The town had started whispering. Missing posters with Zoë Whitlock's face stared blankly from the school gates and shop windows. Some students cried in the halls, others whispered in corners, but most simply avoided saying her name at all—like speaking it might summon the same fate.
At night, her house was worse. Her mother kept the lights on in every room, calling Zoë's name as if she might wander back in from the shadows. But the house didn't echo back—it groaned, it creaked, it breathed.
Her room remained untouched. Books stacked, clothes folded, bed neatly made. Yet when her mother opened the window to air it out, she found pages of Zoë's diary scattered across the desk. The ink looked fresh, though no one had touched the pen. Sentences incomplete. Words blurred. But one stood out, jagged and dark:
"She watches me still."
Meanwhile, at school, Gabriel noticed strange things. Zoë's empty desk was polished, cleaner than it had ever been. But once, when he dropped a pencil, he swore he saw the faint impression of writing scratched into the wood. He bent closer. Just one phrase carved shallow into the surface:
"Don't trust her.
"Don't trust who, Gabriel whispers to himself"
And that night, while Lucy slept restlessly, Gemma lay awake in her bed. For the first time, her notebook wasn't open. Her eyes weren't closed. She was simply staring at the window—because faintly, from outside, someone was humming a song. Zoë's voice.