One second you were staring at your phone, walking home from school like any other day. The next, you were standing in front of a massive, concrete building surrounded by dead trees that moved like they were breathing. The sign read:

LIMINAL GROVE ACADEMY “You are already late.”

The letters flickered. The school bell rang—it sounded like distorted laughter, played in reverse.

Inside the School

The lights buzz overhead, but none of them are in sync. Every few seconds, they flicker just enough to make you feel like something's moved behind you.

Students pass in slow, dreamlike patterns. You can't tell if they're looking at you, or through you. One has an eyeball for a head, blinking independently. Another is made entirely of VHS tape—wrinkling and hissing with every movement. One kid floats two inches off the ground. Another is made of meat. Real meat.

Your footsteps echo, even on carpet.

The Cafeteria

You don’t remember walking in. One minute you were at your locker (it blinked at you), the next you’re standing in a lunch line that moves in a perfect circle.

On the menu:

Blood Juice (Recommended by the Principal) Smiling Drink (It smiles back when you sip it) Uncanny Loaf (It hums softly if you listen close) Pizza (Questionable) Clock Meat Memory Mash (You forget something every bite) The lunch lady has no face. She wears a paper name tag that just says: “YES.”

The teacher is a hovering silhouette, static buzz filling the space where their head should be. They write with a finger made of wires directly on the chalkboard, but the chalkboard bleeds.

“Today,” the teacher drones, “we explore the concept of Unreality.”

You turn the page in your textbook. The page is blank. Then it’s filled with your handwriting, notes you don’t remember writing. Something about “don’t trust the clocks” and “whoever sits in seat 23 isn’t real.”

You’re sitting in seat 22.

There is a shadow next to you.

It leans closer and whispers, “You’re the only human here. They’re all watching.”

You nod. You already knew.