---
A presence unseen...
The soft light of dawn spilled through Christabel's bedroom window, painting her walls with golden streaks. The alarm chimed faintly, but she was already awake. Christabel sat up slowly, brushing her long dark hair from her face, her pale-blue eyes still heavy with sleep. With practiced ease, she slipped into her school uniform, smoothing down the wrinkles, and tied her ribbon neatly before glancing at the photo of her mother that sat by her bedside.
"Morning, Mama," she whispered, a small ritual she never forgot.
Downstairs, the scent of toasted bread and scrambled eggs filled the air. Her father, Mr. Wrenford, was already seated with a steaming cup of coffee, reading the paper. Her younger brother, Timothy, barely ten, was munching on his breakfast with crumbs scattered across his plate.
"You'll be late if you don't hurry, Christabel," her father said with his usual calm voice.
"I know, Dad," she replied, sliding into her chair. She ate quickly, though her gaze lingered on the empty chair at the far end of the table. Sometimes, when the room was quiet, she swore she felt her mother's presence there.
After breakfast, Christabel and Timothy clambered into their father's car. The drive to school was filled with Timothy's endless chatter about cartoons, while Christabel stared out of the window, lost in thought.
By the time she reached her first class, the usual tension had already settled in her stomach. She sat at her desk, arranging her books neatly, when the familiar sound of laughter echoed down the corridor.
Camilla Greyson.
The queen bee of Ashworth High. Her hair was sleek and golden, her smile sharp as glass. And trailing behind her were her loyal shadows: Lydia, Bethany, Hazel, Mia, and Claire. They were always together, always ready to pounce.
"Well, if it isn't little Miss Ghost-Girl," Camilla sneered, her voice dripping with mockery as she leaned over Christabel's desk. "Still talking to the air? Tell me, Christabel—does your dead mommy talk back?"
The girls around her giggled cruelly.
Christabel's chest tightened. She lowered her gaze, her hands clenching around her pencil. She wanted to fight back, but the words never came.
"Pathetic," Camilla whispered, flicking one of Christabel's notebooks onto the floor.
The group strutted away, their laughter echoing through the classroom, leaving Christabel hollow and silent. She bent to pick up her book, her heart heavy, the world around her suddenly colder.
And for a fleeting moment, in the shadow by the window, she thought she felt something watching her—something that wasn't her mother.
Christabel forced herself through the rest of the morning. Her teachers' voices blurred into background noise, drowned out by the sting of Camilla's words replaying in her mind. Ghost-girl. Dead mommy. Pathetic. Each insult clung to her like barbed wire, tugging at her heart until she could barely keep her head lifted.
By lunch, she sat alone under the old oak tree in the courtyard, Timothy somewhere in the younger students' section. The chatter and laughter of her classmates rang around her, but she felt like she was behind glass—untouchable, unreachable. She opened her lunchbox, more out of habit than hunger, when a sudden chill swept the air.
Christabel shivered. The sun was bright overhead, yet a strange stillness pressed down around her. She glanced left, then right. Students bustled past without notice. And yet… she felt it.
That watchful presence.
It wasn't her mother.
Her mother's aura was warm, protective, a soft brush like a hand on her cheek. This—this was heavy. Dark. It prickled against her skin, as though invisible eyes were tracing every detail of her face, every rise and fall of her breath.
Christabel gripped her lunchbox tightly, her heartbeat quickening. "Who's there?" she whispered before she could stop herself.
No one answered. But the tree's shadow seemed to deepen, stretching farther than it should. The air was thick, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Then, just as suddenly, it lifted. Laughter from across the courtyard broke through the silence. A ball bounced past her feet, and a boy chased after it, apologizing as he ran by. Everything was normal again.
Except Christabel knew it wasn't.
She gathered her books when the bell rang, her steps unsteady. Something was following her—watching her—and it wasn't her imagination. She didn't know why, but she knew one thing with chilling certainty.
Whatever it was… it wanted her
Christabel walked back into the classroom, her books hugged tightly against her chest. The courtyard's strange chill still clung to her skin, making her shiver though the room was warm. She slipped into her seat by the window, her gaze darting once toward Camilla and her entourage.
Camilla sat in the center of her circle like a queen on her throne, whispering into Lydia's ear, her laughter sharp and hollow. Christabel let out a shaky breath. Maybe it was them, maybe the uneasiness she felt was just Camilla's cruel attention lingering on her.
But no.
