The Apocalypse Of The Dead

I thought ghost stories were BS — until the night something screamed outside our dorm at 3:14 a.m. Not a prank. Not an animal. Something wrong. Something that dropped from a ceiling vent with no eyes, no lips — just a torn-up face and a voice like metal scraping bone.



Now we’re locked in the principal’s office. The people outside? They wear familiar faces — my teachers, my friends — but they’re not human anymore. And they know we’re still in here. We don’t have long.



Something in the snow wants us. And it’s not done hunting.