If Ridgeway High had ghosts, Locker #318 was their home.
It sat at the end of the sophomore hallway like a scar the school didn't want to heal—rusted edges, peeling red paint, and a dent shaped suspiciously like a fist. Nobody used it, not since Marissa Hale disappeared two years ago. Some kids whispered that her books were still inside. Others swore the locker smelled like perfume when you walked by.
Me? I didn't believe in ghost stories. But I did believe in secrets.
"Hey, Emma, you're staring again," Maya whispered, snapping her gum as she leaned against her locker. "If you start talking to that thing, I'm leaving you for a new best friend."
I forced a laugh. "Relax. I'm not obsessed."
Which was a lie. I was.
Because this morning, when I opened my own locker, there was a note waiting on top of my history book. The paper was crumpled, like someone had balled it up and thought twice before delivering it. The handwriting was sharp and fast, like the writer was in a hurry:
Don't trust anyone. 318 holds the truth.
The words burned in my pocket now, folded so tightly I worried the paper might tear.
"Earth to Emma." Maya snapped her fingers. "Don't tell me you're thinking about Marissa Hale again."
I shoved the note deeper into my jeans. "Of course not."
But even as I lied, my eyes flicked back to the cursed locker. And for the first time, I noticed something odd: the lock wasn't hanging right. The latch was loose, like someone had tried to open it recently.
My stomach tightened.
Because no one touched Locker #318. Ever.
And whoever slipped that note into my locker knew I couldn't resist a mystery.