Chapter 10

There were two things in life that terrified Sara most.

The first was waking up in the middle of the night to find a ghost with a translucent face hovering just inches above her. Lately, that nightmare had become reality—again and again. Every time darkness fell, they emerged from the corners of her room like smoke. Whispering. Reaching. Watching.

They didn't just haunt her anymore.

They pressured her.

They wanted vengeance. They wanted blood.

But Sara refused. She wouldn't even entertain the thought. Why should she hurt anyone—especially Alan—for crimes he never committed? He didn't even know his grandfather, let alone support what he did. Why should he be made to suffer for the sins of a stranger?

It was absurd. Cruel. And yet… the ghosts wouldn't let it go.

Her second fear was more mundane—but no less paralyzing.

Being the center of attention.

And the sleepless nights were making it harder to avoid. Every class was a battle to stay awake, and her body was losing the war. Her eyelids felt like lead. Her head dipped despite her best efforts.

She was grateful no one from their punishment group had spread her secret further. Even Oliver, annoying as he was, had kept quiet. Or so it seemed. She still had her doubts—but she bit her tongue. So far, she could bear his constant jabs.

But today wasn't like other days.

She jolted upright, as if scalded, when her forehead slipped off her hand and nearly hit the bench.

They had class with him.

The teacher.

The same one she and Alan had caught in the underground. The same man who had hunted them through the dark corridors like rats. Who had moved bodies with cold detachment. Who had claimed those children deserved to die.

He stood before the classroom like nothing had ever happened.

Alan managed to act as though everything was normal. Sara tried. She really did. But every time his eyes met hers, something in her stomach twisted like rusted metal. He knew. She was sure of it. He remembered. And he was just waiting for the right moment to strike.

"Your invisible friends don't let you sleep, huh, Sleeping Beauty?" Oliver's voice slithered into her ear like a snake's hiss. "You should stay alert in his class. You know what he's capable of. You caught him, remember?"

She blinked at him.

It wasn't a tease.

It was… a warning.

"And you know that?" she asked cautiously.

But before he could answer, she felt someone standing by their bench.

Slowly, she turned her head—and froze.

The teacher loomed over them. His eyes locked onto hers, angry and sharp, and all the breath left her lungs.

"First you fall asleep," he said, voice rising, "and now you're whispering like little pests?"

His voice boomed across the room. Sara shrank into herself. She was certain every pair of eyes was on her. Her heart raced. Her skin prickled. She felt Alan watching, concerned.

The memories surged back—bloody corridors, cold bodies, whispered cries for help.

"I… I'm sorry," she stammered.

Then she yelped—Oliver had pinched her leg under the desk.

She looked at him in disbelief, only to see something on his face she hadn't expected.

Fear.

The teacher pounced.

"Oh, now you're screaming?" he sneered. "Emotionally unstable, are we? Looks like the school psychologist isn't helping. Maybe it's time to refer you to the other one—the one for the real cases. The hopeless ones."

Sara swallowed hard, but Alan saved her.

"I remember agreeing with the principal that you owed me an apology," Alan said calmly, arms crossed over his chest. His voice was steady, but his eyes burned. "Did you think I'd let it go? I was slapped in front of the whole class. I won't forget that."

The teacher turned to face him. Alan's tone sharpened.

"Bet that caught you off guard, didn't it? Being challenged. Must've felt humiliating. Almost as humiliating as being punched in the mouth by a teacher."

Gasps fluttered across the room like startled birds.

The teacher stepped away from the bench and strolled to the front of the class, his eyes scanning the students until they landed back on Alan.

"No one forces me to do anything," he said, low and venomous. "Not the director. Not your daddy. Maybe the others are afraid of you, but I'm not. You can get over yourself, shithead."

The word hung in the air like smoke.

Alan's fists clenched at his sides.

Sara could see it—he was seconds from losing it. She had to do something.

Anything.

She jumped to her feet.

"You're right!" she blurted. "I should talk to another psychologist. The one for hard cases! Because this one isn't helping me!"

Silence.

It was as if someone had paused the entire room.

