The screaming starts before my alarm has a chance to fail.
Technically, the alarm on my phone didn’t fail. The battery died sometime around 3:00 AM because the charging cable has a sweet spot the size of a pinhead, and apparently, I rolled over in my sleep and severed the connection. But it doesn’t matter. The yelling downstairs is louder than any digital chime.
“Peter, it is the third notice! The *third* one!”
My mother’s voice is a jagged thing, sharp enough to cut through the floorboards and the thin rug I bought at a garage sale for two bucks.
“I know, Linda. I know. I’m handling it.” My dad sounds like he’s speaking from underwater—muffled, heavy, drowning.
“Handling it? They’re going to shut it off by Friday. How do we handle no electricity? Do we cook on the radiator? Oh wait, the gas bill is overdue too!”
I stare at the ceiling. There’s a water stain in the corner shaped like a grimacing face. I named him Bob years ago. *Good morning, Bob,* I think. *At least you don’t have to go to high school.*
I roll out of bed, the air in my room biting at my exposed skin. Our house is a sieve; it holds heat about as well as I hold onto my patience these days. I plug my phone back in, jiggling the cord until the lightning bolt icon flickers to life, then grab my robe.
Downstairs, a door slams. The engine of my dad’s ancient Ford coughs, splutters, and finally roars to life with a sound like a dying dragon. He’s escaping. I don’t blame him.
I time my exit from the bedroom perfectly. Mom will be in the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing dishes that are already clean, fueled by panic and caffeine. If I move fast, I can make it to the bathroom without having to discuss the concept of foreclosure over a bowl of store-brand cereal.
I turn the shower handle. It squeaks, protesting. I wait.
And wait.
The water comes out in a pathetic drizzle, and it is ice cold. Of course. The water heater is on its last legs, another casualty of the chaotic ecosystem that is my family’s finances. I stand under the freezing spray for exactly ninety seconds—just enough to wake up, not enough to get hypothermia—and scrub fast.
*One, two, three. Breathe. Just get through today.*
Back in my room, the outfit selection is a strategic operation. I need something that says “I didn’t try too hard” but also covers the fact that my wardrobe hasn’t been updated since freshman year. I pull on black jeans that are fading to gray and a striped long-sleeve tee.
Then, the coat.
It’s a mustard-yellow wool coat I found at the Salvation Army three years ago. It’s warm, which is the most important thing, but it’s also distinct. Loud. It’s a beacon. But my other jacket has a broken zipper, and the wind outside is whipping against the windowpane with personal vendetta levels of force.
Mustard yellow it is.
I grab my backpack and descend. The kitchen smells like burnt toast and stress.
“Nessa?” Mom calls out, her back to me. She’s hunched over the counter, staring at a stack of envelopes like they’re venomous snakes.
“Running late, Mom. Love you,” I lie about the time, not the love. I grab a bruised apple from the fruit bowl.
“Wait,” she says, turning. Her eyes are red-rimmed. She looks ten years older than she did last month. “Nessa, honey, did you pick up that extra shift at Murphy’s this week?”
My stomach twists. “Yeah. Thursday and Saturday.”
“Good. That’s good.” She hesitates, her fingers twisting a dishrag. “Do you think… when you get paid on Friday… could you help with the electric? Just until Dad’s overtime check clears?”
The twist in my stomach becomes a knot. That check was supposed to go toward the AP History field trip deposit. The one everyone is going on. The one I’ve been saving for since September.
I look at her. I see the desperation she’s trying to hide behind a tight smile.
“Yeah, Mom,” I say, my voice flat. “I can cover the electric.”
“You’re a good girl, Vanessa. We’ll pay you back. I promise.”
“I know.”
I walk out the door before I can say something cruel, biting into the bruised apple. It tastes like mush.
Northwood High is divided into two distinct castes, visible the moment you hit the parking lot.
To the left, near the athletic fields, is the glistening row of Range Rovers, Jeep Wranglers, and the occasional BMW, bought by parents who work in the city and treat the suburbs like their personal resort. To the right, affectionately dubbed “The Junkyard,” are the sedans with mismatched doors and rusted wheel wells.
