They were tied to it, bound by whatever they’d seen, whatever they’d felt behind that door. He didn’t know her story, didn’t know why she’d stopped speaking, but he knew, in that moment, that it didn’t matter. They were in this together, whether they wanted to be or not.
Her eyes opened, meeting his, and there was no mistaking it now—the recognition, the shared weight. She didn’t nod, didn’t gesture, just held his gaze, and for the first time since he’d arrived at Glenmoor, the silence between them wasn’t empty. It was full, heavy with unspoken things, with the truth of what they’d just escaped, or maybe what they hadn’t. The hum lingered, softer now but still there, a reminder, and as Owen stood there, his wrist still warm from her grip, he realized something had changed. Not the school, not the sounds, not even the fear. It was them. They weren’t just strangers anymore, weren’t just silent. They were something else, something forged in the dark, and whatever came next, they’d face it as one.
Behind them, down the hallway, the scratch came again, faint but unmistakable, a promise carved into the quiet.