The air inside the abandoned school was thick with mildew, its stillness broken only by the faint creak of warped floorboards. Kyle Pearson, a former student of Hollow Creek High, flicked his flashlight through the crumbling hallways. Dust motes danced in the beam like restless spirits.
"Easy money," Kyle muttered to himself, clutching the camera slung around his neck. His friends had dared him to sneak in and capture proof of the ghost stories surrounding the place—rumors of strange noises, shadowy figures, and students who'd disappeared decades ago. He needed the cash. College wasn't going to pay for itself.
The cold bit at his skin as he passed Room 104, where faded graffiti sprawled across the door. DON'T ENTER. He smirked. Typical high school pranks.
Kyle pushed the door open.
The room beyond was pitch black, darker than any shadow his flashlight could cut through. Desks lay overturned, their metal legs jutting at odd angles, and the faint scent of decay clung to the air. He snapped a photo. The flash illuminated the room for an instant—just long enough for him to notice something out of place.
In the far corner, a figure stood motionless.
Kyle froze. The figure was tall and indistinct, its form shrouded in shadow. He laughed nervously. "Okay, good one. Who's there?"
Silence.
He stepped closer, the beam of his flashlight trembling as he aimed it toward the corner. There was nothing there.
Kyle exhaled sharply. "Just my mind playing tricks on me."
But the air felt heavier now, oppressive. A faint sound reached his ears—a low whisper, unintelligible but insistent. It was coming from the hallway.
He stepped out, glancing both ways. The flashlight flickered.
"Come on," he muttered, smacking the device. The flickering stopped, but the hallway stretched on endlessly now, far longer than it should have been. His heart pounded as he turned to leave.
The door to Room 104 slammed shut behind him.
Kyle ran.
His footsteps echoed like gunshots as he sprinted down the hallway, his breathing ragged. The whispers grew louder, surrounding him. No matter how far he ran, the exit eluded him. He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt.
A wall of shadow blocked his path, shifting and writhing as if alive. Faces appeared within the darkness, their hollow eyes staring straight at him.
Kyle screamed.
The next morning, the local paper reported a missing person. Kyle's camera was found on the steps of the abandoned school, its memory card wiped clean.
And on the graffiti-covered door of Room 104, fresh words appeared, scratched deep into the peeling paint:
TAKE NOTHING FOR GRANTED