I park my Corolla—a hand-me-down from my uncle that shakes violently whenever I go over forty-five—in the deepest corner of The Junkyard.
“Hey, Ness!”
I flinch, then relax when I see Kevin. He’s leaning against his car, shivering in a denim jacket that is definitely not warm enough for November. Kevin is the only person at Northwood who knows exactly how much is in my bank account, mostly because his is usually empty too.
“Morning,” I mumble, locking my car manually because the fob died in 2019.
“You look like you want to murder someone,” Kevin says, falling into step beside me. “Is it Jerry? Did he cut your hours again?”
“No, Jerry’s fine. It’s just… life.” I pull the mustard coat tighter around me. “The electric bill is eating my field trip money.”
Kevin winces. “Ouch. Sorry, Ness. Maybe I can spot you? I made decent tips last night.”
“You’re saving for your car insurance,” I remind him. “If you don’t pay it, you lose the car, you lose the job, and then we’re both walking to school in the snow.”
“Logic is the enemy of friendship,” he sighs. “But you’re right.”
We merge into the stream of students heading for the double doors. It’s like entering a nature documentary where the predators are wearing Lululemon.
“Oh, look,” Kevin whispers, nudging me. “Royalty approaching.”
Chloe Madison and her entourage are walking up the main steps. Chloe is wearing a cream-colored coat that probably costs more than my car. She’s laughing at something on her phone, her perfect blonde ponytail swinging like a pendulum.
As we pass, she looks up. Her eyes scan over Kevin, dismiss him, and land on me. The smile doesn’t drop, but the temperature of it changes. It goes from warm to absolute zero.
“Cute coat, Vanessa,” she says. “Vintage?”
“Thrift,” I say, clutching my backpack straps. “It’s called recycling, Chloe. You should try it sometime.”
Kevin stifles a snort.
Chloe’s smile sharpens. “Adorably eco-conscious. See you in English.”
She sweeps past us, leaving a cloud of expensive vanilla perfume in her wake.
“I hate her,” I whisper.
“She’s threatened by your authenticity,” Kevin says loyally.
“She’s threatened by nothing. She just likes poking things with sticks to see if they bleed.”
The morning is a blur of lectures I don’t hear and notes I forget to take. My brain is running a background calculation that never ends: *Check is $180. Electric bill is usually $120. That leaves $60. Gas is $30. Lunch money...*
By fourth period, my stomach is making noises that sound like a dying whale. The apple wore off hours ago.
I head to the cafeteria. Usually, I pack lunch—peanut butter sandwiches, mostly—but we were out of bread this morning. I have exactly three dollars and fifteen cents in change at the bottom of my bag.
The cafeteria line is long. I grab a tray and a slice of pizza that looks like it’s been under the heat lamp since the Reagan administration.
When I get to the register, Mrs. Gable looks tired. “Three twenty-five, hon.”
I swing my backpack onto the little shelf and start digging. I pull out a handful of quarters. Then dimes.
“One fifty... one seventy-five...” I count them out on the plastic tray.
Behind me, someone sighs loudly.
“Come on,” a male voice says. “Some of us are starving.”
My face heats up. “Just a second,” I mumble. I find a nickel. Two pennies. I’m ten cents short.
I dig deeper, my fingers scraping against lint and pencil shavings.
“Seriously?” It’s Chloe’s voice. Of course. She’s right behind me in line. “Is there a toll booth back here?”
“I’m just looking for a dime,” I say, keeping my head down.
“Here.”
A perfectly manicured hand reaches past me and taps a credit card on the reader.
“I got it,” Chloe says to the cashier, flashing a benevolent smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Put hers on mine. We can’t have everyone waiting while she excavates for copper.”
“I have the money,” I snap, finally finding the last dime.
“Don’t be ungrateful, Ness,” Chloe says, her voice sickeningly sweet. She leans in, holding her phone up. I realize too late that the camera lens is pointed right at my pile of change on the counter. “We all need a little charity sometimes.”
