chapter 3
1105 Words
The storm hit them like a wall.
Cold rain poured down hard, stinging sheets the second Mila stepped outside. The wind tore at her hair, slapping it against her cheeks, and lightning cracked in the sky so close it made the ground tremble. She clutched her backpack strap with one hand and Aiden’s sleeve with the other so she didn’t slip on the drenched concrete.
But even with the storm roaring around her, all she could think about was the figure standing across the courtyard.
Still.
Silent.
Unmoving.
Like a shadow cut from the night.
Aiden walked fast, his shoulders tense, guiding her through the narrow pathway beside the school toward the parking lot. But Mila kept glancing back, unable to shake the cold dread crawling through her veins.
Who was that? She shouted over the wind, wiping rain from her eyes.
Aiden didn’t answer.
Aiden!
He stopped suddenly and turned to face her, raindrops gliding down his forehead.
You shouldn’t have seen them, he said, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the storm.
What does that mean? Mila demanded. Who were they? Why were they watching me?
Aiden hesitated.
His breathing wasn’t heavy, but it sounded uneven like he was fighting against saying something or like he was afraid to.
Mila, please, he finally said, just go home. Go straight home. Don’t stop anywhere. Don’t answer unknown numbers. And if you get another message don’t open it.
Her throat tightened. Why are you talking like something terrible is about to happen?
Lightning flashed again, illuminating Aiden’s expression uneasy, alert, protective. As if he knew something terrible.
Aiden… is it you? She whispered. Are you the one leaving the notes?
His eyes widened a little, not with surprise but with something else. Something she couldn’t name.
I told you, he said softly, I'm not the one writing them.
Then why do you care what I do?
Because you’re in danger.
She shivered. Not from the storm, from the certainty in his voice.
Before she could ask more, a car honked twice. A black sedan rolled up near the sidewalk, the headlights slicing through the rain.
MILA, A voice called through a cracked window. Get in! The roads are flooding!
It was her uncle.
Relief washed through her brief relief, shaky and fragile but relief nonetheless.
She looked back at Aiden.
He stepped away from her, pulling his hood tighter over his head.
Go, he said again.
She wanted to argue. Her mind was drowning in questions. But the storm was too fierce, and her uncle was waving her over urgently.
Mila nodded reluctantly and ran towards the car. Before getting in, she turned around for one last glance.
Aiden was gone.
Vanished into the storm.
No figure.
No shadow.
No trace of where he went.
The courtyard across from the school was empty now too. Whoever had been watching her had disappeared.
But the feeling didn’t leave.
She felt it all the way home, the sensation of eyes lingering on her, even when no one was there.
Her uncle drove fast but carefully through the flooding streets. Every few seconds, the windshield wipers squeaked frantically at the sheets of rain. Trees bent dangerously close to the road, and the power lines overhead shook from the violent wind.
Are you okay, kiddo? Her uncle asked, glancing at her through the mirror. You look pale.
I’m fine, she lied.
The unknown messages.
The figure outside the school.
Aiden’s warnings.
Aiden’s fear.
Aiden’s half-truths.
Her chest tightened as if the surrounding air had thickened.
Why me?
Why now?
And who knows enough about me to leave warnings before things happen?
The car slowed as they turned onto her street. The storm hadn’t gotten any better; if anything, it seemed angrier. Water rushed down the curb like a fast-moving river.
When they finally pulled up to her house, the porch light flickered weakly, fighting to stay on in the wind.
Inside, quickly, her uncle said, gripping the wheel. I need to get back to work before the roads close.
She nodded, grabbed her backpack, and sprinted out of the car.
Once under the porch roof, she waved goodbye as the car disappeared down the street.
For a moment, she stood there, breathing hard, her clothes soaked, her hair dripping.
The storm was loud.
But something else was louder.
Her instincts.
Something was wrong.
Deeply, terribly wrong.
She unlocked the front door and hurried inside.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Her mom was still at work. Her older brother was out of town for a school event. Normally, the silence was peaceful.
Tonight it felt suffocating.
She dropped her backpack on the couch, not bothering to take out the soggy notes, and kicked off her wet shoes. She wrapped herself in a blanket and sat down.
Her phone buzzed.
Her heart jumped.
She grabbed it quickly.
Another unknown number.
Her fingers stiffened.
She opened the message.
YOU SAW THEM, DIDN’T YOU?
Her breath hitched.
She read the message again.
And again.
The words blurred.
Hands shaking, she typed back before she could stop herself:
Who are you? What’s happening? Why are you messaging me?
The reply came instantly.
YOU AREN’T SAFE.
She swallowed hard.
Another message appeared.
AND YOU’RE ASKING THE WRONG PERSON FOR ANSWERS.
A chill slithered down her spine.
Before she could respond, her phone buzzed again.
This time, another number.
Her eyes widened at the new text:
STOP TALKING TO THEM. YOU CAN’T TRUST THEM.
Her pulse sped up painfully.
Two unknown numbers, two warnings, two people fighting to control the truth.
Who was real?
Who was lying?
Who was watching her?
Her phone buzzed again.
A third message.
Same first number.
CHECK YOUR FRONT DOOR.
She froze.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
No.
No.
No.
Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head toward the door.
Someone knocked.
Three slow knocks.
Deliberate.
Heavy.
She stood up, her legs trembling.
Another knock.
Thunder boomed overhead like it was answering the sound.
M-Mom? she whispered, even though she knew it wasn’t her.
She moved toward the door one shaky step at a time. Her hand reached for the doorknob.
And stopped.
Because lying on the floor just inside the door was something small.
Folded.
Ivory-colored.
Another note.
The third note she’d received that day.
With breathless dread, she bent down and picked it up.
Her fingers unfolded it slowly.
Her stomach dropped.
IF YOU OPEN THIS DOOR, EVERYTHING CHANGES.
She staggered back, her throat tightening.
Another knock…Harder this time.
Her phone buzzed again in her hand.
She looked down.
Another message.
DON’T OPEN IT, MILA.
- Writer
