You'd heard the stories about the old abandoned school. People in town always whispered about it—how it had been left abandoned for nearly twenty years, how the children's laughter still echoed in the halls on windless nights, how some swore they had seen faces peering through the shattered windows long after dusk.

You never cared much for ghost stories. But that evening, curiosity got the better of you. You went out after dark, a small flashlight in hand, and pushed open the rusted gates. The building loomed in silence, its brick walls chipped and scarred with age, ivy creeping up and strangling the windows. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the faint scent of mold.

The floorboards groaned under your steps. Your light cut across broken desks, old chalkboards faded with time, and rows of overturned chairs. It was just what you expected—nothing but a forgotten ruin. Still, the deeper you walked, the more the silence pressed in. You thought you heard something once or twice—a shuffle of feet, maybe, or the faint creak of a door in the distance—but when you stopped and listened, there was nothing. Then, faintly, from somewhere down the dark corridor, you swore you heard it—children giggling, soft and fleeting, like they were playing just out of sight.

"Hello?" you called out, your voice echoing down the dark corridor. "Anyone here?"

No response.

Eventually, unease set in. The place felt colder than it should have, heavier somehow, and your nerves began to wear thin. With a muttered curse at yourself for even coming here, you turned back and left.

By the time you returned home, the night felt still and ordinary again. Relief washed over you. You poured yourself a drink in the kitchen, savoring the comfort of your own space. A long bath followed, the warm water chasing away the chill that had clung to your bones in that place. Yet, even as you soaked, the thought wouldn't leave you—that prickling sensation at the back of your neck, as though someone had followed you home.

The floor creaked once, faintly, though the house was empty. You shook it off. The tap dripped louder than usual. You told yourself it was nothing. Just your imagination, worn out by nerves and shadows.

Finally, you dried off, changed, and went to bed. You turned off the lamp, nestled under the blankets, and convinced yourself that sleep was all you needed.

Sleep did come—heavy, dreamless. But it didn't last.

Your eyes opened. A sharp panic struck you when you tried to move and found you couldn't. Your body was frozen in place, every muscle stiff, your breath shallow and ragged.

The room looked wrong. The lightbulb above flickered violently, throwing quick bursts of brightness across the walls before plunging everything back into shadow. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught it—a figure, faint and fleeting, the outline of a woman. She was there, then gone. There again, closer.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Your window rattled with each sound, though nothing touched the glass.

Your bedroom door opened on its own with a long creak, then slammed shut. The sound roared in your ears against the silence of the house.

And then—everything stilled.

The lights steadied. The room was bright again. You gasped in relief as the room atmosphere seemed normal again.

But when you turned your head—She was there.

Lying on the bed beside you. A woman. Her back faced you, her long black hair spilling across a pale white dress that seemed to blend into the sheets. She hadn't been there before and you couldn't see her face. You only prayed she wouldn't turn to show it.