She snaps a picture.
I leave the pizza. I grab my bag and walk away, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I don’t look back, but I can hear the giggles.
I hide in the library for the rest of lunch, pretending to study while I scroll through social media, waiting for the inevitable.
It takes twenty minutes.
A notification pops up. Tagged in a story.
I tap it against my better judgment. It’s the video. It zooms in on my hands shaking as I count out the dirty quarters, then pans up to Chloe’s face making a sad-pouty expression.
The caption, in bright pink glittering font: *Poverty Princess holding up the line again. Someone start a GoFundMe before we all starve. #charitycase #northwoodproblems*
I flip my phone face down. I feel small. Microscopic. Like I could slip between the molecules of the air and disappear, and it wouldn’t make a difference to the universe.
English class is usually my sanctuary. I like stories. I like escaping into worlds where the problems are dragons or oppressive governments, not electric bills and mean girls.
But today, the classroom feels like a courtroom.
I slide into my seat in the back row. Kevin isn’t in this class; I have no buffer.
Mr. Henderson is droning on about *The Great Gatsby*, talking about the green light and the American Dream. The irony is so thick I can taste it.
“Fitzgerald illustrates the hollowness of the upper class,” Mr. Henderson says, pacing the front of the room. “The idea that wealth insulates you from consequence.”
A soft *ping* ripples through the room. Then another. Someone giggles.
I keep my eyes on my desk, staring at the grain of the wood. I know what they’re seeing. Chloe must have reposted it, or someone screen-recorded it.
“Miss Davis?” Mr. Henderson asks.
My head snaps up. “What?”
“I asked for your interpretation of Gatsby’s shirts. Why does Daisy cry over them?”
“Because...” My throat is dry. “Because she realizes what she missed. It’s not about the shirts. It’s about... security.”
“Interesting.” He turns back to the board.
From the corner of my eye, I see movement. Brad, a linebacker whose neck is wider than his head, is whispering to Chloe two rows over. He grins.
He crumples something up in his hand.
He winds up and throws it.
The paper projectile arcs through the air. It’s a perfect shot. It lands right in the center of my desk, bouncing once before settling next to my notebook.
It’s not a note.
It’s a dollar bill.
The classroom goes silent. Even Mr. Henderson stops writing, his chalk hovering over the blackboard.
I stare at the wrinkled face of George Washington. It looks like he’s judging me.
“Thought you might need it for the vending machine,” Brad calls out. “Since you’re struggling.”
Laughter. Not a roar, but a ripple. Snickers behind hands. Smirks.
The dollar bill sits there like a paper airplane of humiliation. I don’t look up to see who threw it, because that would mean seeing their faces, and I can’t handle their smirks right now. I can’t handle the pity in Mr. Henderson’s eyes.
I can’t handle any of it.
Something inside me snaps. It’s not a loud snap—it’s the quiet sound of a tether finally fraying all the way through.
I stand up.
“Vanessa?” Mr. Henderson says.
I grab my backpack. I snatch the dollar bill from the desk, hating myself for needing it.
“Vanessa, sit down.”
I walk out the door.
“Vanessa!”
I’m running before I hit the hallway.
I don’t have a plan. I just need *away*.
I can’t go to the bathroom; that’s the first place they’ll look, and girls cry in bathrooms. I refuse to give them the satisfaction of knowing I’m crying.
I can’t go to my car; the parking lot monitors will catch me.
I run past the gym, past the cafeteria where the ghost of my humiliation still lingers over the salad bar. I find myself in the East Wing.
The East Wing is the oldest part of Northwood High, built in the fifties. It’s currently a construction zone. There are plastic tarps hanging from the ceiling and “DANGER: ASBESTOS REMOVAL” signs taped to the walls. Students aren’t allowed here.
Perfect.
I duck under a sheet of heavy plastic sheeting. The air here is cooler, smelling of drywall dust and old copper. The sounds of the school—the bells, the laughter, the squeak of sneakers—fade away, replaced by the dripping of a leaky pipe somewhere in the dark.