Julia turned to her, eyes wide, shaking her head slowly, silently pleading Don't.

Alan's mouth opened, but no words came out.

Only Oliver reacted—he swore under his breath.

"What are you doing?" he whispered, barely audible. "You don't know what that means. No one volunteers to go there."

And in that moment, Sara realized it too.

She hadn't just pulled the fire alarm.

She had thrown herself into the inferno.

The teacher's face twisted into something that was almost glee.

"As you wish," he said, voice slick with triumph. "I'll take you myself."

And he smiled.

Not with kindness. Not with concern.

But with delight.

*

Sara's legs felt like cotton wool, but she forced herself not to show fear. She walked after her teacher with as much dignity as she could manage, even though her heart thudded painfully in her throat.

They stopped in front of a sealed corridor—one protected by reinforced doors and a security lock. Students weren't allowed here. No one was, unless they had a special clearance.

The hallway was cloaked in shadow, long and quiet, lined with heavy pre-war doors. Cold and institutional. A place that whispered of forgotten things.

They stopped outside a room with a nameplate that read Psychologist.

With a nod of his head, the teacher signaled for her to enter.

Sara reached out with a shaking hand and wrapped her fingers around the doorknob, but before she could turn it, he seized her arm—tight, bruising. She let out a hiss of pain and turned toward him, eyes wide with terror.

He leaned in close.

"I'm not an idiot," he sneered. "I know it was you and that insolent bastard who went underground. Your friend is lucky to be untouchable. You? Not so much. You're going to regret being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

His breath was hot and foul against her cheek.

"Those kids down there were nosier than you. That's why they ended up the way they did."

Sara's lips trembled. Tears threatened to spill over. He released her arm, and she blindly fumbled for the handle, terrified to turn her back on him. Her instincts screamed that she shouldn't. But there was no choice.

She pushed the door open and slipped inside.

The moment it shut behind her, her knees buckled slightly. Her heart pounded like it wanted out of her chest.

He knew the truth.

He knew they'd seen him in the underground.

"You can come in now," came a calm voice.

Startled, Sara turned toward the second door in the room. A man in his forties emerged, watching her carefully. He gestured toward a chair at the desk.

Without a word, Sara sat down.

The psychologist took the seat opposite, folding his hands under his chin. He stared at her so intently it made her skin crawl.

"I suffer from insomnia," she said quietly, staring at her hands. She twisted her fingers nervously. "I keep falling asleep in class. I just… can't sleep at night."

"Is it only insomnia," he asked, "or is there something deeper?"

Sara looked up at him. His gaze didn't waver. He looked so calm. So serious. So in control. Was this the man everyone feared? He didn't seem dangerous. He looked... professional.

Maybe too professional.

"Since I've been here, weird things have been happening to me. Ever since Julia pushed me into the pond, I've been seeing… ghosts."

She instantly regretted saying it. She must sound insane. But she wasn't lying. After nearly drowning, something had shifted in her. It was like a veil had lifted, and the world wasn't what it used to be.

She had a sixth sense now. And it was always on.

"I think it's just the trauma," the man said calmly. "Your brain is trying to process the fear you felt. Ghosts don't exist. They're a creation of the mind. A defense mechanism. Once you understand that, once you stop feeding the fear, they'll go away."

Sara nodded slowly.

He sounded reasonable. Grounded. Comforting, even.

"You're not crazy," he added. "What you're experiencing is normal for someone who went through a near-death experience. But I'd like to do a few simple tests—just to see if your stress levels are manageable. No pressure."

She hesitated, then nodded again.

The man rose and disappeared into the adjoining room.

Sara glanced around the office. It looked normal—white walls, bland posters, a desk, some files. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Still, something didn't feel right.

She remembered overhearing Julia once, whispering to Matthew in the corridor. "He's a monster. No one can help me."

What had happened to Julia in this room?

"Sara, are you coming?" the man called out.

She froze.

He hadn't asked her name. There was no card on the desk. No ID.

How did he know who she was?

Her breath hitched in her throat. She turned slowly toward the door, and there he stood—watching her.

