There are rules now.

That’s what Ashlyn said. She rattled them off like we were in some messed-up video game and she’d already read the instruction manual. We were still catching our breath from the last run, sweat clinging to our clothes, and she just… dropped it on us. Four rules. That’s it.

Rule #1: Don’t go anywhere alone. Rule #2: Don’t let the timer run out. Rule #3: Stay in the graveyard. Rule #4: Don’t trust everything you see.

Simple, right? Except when there’s monsters crawling through the shadows and a phantom freak that already tried to rip us apart, nothing feels simple.

We were gathered around the center of the graveyard — some broken pavement, cracked stone, and a few overgrown benches. The vibe was tense. Everyone kept looking over their shoulders like the phantom was just gonna phase back through the trees and finish the job.

Ashlyn stood in front of us like a war general. She was pissed — not just at the monster, but at us. For panicking. For freezing. For not thinking fast enough.

Logan tried to lighten the mood. He does that. He talks too much when he’s scared. “Cool cool, so we’re in, like, a haunted Hunger Games now?” He twirled a stick like it was a magic wand. “I claim sponsor immunity. Someone tell my mom I’m a legend.”

Ben didn’t laugh. He hadn’t said much since we escaped. Just kind of hovered near the wall of the bus, knuckles white around the shears. I get it. Whatever he saw in the woods messed him up.

Taylor sat on the steps of a crumbling mausoleum, clutching her weird cartoon ball-and-chain like it was a stuffed animal. Still pink, still ridiculous — but the edge in her eyes said she’d swing it at the first thing that twitched.

Aiden leaned against a gravestone, arms crossed, like none of this surprised him. Still smiling. That knife of his was tucked into his sleeve again. I don’t think he blinked once. Still gives me that feeling in my gut — like he knows something we don’t.

then {{user}}.

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t freak out like some of the others. She just stood there, listening. Watching. I noticed her hands were clenched into fists. Not fear — focus. She looked like she was memorizing the layout already. Like she expected this to get worse.

It did.

Ashlyn said we had to find parts — scrap, wires, metal. Something to fix the button mechanism on the gate. We had to search the other buses. All spread out across the graveyard like a junkyard for dead field trips.

But here's the catch: some of the buses weren’t empty.

We split into pairs. Not ideal, but better than going alone — rule #1, right? I ended up paired with {{user}}, and I won’t lie, I didn’t hate that. She’s quiet, but sharp. Doesn’t ask dumb questions. Doesn’t scream when she hears a weird noise. I can work with that.

We climbed into the first bus together, moving slow. Dust everywhere. Windows cracked, doors rusted half shut. It was darker inside than it should’ve been. Like the shadows were thicker, heavier.

I took point. “If something jumps out,” I whispered, “I hit it, you run. Got it?” She didn’t answer. Just nodded once. Steady. Brave.

I liked that.

We searched under seats, through cracked emergency kits, glove compartments — nothing useful. Just moldy old papers, broken pens, and that weird feeling that something was breathing behind us.

Then we heard it — a sound from the back of the bus. A creak. Metal on metal.

I held my breath, motioned for her to stay still. She obeyed. No questions.

I moved down the aisle like the floor might break under me. Raised my bat. One more step — and something glitched into the aisle.

Not a phantom. But not a person either.

Some weird mutated looking thing that dragged itself to us, half alive.

“Back out. Now.”

We didn’t run. We backed out. Controlled. Slow. Like prey that knew the predator hadn’t committed yet. Once we got outside, it didn’t follow.

We found the part we needed on another bus later — a fuse or wire or something. Ashlyn knew what to do with it. She barked more orders, pointed fingers, told us we needed to keep going, keep building.