<h3 style="text-align: justify">Trapped in the Echoes


    The flashlight flickered in my trembling hand, casting weak, quivering beams down the cracked linoleum hallway. I should never have come here alone. St. Michael’s Academy was a corpse of a building, its soul having long since fled. The townsfolk spoke of it like a ghost story, a relic of whispered warnings and daredevil teenagers. But curiosity has always been my curse.


    The dare started innocently enough—“spend one night inside St. Michael’s, and we’ll cover your rent for a month.” I laughed at first, but the bills piling on my desk convinced me otherwise. Armed with a flashlight, my phone, and a sleeping bag, I assured myself it was just a building. No ghosts. No curses. Just old bricks and forgotten memories.


    I regretted my decision the moment I stepped through the rotting double doors.


    The air inside was thick, musty, like the breath of something ancient. My sneakers scraped the dirt-streaked tiles as I moved further inside, the sound echoing unnervingly in the hollow halls. Lockers, their paint peeling like diseased skin, lined the walls. A few hung open, exposing rusted insides filled with crumpled papers and broken pencils.


    I paused in the lobby, shining my flashlight over a glass trophy case covered in dust. Inside were fragments of a bygone era: tarnished trophies, faded photographs, and a banner boasting “Class of ’78.” A smile tugged at my lips as I squinted at the faces, their sepia-toned smiles frozen in time. Then, from somewhere deeper within the school, I heard it: a soft, shuffling sound.


    I froze.


    “Just a raccoon,” I whispered to myself, though my pulse quickened. “Or maybe a stray cat.” My voice sounded foreign in the silence, a trespasser in a sacred crypt. Still, I pressed on, telling myself I was being ridiculous.


    I found a classroom on the second floor to set up camp. The room was gutted—desks overturned, chalkboards cracked like spiderwebs. Graffiti covered the walls, most of it vulgar, but some of it strange: “THEY LISTEN.” “DON’T TURN AROUND.” “LEAVE WHILE YOU CAN.”


    Teenagers and their pranks, I thought, though the words settled uneasily in my chest.


    As I spread out my sleeping bag, my flashlight died. The darkness rushed in like a suffocating wave, and panic clawed at my throat. Fumbling, I grabbed my phone, its pale glow an anemic substitute. I jiggled the flashlight, smacked it against my palm, and—thank God—it sputtered back to life.


    That’s when I noticed the desk by the window.


    It wasn’t overturned like the others. It stood upright, neat, as if it had been waiting for someone. On it lay a notebook, its cover warped and stained. Curious, I flipped it open, my fingers sticking to the damp pages. The writing was jagged, frantic:


    “They come when it’s quiet.”


    “The walls whisper. Don’t listen.”


    “Don’t sleep. DON’T SLEEP.”


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    A chill spidered up my spine. The writing wasn’t old; the ink hadn’t faded. Someone had been here recently. Before I could process this, a noise echoed from the hallway—a soft, rhythmic tapping. It grew louder, closer, until it stopped just outside the door.


    “Hello?” My voice quivered.


    Silence.


    I rose, clutching the flashlight like a weapon, and crept to the doorway. The hallway stretched empty in both directions. I leaned out, my breath hitching as my flashlight caught a glimpse of something—a fleeting shadow that disappeared around the corner.


    I should have left then. I should have run. But something compelled me to follow, an irrational, irresistible pull. My feet carried me down the hallway, past rows of broken lockers and classrooms that yawned open like toothless mouths. The shadow always stayed just ahead, slipping out of sight whenever I thought I was close.


    It led me to the gymnasium.


    The air inside was heavier, colder. My flashlight swept across the cavernous space, revealing rows of decaying bleachers and a basketball hoop hanging askew. In the center of the gym, beneath the peeling remnants of a mural, stood a figure.


    It was a girl—no older than sixteen—dressed in a tattered uniform, her hair hanging in limp, dark strands. Her back was to me.


    “Hey,” I called, though my voice cracked. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”


    She didn’t move.


    I stepped closer, the beam of my flashlight trembling as it illuminated her figure. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her hands hung limply at her sides. Something about her was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.


    “Miss?” I tried again, my voice barely a whisper.


    She turned.


    Her face was a mask of horror—eyes black pits, mouth stretched into a gaping void. She let out a sound, a piercing wail that rattled my skull and sent me stumbling back. The flashlight fell from my hand, clattering to the floor and plunging the gym into darkness.


    I ran.


    Blind and panicked, I sprinted through the hallways, my phone’s dim glow barely illuminating the path. The walls seemed to close in around me, the graffiti shifting and twisting in the corners of my vision. I heard them now—the whispers. They slithered into my ears, speaking words I couldn’t understand but felt deep in my bones.


    “Stay.”


    “Listen.”


    “Join us.”


    I burst into the lobby, gasping for air, and slammed into the double doors. They didn’t budge. I pushed, pulled, kicked—nothing. The doors wouldn’t open. My phone flickered, and I screamed as I saw my reflection in the glass. Standing behind me were dozens of figures, their hollow eyes watching, their mouths whispering.


    I turned, but the lobby was empty.


    The whispers grew louder, more insistent. I fell to my knees, clutching my ears, but they didn’t stop. The walls seemed to pulse, breathing in and out like a living thing. My flashlight lay forgotten in the corner, its beam flickering weakly.


    As the darkness closed in, I saw her again—the girl from the gym. She stood at the edge of the lobby, her head cocked to one side. Slowly, she raised a hand and pointed to the trophy case.


    Trembling, I crawled toward it. The glass was fogged, but as I wiped it clean, my heart stopped. Among the faded photographs was one I hadn’t noticed before.


    It was me.


    Smiling. Standing among the class of ’78.


    I never found my way home.