The first thing Elle noticed about Northford High wasn't the towering brick walls or the smell of old textbooks. It was the silence.
Not the usual kind—the kind that settles when a room empties, or when someone stops mid-sentence because you've walked in. No, this silence was *hungry*. Like the building itself was holding its breath.
Elle tightened her grip on her backpack strap as she navigated the crowded hallway, her schedule crumpled in her other hand. She could feel eyes flicking toward her—*new girl, fresh meat*—but she kept her gaze fixed ahead.
Then she saw it.
**Locker 47.**
The metal was dented, its paint chipped away in jagged lines like something had clawed at it. And standing beside it—
A girl.
Pale as moonlight, white hair hanging in limp strands, gray eyes locked on Elle. She wore a tattered Northford sweater, the sleeves stretched over her wrists.
Elle froze.
The girl's lips parted. A whisper, barely audible over the din of students: *"You see me."*
Then the bell rang, and she was gone.
Elle stumbled back, heart hammering. The space where the girl had stood was empty—except for a single, frost-edged handprint fading from the locker's surface.
Someone bumped into her shoulder.
"Watch it, transfer," a guy sneered, not breaking stride.
Elle barely registered him. Her fingers hovered near the locker, trembling.
*What the hell was that?*
A voice cut through her daze. "You shouldn't touch that."
She turned. A tall guy with sharp features and guarded dark eyes stood a few feet away, his jaw tight.
"Why not?" Elle asked.
He didn't answer. Just stared at the locker like it might bite.
Then he said, quieter: "That's Dora Navarro's locker. She died last year."
A beat.
*"And she doesn't like visitors."*