Sara couldn't sleep. The air in the room felt thick and oppressive, pressing down on her chest like an invisible weight. Her thoughts kept circling the same point—over and over again. That photograph. Alan's reaction when he saw the man in it. The way he froze, his expression pale and startled. She had never seen him like that.
The man in the photo looked nearly identical to him—same bone structure, same intense eyes, only colder. More severe. The only real differences were the color of his hair and the sharpness of his features. Alan looked softer. Human. But the resemblance couldn't be denied.
And what did it mean?
Why was Alan having nightmares? Why was a ghost trying to tell him something? Why had that thing—that man—branded her skin with a symbol of hate, only to help her moments later? She couldn't make sense of it. None of it.
The longer she stayed here, the more afraid she became. The underground tunnels haunted her. The memory of the corpses. The bones of children who had dared to uncover too much. And now she and Alan had done the same. They had crossed a line, and there was no turning back. The teacher—whoever he truly was—would eventually find out. And when he did, they would be next.
There was no escape.
Suddenly, a cold breath brushed her ear.
"You've seen the truth," a hoarse voice rasped. "Now there is only one way for you to help us be free from eternal suffering."
Sara froze.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she turned her head slowly.
There she was again. The ghost woman. Pale, translucent, her eyes devoid of life. Her mouth barely moved as she spoke, yet the words echoed deep into Sara's bones.
"As soon as dusk falls, I will return," she whispered. "We are bound by blood, Sara. You must avenge us, or we will never leave."
Sara sat up, propping herself on shaking hands. Her breath came shallow. The first time the woman appeared, she had terrified her to the point of paralysis. The second time, she'd claimed she meant no harm. She only wanted freedom—for herself and the countless souls trapped within these walls.
But how?
"What kind of revenge?" Sara whispered, her voice barely audible in the darkness.
The ghost didn't blink. Her hollow stare cut through the shadows, and Sara's stomach twisted.
"You must rid the world of the boy who bears the General's face," she said. "He is his grandson."
Sara went rigid.
She couldn't move.
Her eyes locked on the specter, unable to comprehend what she was hearing.
Kill Alan?
She shook her head violently, panic bubbling inside her.
"No… no, that can't be right," she muttered. "This is my mind playing tricks on me. I've gone insane…"
"You must do it," the ghost hissed, her voice now sharp and furious. "Or we will take our vengeance on you."
Before Sara could react, she grabbed a pillow and hurled it at the apparition with a choked scream. The ghost vanished instantly, dissolving into air like smoke.
Sara sat there, trembling, her breath ragged, her body shaking from head to toe.
And then a voice startled her again.
"Sara… what the hell are you doing?" came Laura's sleepy voice from across the room. "You're starting to freak me out."
Sara turned her head sharply. Laura was sitting up in bed, staring at her.
For a moment, she didn't know what to say.
"Laura…" she began, but her throat was dry. "I had a nightmare."
"That didn't look like a normal nightmare." Her roommate narrowed her eyes. "I was watching you the whole time. You weren't asleep. You were seeing something, weren't you?"
Sara's breath caught.
Was Laura—believing her?
"It's worse than you think," she whispered.
Laura threw off her blanket and padded over to sit on the edge of Sara's bed. Her eyes were serious now, not mocking. She was watching her carefully.
"You and Alan have been acting weird. You're hiding something. And I want to know what's going on. Please. Just tell me the truth."
Sara blinked. She hadn't expected this. Not from Laura.
"Ever since Alan told me you two found dead kids in the tunnels," Laura continued, "I can't stop thinking about it."
Sara hesitated… then slowly rolled up her sleeve.
The mark was still there—raw, inflamed, brutal.
Laura's breath caught.
"In the underground," Sara said quietly, "a ghost did this to me. I don't know why. I don't even know if it's connected to everything else. But I know what this symbol means."
She looked her roommate in the eye. All her usual sarcasm and bravado were gone. She was scared. Completely unguarded.
"This is a swastika," she said softly.
Laura stared at her, eyes wide.
"They did horrible things down there. People were killed. I think it happened during the war. I think this place was one of the locations where innocent people were tortured."
Laura hugged herself, rubbing her arms like she was trying to chase away the cold. Goosebumps rose on her skin.
"This… this has to do with the center, doesn't it?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
"Yes. But I don't know how yet. Alan and I are trying to figure it out."
Laura's eyes flickered.
"These secrets brought you two close," she murmured unexpectedly, and Sara flushed crimson.
"I need to show you something," she said, steering the topic away from Alan.
From under her bed, she pulled out the photo—the same one she had shown only to Alan. It was yellowed, creased, but it burned with silent accusation.
She handed it over.
Laura looked down… and froze.
Her mouth parted slightly.
"That's… that's Reinhard Heydrich," she whispered. "One of the worst butchers in history. He tortured and killed innocent people. That's him. He's the one behind all of this, isn't he?"
Sara nodded, watching her reaction closely.
"He's Alan's grandfather," she added quietly. "That's what the ghost told me."
Laura set the photograph down slowly, eyes never leaving it. She looked like she was trying to wake herself from a nightmare.
"Did Alan see it?"
"Yes. And he was just as confused. I don't think he knows who the man is yet, but… I think he's starting to guess."
Laura rubbed her temples.
"I think I've learned too much tonight," she muttered. "Definitely too much…"
*
Sara expected that once she told Laura everything, the information would eventually reach Simon. And strangely, she didn't mind. He was her best friend after all—someone she trusted. It was better that he knew than to keep it from him. What surprised her more was that both Matthew and Oliver somehow found out too.
Alan hadn't said a word. Of that, she was certain.