I keep walking until I find the stairwell to the basement. It’s roped off with yellow caution tape.
I don’t care. I duck under it and descend.
The stairs are concrete, worn smooth by decades of footsteps. It gets darker the lower I go. The only light comes from the dusty windows at ground level above me, casting long, distorted shadows against the peeling paint.
I reach the bottom landing. It’s a storage area, cluttered with broken desks, old globes where the Soviet Union still exists, and stacks of dusty textbooks.
I drop my backpack on a pile of gym mats and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor. I pull my knees to my chest, burying my face in the scratchy wool of my mustard coat.
And then, I let it out.
The sob rips out of my throat, ugly and jagged. I cry for the cold shower. I cry for the electric bill. I cry for the look on my mom’s face, and for the dollar bill on my desk, and for the fact that no matter how hard I work, no matter how many shifts I pick up at Murphy’s, I will always be the girl counting pennies while everyone else swipes platinum cards.
It feels like the weight of the building is pressing down on me. I want to be anywhere else. *Anywhere.*
“I just want to leave,” I whisper into the silence. “I just want to go.”
*Hummmmm.*
The sound is low, barely on the edge of hearing. It’s not the boiler. It’s too smooth, too rhythmic.
I lift my head, wiping my nose on my sleeve.
The air in the corner of the basement, behind a stack of rusted filing cabinets, is… shimmering.
I blink, thinking it’s tears blurring my vision. I rub my eyes.
The shimmer is still there. It looks like heat haze rising off asphalt in July, but it’s freezing down here. And there’s a light—a faint, pulsing cobalt blue—bleeding through the cracks in the back wall.
I shouldn’t investigate. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know that when you find the glowing thing in the creepy basement, you run the other way.
But I’m not scared. I’m too empty to be scared. I’m just curious. And for the first time all day, I’m not thinking about money.
I stand up, my legs shaky. I walk toward the filing cabinets.
The hum gets louder. It vibrates in my teeth. It feels… sad? No, that’s crazy. A sound can’t feel sad. But it feels like a heavy sigh, a longing that matches the hollow ache in my own chest.
I push one of the cabinets aside. It scrapes loudly against the concrete, revealing a hole in the brickwork that definitely wasn’t part of the original blueprints. It looks like the renovation crew smashed through a false wall and then abandoned it.
Inside the hole, the air is thick. The blue light isn’t coming from a bulb. It’s just *there*, hanging in the center of a small, windowless chamber like a suspended drop of ink in water.
It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying.
It calls to me.
*Escape,* it seems to whisper. *Different.*
I step through the broken wall. The air instantly drops twenty degrees. My breath plumes out in front of me, illuminated by the blue glow.
The anomaly swirls. It looks like a mirror that someone took a hammer to, thousands of shards of light spinning slowly around a center of absolute darkness.
I reach a hand out. I don’t know why. My body is moving on autopilot, drawn by a magnetic pull I can’t resist.
“Hello?” I whisper.
The hum spikes in pitch. The shards of light spin faster.
My shadow stretches out in front of me, hitting the blue light. But instead of stopping on the floor, my shadow seems to detach itself, stepping into the light before I do.
I gasp and try to pull back, but the gravity of the thing has me now. It’s not pulling my body; it’s pulling my emotions. It’s latched onto my desperate need to escape, feeding on it, amplifying it.
RIIIIING.
The school bell cuts through the silence like a physical blow. The sound shatters the trance. I jerk my hand back, gasping as the cold air rushes into my lungs. The blue light flickers, dimming slightly.
I scramble backward, my heart hammering against my ribs. What was that? What was I doing?
I check the time on my cracked screen. I have twenty minutes to get to Murphy’s before Jerry fires me.
I scramble up the stairs, leaving the blue light pulsing in the dark. But as I run, I can still feel it pulling at me, a hook buried deep in my chest.
I like this a lot. Very engaging and compelling. When will we see more? Do you have a regular release schedule for new chapters?