By the time I stepped into the East Wing, the usual hum of Oakridge Academy had been replaced by an unsettling quiet. The book fair tables stood abandoned, colorful covers frozen mid-display as if time itself had paused. Then I heard it—faint, but unmistakable. A muffled cry, strained and desperate, coming from somewhere beyond the maintenance corridor.

“Sarah?” I called out, my voice low but urgent. She emerged from behind a shelf, her face pale, eyes wide with fear. Without a word, she pointed toward a narrow hallway marked “Staff Only.” That was enough.

Every instinct in me screamed to run, but I forced myself to slow down, to observe. My eyes scanned everything—the placement of carts, the doors slightly ajar, even a security camera angled suspiciously away from the corridor. Someone didn’t want this area watched.

The cries grew louder as I approached the janitorial closets. My hand hovered over the handle of the last door on the right. I took a steady breath, bracing myself for whatever waited on the other side—and then I opened it.