So there was only one explanation.
Laura's tongue was too long again.
The fact that Simon and Matthew knew didn't bother her. She could deal with that. But Oliver? That was a whole different story. She didn't like him. Never had. And now, with this new information, he had yet another weapon to tease her with.
For two days, she'd endured his sharp, needling remarks while they served out their punishment together. And he never missed a chance.
Once, Alan had overheard Oliver's comment and actually stood up for her. There had been a tense exchange of words—sharp, fast, and threatening. But Matthew, ever the peacemaker, had stepped in before it could escalate.
And now, on the third day of cleaning the grimy warehouse, everyone was on edge.
"I've had enough already," Laura groaned, flopping dramatically onto a faded rocking horse, her favorite toy to perch on during breaks. "We've been scrubbing for days, and you can't even see the difference. They'll definitely extend our punishment."
"Then get to work instead of whining all the time," Oliver snapped, casting her a glare. "Your boyfriend's doing more work than you, and he's not even supposed to be here. I think there's something wrong with his head, seriously. Why else would he be doing your chores for you?"
"Oh please. You're the one with something wrong in your head," Laura shot back. "You act like everyone around you is just some pathetic insect crawling beneath your feet."
Oliver grinned wickedly.
"Next time you leave our room," he murmured, just quiet enough for only Laura to hear, "don't forget your underwear. I'm not in the mood to stare at your panties again."
He looked around discreetly—he wasn't about to get caught. Especially not for this. What was happening between him and Laura was a secret. And he wanted to keep it that way.
"Now get to work, princess," he finished, walking past S
She hoped—really hoped—he would leave her alone.
But of course, he didn't.
He stopped right beside her, leaning against a shelf with casual arrogance.
"Are your invisible friends back today?" he asked snidely.
She didn't respond. Didn't even look at him. If she ignored him, maybe he'd get bored and move on.
"In horror movies, girls usually have tea with their ghost buddies at tiny tables," he continued, voice mocking. "You should try it. Maybe you'll become best friends."
"Oliver, I hear you. Stop teasing Sara," came Matthew's voice from the other side of the room. Steady, sharp.
Oliver gave a lazy half-smile and didn't bother replying.
"Just… don't play hide and seek with them," he added under his breath. "That one always ends in tragedy."
Sara glanced at him.
For a heartbeat, his eyes had gone glassy. Empty.
And then he walked away.
No more mocking. No smirk.
There was something behind that sentence—something real. Pain, maybe. A memory. She couldn't tell.
Suddenly, someone poked her in the hip.
She flinched, spun around—
Alan.
He was pretending to clean a dusty shelf, but his presence was far from casual. He wasn't smiling. He looked tense. He didn't say anything, but the expression on his face told her everything.
He was not thrilled that their secret had become public property.
"I only told Laura," Sara whispered, cheeks already flushing. "I didn't think she'd tell everyone else."
Alan just nodded and began pulling down things from the top shelf. He didn't comment, but his help meant she didn't need to climb onto the rickety chair anymore. She watched him from the corner of her eye and smiled, only to quickly look away when he caught her.
Her face burned.
She pressed her cold hands to her cheeks to cool them down.
She was embarrassed—and she didn't even know why.
Then, the lights went out.
The entire warehouse fell into pitch-black silence.
Sara felt it instantly—something was wrong.
"Shit," Matthew muttered somewhere in the dark.
"Sorry!" came Laura's voice, sheepish. "I stood on something!"
But Sara wasn't listening. There was a noise coming from the far end of the room—soft, like shifting fabric or feet dragging along the floor.
Her pulse spiked.
This wasn't an accident. The darkness felt intentional.
Something was here.
She reached blindly for Alan and grabbed his hand, fingers clutching tight.
He didn't pull away.
Instead, his other hand gently closed around hers.
Then she saw them.
Pale shapes. Flickering like candlelight. Moving slowly between the shelves.
"I see them again," she whispered. "They're here."
More than one.
More than ten.
Phantoms circled them—translucent figures just on the edge of vision. And with each passing second, Sara's panic grew.
"Calm down," Alan murmured. "You're shaking. Close your eyes. Try not to think about them."
She obeyed, squeezing her eyelids shut.
But that made it worse.
She could feel them now.
The temperature plummeted. The air turned icy and heavy. Her skin crawled.
She gripped Alan's hand harder.
"Kill the boy."
The whisper came right by her ear—so close she felt the cold breath of it.
Her eyes flew open.
A ghost hovered directly in front of her—face mangled and torn beyond recognition. Her legs turned to water. She would have collapsed if not for Alan's hand grounding her.
"I won't do it," she whispered, almost too quietly to hear.
But Alan heard. Even in the dark, she felt the weight of his gaze.
The phantom shrieked—an unbearable sound like knives scraping metal. Sara clutched her head and buried her face against Alan's chest. Her skull throbbed. Her thoughts turned to static.
She didn't care about shame. About appearances.
She just needed safety.
Alan didn't push her away. His arm wrapped around her, holding her tightly.
"Kill the boy," the ghost hissed again, "or you'll know our wrath."
Then—light.
The lamps flickered back on with a loud buzz.
Sara pulled away slowly, lifting her head. Alan was looking down at her, his eyes dark with worry.
"Are you okay?"
She shook her head.
Tears prickled her eyes.
"It's getting worse," she whispered. "I don't know how much more I can take."
And then her gaze drifted to the far end of the warehouse—where Oliver stood.
He wasn't mocking now.
He was watching her and Alan. His face was tight. Cold.
Furious.
She met his eyes.
He quickly turned away and stalked in the opposite direction.