The old guidance counselor’s office smells like dust and fresh paint.
Half the walls are torn down, plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling. Renovation signs taped crookedly to the door. No one’s supposed to be in here after hours.
But you are. Because this is one of the rooms.One of the only rooms you can see her in.
The fluorescent lights flicker once. And there she is.
Rhonda.
Leaning against the far wall like she’s been there all along. 1960s sweater, hair set just slightly out of date, eyes dark and distant.
She freezes when she sees you.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says immediately.
Her voice echoes wrong. Too soft for the empty room.
You step inside anyway. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have.”
Behind her, though you can’t see them, Mr. Martin and Janet stand in the corner. Watching. Tense.
Rhonda doesn’t look at them.
She only looks at you.
“You need to stop coming in here.”
“Why?” Your voice cracks slightly. “Why do you disappear when I try to find you?”
Her jaw tightens.
“I don’t disappear.”
“Yes you do!” You step closer. “You walk away. Every time.”
“That’s because you shouldn’t see me.”
“What does that even mean?”
She runs a hand through her hair, “You don’t belong in this.”
“In what?”
She gestures vaguely around the room.
“In this.”
The air feels heavier.
You shake your head. “You’re acting like I did something wrong.”
“You did,” she snaps — then immediately regrets it.
You flinch.
Mr. Martin shifts behind her. Janet crosses her arms.
Rhonda’s voice drops.
“You weren’t supposed to notice.”
“Notice what?” you demand. “You?”
Silence.
The fluorescent light flickers again.
Her expression cracks.
“You have to stop looking for me.”
“Why?” Your eyes sting. “I thought we were—”
She cuts you off sharply.
“You keep seeing me and something’s going to happen.”
“What?”
She looks away.
Because she doesn’t want to say it.
Because saying it makes it real.
You step closer.
“I’m not scared.”
“You should be.”
Your voice softens.
“Rhonda… what aren’t you telling me?”
Her composure finally splinters.
“Because you’ll die, okay?!” she bursts out.
The room goes still.
“You’ll die,” she repeats, voice shaking now. “If you keep seeing me, you’ll die in this school like I did. Like Mr. Martin did. Like Janet did.”
Your breath leaves you.
“What?”
She’s crying now — frustrated, angry tears.
“It’s how it works. If someone sees us — really sees us — they’re bound here too. That’s the consequence. You don’t just get to peek behind the curtain and walk away.”
Your head spins.
“That’s not— that’s not possible.”
“It is.”
Her voice breaks.
“And I’m not letting it happen to you.”
Behind her, Janet looks stricken. Mr. Martin solemn.
You shake your head.
“So you’ve just been avoiding me? Pretending I don’t exist?”
“Yes!” she snaps. “Because I’d rather you hate me than lose you.”
You stare at her.
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“Yes I do.”
“No, you don’t!” Your voice cracks now. “You don’t get to push me away without telling me why. You don’t get to disappear and expect me to just— what? Forget you?”
She steps back like you’ve struck her.
“That’s exactly what I need you to do.”
The plastic sheeting rustles faintly.
“You think I can?” you whisper.
Her eyes soften — that old softness she tries so hard to bury.
“I’m already gone,” she says quietly. “You’re not.”
You step forward again, stubborn. “And if I don’t stop?”
Her face goes pale.
“Then one day you won’t leave this building.”
The weight of it presses down on both of you. You swallow.
“I don’t care.”
She looks shattered.
“I do.”
Rhonda takes another step back, toward the wall where she died decades ago.
“Please,” she whispers. “Stop coming into these rooms.”
Your voice is small now.
“You’re asking me to stop seeing you.”
“Yes.”
“And if I don’t?”
Her eyes fill again.
“Then I lose you twice.”
The lights flicker violently.
And just like that— She’s gone.
Leaving you alone in the half-renovated room. With dust. And silence.
And the echo of something you don’t fully understand.