When Death Isn't the End

BLOOD MOON HOURS

CHAPTER 4

I didn’t sleep that night.

It wasn’t the kind of restlessness that came from too much coffee or a stressful assignment. It was deeper—like my body had already decided sleep was dangerous. Every time I closed my eyes, Lana’s face stared back at me, not the smiling one from memory, but the bound, terrified one in the photo. Her eyes pleading. The rope tight around her arms. The background behind her still a blur of shadows and dust, and the red smear on the floor just visible if you dared to look long enough.

I lay curled under my duvet, holding the photo beneath my pillow. The longer I kept it close, the more unreal it felt. Like a cursed object. If I looked at it too long, I might start seeing things. Hearing things. I didn’t turn on the light again. I didn’t want to see it. But I also didn’t want to forget it was real. That someone had slipped it into my locker. That Lana—missing for months—might still be alive. Or worse, had been alive.

I counted the hours in fragments of shadow.

3:19 a.m. I sat up.

My room was wrapped in dim blue hues, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. My phone buzzed softly. I snatched it up, heartbeat tapping in my ears.

A message.

Unknown number:

Did you like what you saw?

My throat dried. I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. I just stared, the words sinking into my skin like a toxin. My fingers hovered above the keyboard.

Me:

Who is this?

The response came immediately.

Unknown:

You already know.

No name. No hint. Just that. I deleted the conversation. Not because I wanted to forget, but because I knew someone was watching.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

⸻

By morning, I was a ghost in my own house. I walked past my mother in the kitchen without a word, afraid if I opened my mouth, she’d see right through me. She was on the phone, her coffee in one hand, one heel already on, the other clutched in her elbow.

“—no, she hasn’t said a word about it. Honestly, I think she’s bottling everything up again.” Pause. “Mm-hmm. Yeah, I know. Like before.”

Before what?

I kept walking.

Breakfast was a blur. I didn’t eat. The smell of toast made my stomach turn. I heard my brother Dylan playing a game in the living room, the gunfire echoing faintly through the walls, and my mother’s voice trailing behind me as she spoke in lowered tones, as if she thought my silence couldn’t hear her.

I grabbed my bag, the photo still folded inside, and slipped out the door.

⸻

The walk to school was longer than usual. Or maybe time had just slowed to match the storm inside my chest. Everything looked normal. Birds perched on telephone wires. Sprinklers hissed over lawns. Cars rolled lazily through intersections.

And yet, something was off.

It was the way the air sat heavy. How my shadow felt one step behind me, not beside. How every stranger’s glance lingered half a second too long, like they were watching for something.

Like they knew.

When I reached the school gate, the weight in my backpack seemed to double. I felt the photo there, tucked in a biology notebook. I thought about Lana again. Her laugh, her hair always messy in that effortless way. Her voice, too loud during assemblies. And then I thought about the photo, the rope, her bare knees on that dirty floor.

What had she been wearing that day? Where had she gone after school?

I never asked.

⸻

Inside, everything buzzed with the usual Monday rhythm. Mr. Graham yelled about overdue homework. Morgan blabbed about a new piercing. Group chats pinged with half-hearted gossip. I moved through the noise like a mute swimmer—numb, distant, drowning in silence.

I only snapped back when someone said her name.

“—Lana. You remember her?” a girl was whispering behind me as I reached my locker.

I froze, pretending to scroll through my phone.

“Yeah. I heard someone saw her. Like, recently. On West Street. Just standing there, dazed.”

“That’s a lie. She’s dead, Cass.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

My stomach turned cold.

I opened my locker slowly, but no new notes were waiting. No new photos. Just my books, stacked neatly. But that didn’t calm me. It made me feel watched.

⸻

Third period. I didn’t take any notes. I kept glancing around the classroom, looking for any face that seemed out of place. No one looked back. No one seemed to care.

Except for one.

A boy I didn’t recognize. Back corner. Hoodie drawn up, pen idle. He wasn’t writing. He was watching me.

I didn’t stare long enough to be obvious, but I felt his gaze like a hand on my shoulder. When the bell rang, I waited until everyone stood, then turned to glance at him. He was already gone.

I checked my phone again.

No messages. Not yet.

⸻

At lunch, I went outside. I didn’t sit with the usual group. Instead, I wandered to the old science wing—the part of campus no one used anymore. The windows were boarded. The doors chained. But there was a bench still tucked beneath a rusted stairwell.

I sat there. Alone. Listening.

After a few minutes, I heard footsteps crunching gravel.

I tensed.

The boy from class.

Closer now, I saw him clearer—tan skin, sharp jaw, dark eyes too old for his face. He stopped a few feet from me and didn’t say anything.

“Were you following me?” I asked, louder than I meant.

He gave a slow shake of his head. “No. But I think we’re both looking for the same thing.”

My chest locked.

“What are you talking about?”

He sat on the ground, cross-legged, like it was the most natural thing. “Lana.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“What do you know?” I asked.

“I know she didn’t run away.” He looked up at me, his voice low. “I know she tried to tell someone something. And they shut her up.”

I stood slowly. “Who are you?”

“Eli.” He tilted his head. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Freshman year,” he said. “We had gym together. You laughed at my terrible volleyball skills.”

That felt like a lifetime ago.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “Just listen. I think whoever did this—whoever sent you that photo—is trying to get inside your head.”

“How do you know about the photo?”

His mouth pressed into a line. “Because I got one too. Last month. A picture of me… asleep.”

My skin crawled.

“What do they want?” I whispered.

He stood. “Fear. Obedience. Maybe they want to see who cracks first. But Jasmine…” He paused. “You can’t show them fear. That’s how they win.”

I didn’t know whether to believe him.

But I didn’t walk away.

⸻

That night, I didn’t go home right after school. I waited. Watched.

Eli walked in one direction. I walked in another. Just to be safe. Just in case we were being watched.

Instead of going home, I took the long route to the old bus depot. The one near the train tracks, where everything smells like rust and mold. It’s where the photo looked like it might’ve been taken—same cracked floors, same flickering overhead lights.

I walked along the edge, heart hammering, until I reached the back wall.

It was there.

The red smear.

Faded, but real.

I reached down and touched the concrete. Still cold. Still silent. Still screaming.

There was a tag on the wall. Spray-painted in hurried strokes.

WITNESS ME

I stepped back.

Something moved behind me.

I spun—

But no one was there.

Only the wind. Only the night. Only the sound of my own breath.

⸻

Back at home, I climbed the stairs slowly. My mother was in her room, door half-closed, light leaking out into the hallway. I heard her talking to someone again.

“No. She’s not okay. She’s quiet again. Just like when she was little.”

Pause.

“She’s seeing things, maybe. Or remembering things she shouldn’t.”

My hand froze on the doorknob to my room.

Remembering things?

I opened my door. Locked it. Pulled the photo from my bag.

I stared at it until the lines blurred.

Who are you, Lana?

And what did you see?