He had noticed her reaction. His lips thinned into a tight line. And something changed in his expression. The calm veneer cracked.

He stepped forward.

Sara instinctively backed away until her spine hit the wall.

Her eyes went wide with terror.

He seized her wrist.

With his free hand, he pulled a folded apron from his pocket.

And a syringe.

The needle gleamed under the pale lights.

A smile curled across his face—slow, deliberate, and wrong.

"My mistake," he said, as if amused by his own slip-up. "Shouldn't have said your name."

He drove the needle into her arm. Her mouth opened in shock as the cold sting hit her bloodstream.

Almost immediately, her body began to fade.

Her muscles turned to jelly.

Her thoughts blurred.

The man held her gently, brushing her hair aside, murmuring something she could barely hear.

"Don't worry… it's all going to be fine…"

Those words echoed in her head, spinning, twisting.

And then everything went black.

*

Wake up, Sara. Wake up.

Faint voices hovered around her like whispers through a thick fog. With an enormous effort, she forced her eyelids open. The world swam before her eyes—blurry, unreal. Every inch of her body screamed in pain. She tried to move—but her limbs refused to obey. Her muscles throbbed sharply, shooting spikes of agony through her arms and legs. Tears slipped unbidden down her cheeks.

Around her, shadows danced in the half-light of dusk filtering through a cracked window. Phantoms hovered, whispering warnings. You're in danger. You deserve this. You won't help us. Their voices clawed at her sanity.

Desperately, she wriggled, trying to break free from the bonds holding her down. Her attempts were weak, almost pathetic. The ropes bit into her wrists, but her strength was gone.

A noise echoed—soft footsteps, maybe a door creaking. Her heart hammered. She thought it was him, the psychologist. The man who'd hurt her before. Panic curled in her throat.

Someone entered.

She closed her eyes tight, pretending she was still unconscious.

Hands touched her ropes, working to untie them. Cautiously, she peeked through her lashes—and froze.

Oliver.

The boy she'd never expected to save her.

He pressed a finger to his lips.

"Shh. Stay calm," he whispered.

Her mind screamed not to trust him. But her body had no choice but to obey. She wanted out. Anywhere but here.

Oliver helped her sit up, but her legs trembled violently. When she tried to stand, her body betrayed her. She pitched forward, and he caught her effortlessly.

No way she could walk.

Cradled in his arms, she glanced down at her pale arm.

Several raised, red puncture marks—needle holes—marred her skin.

What had that man done to her?

"How did you find me?" she asked quietly.

Oliver didn't answer.

"How did you get in here? They said you need a special card to open this door."

"It doesn't matter now," Oliver snapped, his voice tight with anger. "We're both in danger. I'm risking everything to save you because you, on your own, chose to go to the psychologist everyone fears. You wanted to stop that idiot. He acts like he's untouchable, but you're the one who's in real danger. So start worrying about yourself."

"How do you know all this?" Sara pressed, searching his eyes.

He met her gaze for a moment, then silently opened a heavy door nearby—the one she had noticed earlier.

They slipped inside and hid behind a massive tangle of cables and machines.

Oliver peeked around the corner, scanning the corridor.

Sara watched him carefully, a new puzzle forming in her mind.

Why was he helping her?

Why didn't he hate her like everyone else?

What secret was he hiding?

After a moment, Oliver sat beside her.

Sara pulled her knees close, hiding her hands, and exhaled softly.

"They'll realize I'm gone soon," Oliver said grimly. "They'll start searching. If they find us... we're dead."

His words sent a chill racing down her spine.

"If you were like the others, I wouldn't like you," he confessed suddenly. "I would've ignored you, let you suffer. Even when I tried to be mean to you... I thought it would help. But you… you made me like you even more."

Sara's mouth fell open.

Did she hear that right?

Oliver shook his head, breaking the moment.

"I know how much you want to uncover the truth about this place's past. I know what happened to the kids you found underground. I know everything. But it's too dangerous to tell you."

His words hit her like a blow.

Who is Oliver, really?

What secrets is he hiding?