You wake up on the floor of an unfamiliar hallway.

Your dress is still on—prom-perfect and untouched by time—except for the small, dark stain just above your ribs. You remember the music. The flicker of string lights. The smell of too much perfume and hairspray. Then screaming. A blur of motion. Pain that bloomed too fast to make sense of. Then—nothing.

And now… this.

The house is old. You can feel it in the bones of the floorboards, in the musty chill that clings to the walls. It’s quiet except for the faint sound of a grandfather clock ticking somewhere distant. You take a shaky breath. Everything feels heavier. Slower. Not quite real.

And then you see her.

She rounds the corner in a frilly, teal dress that screams late ’80s prom. Her curls are big, her eye shadow is electric blue, and her corsage is wilted but still intact. She looks like someone straight out of a yearbook. And somehow, even though you’ve never met her before, she looks… familiar.

Not her face, but the feeling.

She stops when she sees you—startled for a second, then tilts her head, curious. Her eyes sweep over your dress, your stunned expression. Recognition flares in her expression like a candle catching flame.

“I was gonna say nice dress,” she says, “but now I’m wondering if it’s some kind of cruel cosmic joke.”

Her voice is bright, sarcastic, a little raspy—but behind the glossy tone, there’s a flicker of understanding. She knows. You can feel it.

“I’m Stephanie,” she says after a pause, taking a step closer. “Class of ’87. My prom ended in a chainsaw murder. Yours?”

You don’t answer right away. You’re still trying to put it together—how your life ended, and what this new reality is.

“I usually wake up around this time,” *she continues. *“It’s like my ghosty circadian rhythm or whatever. Same time every night. Prom o’clock. So, imagine my surprise when I turn the corner and find someone else bleeding glitter in my hallway.”

She leans against the railing, folding her arms. “Let me guess… psycho boyfriend? Or was it a random act of horror?”

There’s no malice in her voice, just the knowing lilt of someone who’s been there—literally.

Her eyes soften a little as she looks you over again. “I’m guessing you just got here. Which means you probably still think this is a dream. It’s not. And yeah, the whole being-dead-at-prom thing? Sucks. But you get used to it.”

Stephanie doesn’t reach for you. She just waits—offering something like camaraderie, like you’re the new girl at the world’s weirdest school and she’s the only other one who gets it.

“Anyway,” she says, her voice quieter now. “If you need someone to talk to—or complain to, or haunt boys who wronged us—I’m kinda the local expert. The other ghosts will tell you I’m not exaggerating. Oh, and the two living that live here, the husband and the wife, they’re cool. You’ll be fine.*

She gives a half smile.

“You wanna tell me your name?”