The next morning, the school felt like a graveyard.
The usual clamor of footsteps, laughter, and lockers slamming had been replaced by uneasy whispers. Some classrooms were half-empty; parents had pulled their children out overnight. The hallways were littered with rumor, every corner buzzing with speculation.
"Three students gone now…" someone whispered near the water fountain.
"They say one of them was seen running into the fog."
"No—no, my cousin's in the police. He said they found blood."
Gabriel walked through it all like a shadow, his jaw clenched, eyes sharp. He could feel the stares trailing him. Not at him, really. At her.
At Gemma.
She moved beside him like a ghost, silent as always, her eyes fixed straight ahead, oblivious—or perhaps indifferent—to the storm of fear surrounding her.
In class, the atmosphere was worse. Desks stood empty, chairs pulled back like their owners had fled in a hurry. Some students huddled together, forming cliques of trembling safety, while others cast darting, suspicious glances toward the back row where Gemma sat.
Mia slid into her seat with pale cheeks, her hands trembling slightly as she unpacked her books. She leaned toward Gabriel and whispered, "They're saying she… she brought it here. That Gemma's cursed."
Gabriel's head snapped toward her, his voice a low growl. "Don't say that."
"I don't believe it," Mia hurried to add, her eyes wide. "But you know how people are. They're scared, and she—she doesn't…" She glanced toward Gemma's blank face. "She doesn't deny it either."
Gabriel bit the inside of his cheek. His fists clenched beneath the desk.
The tension broke when a folded slip of paper slid across his desk. For a moment, he thought it was Mia—until he realized it hadn't come from her direction. His pulse quickened. Slowly, he opened it under the desk.
Four words, written in jagged handwriting:
"Not everyone will leave alive."
His throat went dry. He looked around sharply, but everyone was either whispering in little clusters or pretending not to notice him. No eyes on him, no guilty faces. Just fear.
The paper felt like fire in his palm. He shoved it into his pocket.
At lunch, the whispers only grew louder. A boy at the next table muttered too loudly, "Why's she even here? They should kick her out before—before more of us vanish."
Another added in a hushed voice, "My mom says if she's not gone by the end of the week, I'm not coming back."
The words crawled under Gabriel's skin like insects. He slammed his tray down, startling them both. "Shut your mouths," he spat.
The cafeteria went silent for a beat. Then the whispers resumed—louder this time.
And Gemma? She sat there, nibbling at her bread, face unreadable, like none of it mattered.
But Gabriel saw it—the tiniest tremor in her fingers when she lifted her glass of water.