Christabel knew what it felt like to be watched by Camilla. It was all smirks and pointed glares, laughter that dug under the skin. This… this was different. Heavier. Unrelenting. It pressed against her like invisible chains, and every time she tried to focus on the chalkboard, the sensation returned—burning, insistent.
Miss Potty droned on at the front of the class, pointing her ruler at sentences scrawled across the board. Her high voice rose and fell in sharp notes that usually made Christabel restless, but today she barely heard a word. Her pen hovered over the page, her eyes blank, her thoughts circling like trapped birds.
Why does it feel like someone's here with me? Someone I can't see?
The back of her neck prickled. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to turn around. If she looked and no one was there, she'd feel foolish. If she looked and someone was there… she wasn't sure she wanted to know.
Her classmates shuffled, whispered, scribbled. Camilla was leaning back in her chair, flipping her hair dramatically as she whispered another cruel secret that sent her minions into quiet fits of laughter. They weren't paying attention to Christabel. Not today. Not now.
So who was?
Her fingers trembled as she tightened her grip on her pen.
The bell rang suddenly, a shrill clang that made her flinch.
Chairs scraped, books slammed shut, voices rose in chatter. Christabel blinked, her body tense, as if she'd been caught doing something wrong. The spell of silence shattered instantly—her classmates surged toward the door in a rush, Camilla leading her minions with the strut of a queen heading to court.
Christabel packed her things slowly, deliberately, waiting until most of them had gone. Her hands were cold, her chest tight.
For a fleeting moment, when she looked at the window, she thought she saw the faint shimmer of a shadow standing there, tall and still. Watching. Waiting.
And then it was gone.
Her breath caught. A whisper brushed against her ear, so faint she thought she imagined it:
Christabel.
She froze, every muscle locking in place. Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain someone would hear it. But when she turned, the classroom was empty.
Only her.
Only the echo of her name
Perfect, thank you for clarifying about Timo being ten — that makes him a sweet, protective but still young brother, which adds warmth to Christabel's home life. I'll extend Chapter One with the scene of her leaving school, her father's arrival, and the small but telling family dialogue, layering Christabel's inner conflict as she hides her fear.
---
Chapter One (continued)
The shrill bell rang again, signaling the end of the school day. Christabel gathered her books with trembling hands and stepped out of the classroom. To her surprise, the heavy, suffocating feeling of being watched seemed to dissolve the moment she crossed the school gates.
Relief swept through her chest, but it was fragile, uncertain. She walked briskly down the path, clutching her bag, trying to shake the weight of what she'd felt.
Then, as she passed the corner near the gymnasium, a voice slithered through the air—low, cold, like a caress against her spine.
"Oh… look at her."
Christabel gasped and spun around, her heart leaping into her throat. The students walking past carried on as if nothing had happened. Their laughter rang out, their conversations buzzed, but none of them seemed to notice the voice.
Her breath quickened. Her eyes darted wildly, scanning the brick walls, the shadowed corners, the clusters of people. But there was no one. Nothing. Only the echo of the words lingering in her ears.
I'm not imagining it… I can't be.
She hugged her bag tighter and quickened her pace. Her only thought was to find Timo.
When she spotted him by the school gate—small for his age, brown-haired, waving eagerly the moment he saw her—her chest eased just slightly. His grin was wide and untroubled, and Christabel couldn't help but smile weakly back at him.
A few minutes later, their father's car rolled up, the familiar navy sedan with a little dent on the bumper. Mr. Wrenford leaned over to open the passenger door.
"There you are," he said warmly as the two climbed in. "How was school today?"
Timo immediately launched into chatter, bouncing in his seat. "Dad, we started learning about the solar system! Did you know Saturn has rings made of ice? And—and Mrs. Callum said next week we get to make models with paint and glitter!"
Mr. Wrenford chuckled, his tired eyes softening. "That sounds exciting, champ. You'll have to show me when it's done."
Christabel sat quietly in the back, her gaze fixed on the blur of houses and trees outside the window.
"And you, Christabel?" her father asked gently, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. "Did you have a good day?"
She forced a small smile. "It was fine, Dad. Just… normal."
Normal. The word tasted wrong.
For a moment, she considered telling him everything—the chill in the courtyard, the whisper in the classroom, the voice near the gym. But then she looked at his face, worn with years of responsibility, and at Timo's cheerful grin as he babbled about planets and rockets.
No. She couldn't tell them. She didn't want to worry them. Not when she wasn't even sure what was happening herself.
So she brushed it off, keeping the secret locked tight inside her chest.
But as they drove home, Christabel couldn't shake the uneasy certainity that whatever had whispered her name… wasn't done with her..